Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

4 Ýlir, 1st Year of Exile - Above the Norwegian Sea, 1,500 km south of Berk - Sunset.

Hiccup was doing his very best to focus only on the wind carding through his hair.

During the weeks following his first successful flight with Toothless he had come to love the sensation of the cool breeze that greeted him whenever they took to the skies. He associated it with a sense of fulfillment, triumph and sheer freedom, knowing that his best friend, in the form of the most feared of the dragons, would keep him safe and steady amongst the clouds. The wind up there ruffled his auburn hair in a way reminiscent of that of a father greeting his chi-

     “-No.” Hiccup muttered to himself as he shook his head.

Focus on the wind.

His grip tightened around the pommel of the saddle. He wasn’t thinking about the hundreds of scrapes and bruises that littered his frame.

Focus on the wind.

His breathing was quickening. He wasn’t thinking on the bruised ribs the stray hits from his former tribesmen left.

Focus on the wind.

The right side of his face throbbed painfully. He wasn’t thinking in the way the Hairy Hooligans of Berk, people he has known since he’s had use of reason, who had acclaimed and cheered him mere days ago, now called for his head.

Focus on th-

-But he can’t help it, he starts thinking.

He thinks of the lingering dizziness after Spitelout kicked him in the temple during the scuffle.

He thinks of the acidic look of disdain Astrid threw at him while he was being dragged away.

He thinks of the anguished expression on Gobber’s face, so out of place on the usually sarcastic yet cheerful Viking, as he tried to make his way to him through the horde of raging Berkians.

He thinks of the innocent Nightmare that was felled because of him.

He thinks of the curses, stones and arrows sent their way when Toothless blasted through the chains of the Kill Ring.

He thinks of the gaping gash that now graced the right side of his face crossing his right brow and all the way down to his jaw after barely dodging his father’s axe.

He doesn’t think of the voice of Stoick the Vast as he branded his only son as a traitor to Berk.

He doesn’t think of how his father tried to kill him.

In truth, he had always half-expected to get himself disowned.

He’d never been what vikings picture when they think ‘Heir to the Chiefdom’, and his father had even stopped letting him tag along for the annual Althing¹ with the rest of the Chiefs of the allied tribes (he missed Cami and Thuggory, they still wrote to each other back and forth but it wasn’t the same, they were always busy with their duties as heirs, so there was usually a good four months between letters, and Hiccup hadn’t seen them in years) or really trying to get him involved whatsoever in his daily duties once he realized he wouldn’t grow up to be like him and decided to dump him on Gobber’s lap at the tender age of seven.

He knew he would never bring any great honor to the Haddock name, or take his father’s place on the Chief’s Throne in the Mead Hall, and he had made his peace with that.

He had thought once he was (officially) disowned he would just move in with Gobber into the tiny room he had been given for his personal (and most potentially destructive) projects back at the smithy, maybe take over it when his mentor decided to retire (or got himself eaten by a Gronckle or something, because it’s Berk and one of the main tourist attractions was the wide variety of ways to get eaten by rampaging dragons) and help the village on his own way, forging weapons and repairing buildings before and after every raid. 

Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined just how badly things would turn out. It was, in the lexic Tuffnut would use whenever he thought adults weren’t listening, an absolute shitshow.

After spending the last night previous to his final exam at Toothless’ cove mulling over everything he had been told about dragons and tradition his whole life and comparing it to his own experiences, he was faced with an undeniable truth: He couldn’t face the Nightmare, not in the traditional Viking way. But he could showcase his own way of engaging dragons before the entire village.

Before his father. 

He knew he would face resistance from the tribe and that making his father change his mind would be the biggest hurdle to overcome, but he also knew Stoick. He may have his flaws but he was, above all even above being a good father, a good Chief devout to his people. A good chieftain would always put his people first, just not all of them, just the ones who fit in, and therefore, logic dictated he would at least consider an option with less bloodshed and that would see less of his people starving through the harsh winters of the Archipelago.

And the next day during his final exam, for a moment, he allowed himself to believe he had done it.

He had managed to calm down the Monstrous Nightmare by simply laying his weapons and his horned helmet down without spilling a single drop of blood or even raising his voice. Hel², he had managed to scratch it into a boneless heap of scales and slobber, and not a soul in the Kill Ring spoke.

In hindsight, he had obviously underestimated the depths of his former people’s hatred for dragons, marinated in the blood of seven generations of loved ones taken by the beasts.

The silence that reigned over the arena wasn’t one born out of awe, respect or understanding. No, the truth was much simpler: They hadn’t reacted out of sheer rage. They were paralyzed with fury. 

Once the first one amongst them regained his senses (it was Mildew, of course it was Mildew) the chase started. The sheer volume of Berk’s whole population had overwhelmed him and the Nightmare. 

The poor beast had tried with all its might to ward off their assaulters but the mob finally got him submitted and one amongst the crowd sliced his neck clean. Hiccup was dragged with more force than strictly necessary (granted, they didn’t need much to begin with) before his father, whose expression might as well have been carved into his face, like those of the stone sentinels that guarded Berk’s docks.

He had begged his father, actually begged him as he was pushed to his knees to hear him out for once in his life, but he wouldn’t budge. His knuckles were white around the axe that dangled in his grip. 

He recognized that axe. He had forged it himself as a gift for his father’s 42th birthday, two years ago. 

It had taken him two months to get the runes for protection, strength and wisdom engraved along the edge just right without compromising the blade and to treat the wood for the handle in a way that it would withstand his father’s jöttun-like strength without splintering but still be swift and comfortable in his hands without losing his grip and make it able to absorb the recoil of Stoick’s strikes without splintering.

It had been one of the very few times his father looked at him with something akin to pride… for a record time of ten seconds before remembering that the reason his son was so good at forging weapons was because he was hopeless wielding them. 

Stoick didn’t yell when he found his voice, instead, his voice was sad, and soft, like a lullaby.

And that made his words hurt even worse.

“Ye’ve thrown yer lot in with ‘em. Yer not a viking... Yer not my son.”

Then Toothless dived in, blasting through the thick chains of the arena to save his rider, landing right beside him and shooting a plasma projectile between Stoick and him, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.

His father swung his ax through the makeshift smokescreen and he managed to get mostly out of its way by the skin of his teeth. He was trying not to think of the state his eye might be in. 

He had faintly heard the belting voices of the Hooligans denouncing him as a traitor to Berk as he flew into the distance.

If he thought about it, he had sealed his own fate the moment his helmet reached the floor. He barely was able to pick it up on his way out.

He was an exile.

Útlagr³.

Óbótamaður⁴ even.

Now he only had the clothes on his back and the scarce supplies he´d had the foresight to stash away on Toothless’ saddlebag the night before to his name.

He lost his father, his mentor, his tribe, his home, and got an innocent dragon killed all in the span of fifteen minutes.

Maybe… he really was Useless.

A concerned warble pulled him out of his thoughts and refocused his mind enough to notice Toothless looking back at him, his head slightly tilted to the side and green intelligent eyes full of worry. He had taken some hits on their way out, mostly arrow grazes but his hide was thick and the wounds stopped bleeding shortly.

     Hiccup forced himself to smile to soothe his friend’s distress. “O-Oh, d-don’t worry, bud. I’m fine! H-Honest!” His poor attempt at a grin must have been pitiful, because Toothless answered by narrowing his eyes into a deadpan look, as if saying ‘Try again’. “Y-Yeah, not even I bought that one. Who am I kidding, right?” he said with a shaky self-deprecating laugh. He receives a reassuring croon in response, whose reverberation warms him to the bones, and that actually manages to get him to smile. It was brittle and short, but it was an honest smile, and Toothless preened with pride a little, giving a gummy smile of his own. “Seriously, though, I’ll be fine.”

Once Hiccup regained full awareness of his surroundings once more he noticed the blue midday sky had given way to the shades of golden and crimson that heralded the dusk, so they must have been flying for around six hours. 

Wow, time flies fast when you’re having an existential crisis while riding the fastest dragon known to vikingkind. 

He needed to land, both to eat and rest for a moment and to properly mend his wounds. He’d managed to bandage the right side of his face half-decently while in mid-air to keep the gash from getting dirty and to protect it from the air, but he needed to actually wash the wound, rub some of Gothi’s balm on his ribs and eye (Gothi had opted for giving him a monthly supply after the umpteenth time he went to bother her with burns from his work at the smithy, which he had taken to stash in his room), and pray to Eir⁵ the wound doesn’t fester.

After a few minutes of looking around at the sea beneath them, Hiccup spotted a small island in the distance. After urging Toothless to get closer to a better look, he noticed that there were no dirt roads, docks, farms or any other sign of human occupation, in addition, there was a small fresh water lake near the center of the island.

It was the perfect rest spot. At least for the night. They had to keep moving, he didn’t know if his d-Stoick would spread word of his actions to the neighboring tribes yet but he wasn’t going to risk Toothless’ life on guesswork. Either way they couldn’t keep going forever, he was starting to feel sluggish with fatigue and he needed to stay sharp and plan his next move… besides, if he fell asleep in the saddle both he and Toothless would plummet to their watery death. 

     “Alright, bud, I don’t know about you but I’m ready to shut some eye. What do you say?” Toothless’ earfins perked up and he barked in agreement. “Well, then let’s touch down over there. It’s been… a long day.”

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

It was almost nightfall by the time they reached the clear next to the lake. It was peacefully quiet, beautifully lit by the setting sun, with the only sounds around them being provided by the island’s wildlife choir (mainly composed of birds, foxes and badgers, all of them smart enough not to approach a sixteen-hundred pound, fire-breathing predator). 

While Toothless busied himself by catching some fish in the nearby lake, Hiccup busied himself by gathering up enough dry wood to build a fire to last through the night and to boil water to clean the wound on his face and bandage it properly, or Gothi would somehow find a way to appear in that small island and whack him in the shins for not caring properly for himself (not that the aged healer needed much of a reason to whack somebody, older than Elli⁶ she might be but she packed a mean swing).

As he searched the forest for wood, he gave some thought to what Toothless and he should do next. They couldn’t go back to Berk for obvious reasons, so that left exploring the Archipelago for uninhabited islands, going to other viking islands or leaving the Archipelago entirely.

Exploring for new islands wasn’t feasible at the moment, he didn’t have resources or the safety in numbers or a safe place to fall back and some of those so-called “deserted” islands were actually stops for trading vessels, pirates or dragon hunters that were never added to new maps for obvious reasons, all of which Hiccup wished to avoid. 

Traders were wont to spread rumors and news like washerwoman's gossip and by the end of the month he would have Berk's armada hot on his trail, pirates posed a very real risk of ending up auctioned off as a thrall in one of those unsavoury markets, and dragon hunters… that one explains itself. He wasn’t in shape to go swashbuckling against pirates at the moment and Toothless couldn’t look over him every waking moment, so that's one option off the table. 

Next.

Heading to viking-inhabited islands… that one was tricky. He couldn’t go to islands he didn’t know or at least had a general notion of the lay of the land, besides, those were islands ruled by tribes of the likes of the Hysterics, Lava-Louts and the Outcasts… hard pass. He may be exiled and tribeless but he wasn’t that desperate. Besides, he couldn't leave Toothless unattended for too long, and hiding him in a viking island he was unfamiliar with was bound to get them caught sooner rather than later. 

No, thanks.

Now, viking islands he did know… were also tricky, but for different reasons. The only viking islands he actually knew were the ones he visited with his f-Stoick! when the Althing seat was outside of Berk… so the chieftains of those islands were close allies of his father. The closest one would be Meathead Island to the southwest of Berk, then the Bog-Burglar Islands to the northeast, and Berserker Island to the south. 

The craggy and cavernous Meathead Island was way too close to Berk, so it wouldn't take long for the news to reach them, and though he liked Thuggory and regarded him as a friend despite not having seen him in years, and he didn't trust old Chief Mogadon any further than he could throw him… which wasn't very far. He was one of the most overzealous and sadistic dragon killers of the tribe (Thuggory once sent a detailed retailing of his father's prefered methods to gut a Zippleback, and he couldn’t see minced meat without feeling the urge to cry, laugh and puke all at once for two weeks), even more so after his oldest children, Lardass and Hoodlum, were killed by dragons in a search for the Nest almost seven years ago. 

He had always looked at Hiccup with naked contempt over his thick braided mustache and hated the fact that Thuggory saw Hiccup as a friend, as if scragginess was contagious and his son could catch it by being too close to him. And moreover, he had heard Mogadon muttering to some of his tribesmen during a diplomatic visit to Berk a few years ago.

“How dare that pitiful muckle o' a Viking draw breath an’ paradin’ ‘imself as a ‘heir’ while mah sons dine in Valhalla wi' ma Da? Stoick should ha' clung tae the old ways an' left 'im in the woods at birth. Let the wolves sort 'im out an’ dust his hands off.” 

‘Not in a million years’ Hiccup thought as he threw aside a damp log. Unfortunately, with the right side of his sight momentarily impaired he didn't see the log hitting a nearby tree, bouncing off of it to hit him right on the temple and making him see stars and drop the firewood he had already collected.

     “Ouch! Son of a troll, that hurts!”

He took a moment to center himself before crouching down to re-gathering his dropped wood and flinching as he bent down. His thoughts drifted towards Cami and her tribe, the Bog-Burglars, the all-female pilfery-enthusiastic tribe led by the suitably named Big-Boobied Bertha, resident of the heap of tiny islands haphazardly tied together by rope bridges and sheer stubbornness. 

Camicazi would be delighted to hide him in the Bogs out of love for chaos alone (he had gone through great lengths to keep the Thorston twins far away from the Bogs’ heiress whenever she visited), and most of the adults sént most of their time either fending off the flocks of Smothering Smokebreaths native to the Bogs that came down on the village to loot them for anything shiny, or sailing off in the sea… looting passing trading and pirate ships for anything shiny. 

There’s a lid for every pot. 

Now, while the Bogs wouldn’t be ideal to hide Toothless because there wasn’t a single open space big enough to harbour him for over a week, the real problem would be hiding himself. The Bog-Burglars did have men amongst their ranks, but they were outnumbered 30 to 1. He had asked Cami once, when they were younger, how that worked and she just laughed her head off at him for twenty minutes until she turned blue in the face. But now, older and smarter, he understood what she meant back then.

They would eat him alive.

He would stand out like a hen in a fox’s den. And besides, Cami would most likely try to put him on a dress to 'help him blend in' as she would put it and sure as Loki he wasn't going to let that happen. Thor may have done it but he didn't have that level of self-confidence, or the legs, to pull it off. His knees were all knobby.

Besides, while Chiefess Bertha never showed the same disgust for him that Mogadon did, The Burglars were by far the less numerous tribe, and if Berk and the Meatheads joined forces on them, they’d crack the Bogs like a nut. She would never take that risk.

Berserker Island… 

No. Just… no… Maybe as a last resort?

So that left abandoning the Archipelago altogether…

Maybe he should talk it over with Toothless in the morning, after they had eaten something, slept and gotten rid of the killer megrim that was making his already poor decision making somehow even worse than usual.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

Once he returned to their chosen camping spot, he started piling the logs and pieces of fallen branches to build a campfire next to Toothless’ napping shape and a pile of freshly caught fish, and used some of the longest and sturdiest to set up a spit from which to hang his small kettle until the water boiled. Once he circled the pile of wood with stones to keep the fire from spreading, he started rummaging into the pockets of his tunic looking for his flintstones, but they weren't there. 

     “Great, just what I needed” He sighed and started patting himself down in search of them. “Toothless, did you see where I put my flint stones?” Toothless looked at him through a half-lidded eye without moving an inch from his comfy perch, making Hiccup huff. “Bud, I’m serious, I need to get this-woah!” 

His speech was cut short when he barely dodged a concentrated thin stream of blue plasma that hit the pile of wood, promptly catching fire. Hiccup threw Toothless a look torn between reproachful and humored. 

     “Thank you, Bud” Hiccup mumbled with a frown. Toothless let out a laugh-like warble. Hiccup couldn't keep a straight face much longer and breathed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I guess I won't be needing flint anytime soon, eh, Bud?” Toothless snorted in response and held his head high proudly, as if to say ‘I’m so much better than those puny pebbles could ever hope to be!’ making Hiccup laugh again. 

     “Careful there, O’ lord of the flames. If your ego gets any bigger, someone is going to mistake you for a Nadder!” That made Toothless narrow his eyes and snort indignantly and swiped Hiccup from under his feet with his tail in retribution.

     “Uhff!” 

Hiccup’s laughs were replaced with coughs and pained moans as his tender and battered ribs impacted the ground, making him curl up. Toothless' playful attitude changed into worry and rapidly stood up to inspect Hiccup, lightly nudging him with his snout. 

     “I-it’s alright, Bud, I'm fine.” One again his friend didn't buy it and, carefully hoisting him up with his head as he helped him stand on his feet while crooning apologetically. “Hey, I'm alright” Hiccup said, patting Toothless in the head and trying to keep his pain from showing. “But that does remind me, I really should get going with those ointments”

He hung the kettle from the spit above the fishes roasting gently and decided to tend to his other wounds before addressing the one on his face. He walked up to the saddlebag he had taken off Toothless (he had left the saddle and the tailfin on, just in case they needed to make a quick getaway in the middle of the night) and reached into it to pull out the clay jar lidded with a piece of linen tied secured to the rim with a cord he had been looking for, along with fresh bandages and a clean rag. He removed his vest and grabbed his tunic by the hem and flung it above his head. 

Normally he would be a lot more self-conscious about his skinny frame, but there was no one on that island besides him and Toothless, and his companion wouldn't judge him, so he felt safe.

He observed the tessellation of reds, purples and blues that now covered the skin around his ribcage and couldn't help but hiss at the sight. He hadn't thought it would be that bad, but then again, he had been running mostly on adrenaline the last hours, so he had been a bit distracted, but now it was all catching up to him and he could feel every single strike hitting at once. 

The throb on the right side of his face now burned like touched with a red hot iron and the bandages had become bloody and it had dried into a crust that clung the cloth painfully to the wound, and breathing stung as if Gobber had lined the inner face of his ribs with wicked nails that dug deeper into his lungs with every breath. Examining his tunic once again he found that it was splattered with dried blood stains, sooth marks and tears all over the fabric. Well, at least he’d had the foresight to bring a few spares with him.

     He opened the jar and recoiled violently at the stench of the balm. “Argh! I still don't know why it’s supposed to reek that way,” he said for himself, wheezing while trying not to inhale the vile stink emanating from the container. “Maybe Gothi lost her sense of smell along with her speech. Gods, what in Niflheim⁷ does she put in this stuff?” 

Without further ado, he started to gently apply the ointment on his chest, ribs and what he could reach of his back, wincing and hissing every time he touched a tender spot. 

Too bad almost everything from his chin down to his waist was tender spots.

He grabbed a spare tunic to put on once the ointment dried up enough not to stain it.

He was about to leave the saddlebag for the moment, when his right eye throbbed and, almost on a whim, he pulled out a flask that contained a curved needle with a long thread of catgut tied to its eye, all submersed into a special concoction to keep it from going stiff.

He walked shirtless back to the fire to watch over his kettle with the ruined garment still balled in one hand and the clean one along with the bandages on the other, tossing the bandages carelessly into the kettle to boil them before placing the lid back in place. 

Once he entered Toothless' visual field again, his friend closed up to sniff at his bruises and briefly let out a quiet but deep growl, snarling as he unsheathed his teeth and his pupils contracted into slits, only to divert the view and whimper sadly before returning to his makeshift charred nest curling up into a ball. This sullen attitude confused Hiccup, so he walked up to him to face him but his draconic friend turned away again.

     “Bud? What’s the matter?” Hiccup asked gently as he kneeled to his friend’s eyeline. After a minute, Toothless’ forest-green eyes find Hiccup´s. The dragon's eyes were filled with pain and regret, and Hiccup caught up with his friend’s thought process. “Oh...” Hiccup’s eyes widened in understanding. Now it was his turn to avert the view, he took a few deep breaths and forced himself to swallow the uncomfortable lump in his throat. He scratched the underside of Toothless’ earfins earring a pleased thrill in response before he spoke. “Oh… Toothless, It wasn’t your fault.” Toothless snorted dismissively. 

     [I should have been faster] Hiccup felt Toothless’ thoughts through their bond, their tether, like they reverberated from within his soul. [I should have been there with you] Toothless’ scowl deepened with a growl. [I should have flown you out of that cursed island the second we got back on the air! I never should have let you go back into that nest! You were not safe there. This I knew. And yet, I let you go back in there. Alone.] 

His ability to understand Toothless was one of the most unexpected and cherished gifts he had ever received, discovered right after that exhilarating first flight, while lazing around a bit on the sea stacks near Berk and gorging themselves on the local sea life. It had startled the shit out of both of them, but it had also brought him even closer to understanding his best friend. 

Toothless had no prior knowledge of such bonds and Hiccup didn’t find anything on the sagas and legends of his people so they were driving a blank on that front. As far as they knew it could be an attribute innate to the Night Furies or it could be some kind of magic at play.

Maybe it was a boon from Loki, Father of Jörmungandr the World Serpent, from which all dragons descended. Hiccup had long learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so if a god had smiled at him, he was going to take it and run with it. Even if it was the Sly One.

     “Bud, I’m serious,” Hiccup laughed mirthlessly. “Like, what did I think would happen after befriending a dragon in front of a whole tribe of dragon-hating vikings! I-It was just so fucking stupid!” Hiccup was laughing in earnest now, but there was such sadness and hollowness to his laugh that put Toothless on edge. He was still getting the hang of soft-skin vocalizations, but he was pretty sure the ‘laughter’ sound was meant to convey happiness and merriment. 

There was no happiness in the boy’s laugh. 

     Hiccup stood up gesticulating violently. “I-It was a moment of such monumental stupidity t-that I kinda took myself aback! What did I think Stoick would say?!” He had started hyperventilating mid-rant but he didn’t care. “Oi, son! Ah'm mighty proud o' ye roight now!” He snarkly mimicked Stoick the Vast’s Alban accent. “Ye somehow managed tae shit on the graves o' all our ancestors at ance! Aye, we won't be killin' dragons nae mair, let’s chat it o’er a pint o’ ale! Oi, ye! The straplin' Night Fury o'er there! Ah ken yer kind's slain enough o' my tribesmen tae rebuild the village thrice o’er wi' their charred bones, but how 'bout we just hug it oot?!!!” 

Hiccup felt lightheaded and panted heavily as he finished his rant. He bowed his head and felt a tear slowly slide down his cheek, and it wasn’t long before the rest started to pour in silent procession. The adrenaline of the day finally left him, and his knees failed him.

     “So yeah, it’s my fault. The Nightmare would still be alive if not for me. We wouldn’t be outlaws if not for me. You wouldn’t have gotten exposed if not for me.”

Toothless stood up and padded over to sit next to his friend just close enough so he knew he supported him without crowding him. He was facing away from the fire, so his face was half-shrouded in shadows, but he didn’t want to get on his face yet. He needed some space.

     [Cleverpaws… Hic-cup, you did all you could. None of this is your fault.]

     “How can you say that with a straight face?” Hiccup whipped to face him so fast his bandages loosened a little. “How can you even stand to look at me?! It’s my fault that you’re crippled! You’re literally saddled with me because I had the great idea of shooting you down all because I wanted some head pats and a thumbs up from people who never even really cared about me to begin with!” He covered his face with his trembling hands, as if that could hide his shame from the world. “I-I chose to do what I thought was the right thing and all I did was to get myself banished and disowned, got you exposed to Berk and I got an innocent dragon murdered! Every single time I try to help I just end up making things worse… but then again, what else is new?” He finished dryly. “Dad was right… I’m not a viking.”

The two of them stayed silent for a while, with the crackling of the campfire in the background. 

     The Night Fury then turned to face the young man. [You are right. You did ground me. You did choose to shoot me out of the sky. And yet, in my most vulnerable moment… You chose to spare me] he finished with a soft voice, and his bonded soft-skin lowered his hands and turned to look at him while still glistening green eyes. 

[That night you found me bound and crippled in that forest. You looked into my eyes and you saw past the scourge of your people, or the savage beasts you had been taught to fear. You saw me. My fear. My pain. You chose mercy.] He moved to stand behind his friend and curl around him, still looking him dead in the eye. [You chose to spare me, just like I chose to spare you.]

     Hiccup gave a watery laugh and leaned his back onto the dragon. “Y-yeah, too bad you didn’t spare my eardrums with that scream, Bud.”

     [Hey! It was meant to assert dominance. Now quit your sass! I’m trying to be solemn and wise over here.] Toothless grumble-bantered as he slapped him up the back of his head playfully with his earfin, and resumed his speech as the tension diminished. [To this I'm trying to get: At the end of the day, it all comes down to choices.]

     [You chose to go after me. You could have just gone back to your nest after cutting me free and leave me to starve and gone on like nothing happened in the first place, the easy path that would have been. But you chose to go after me, and  you chose to try to befriend me. You chose to go through great lengths to get me back amongst the clouds. An effort to understand me, even before you could hear me, you chose to make.  You chose to trust me. You chose to trail a path forward that didn’t include senseless slaughter… and you tried to share that with your sire and your nesmates.] These last words were enunciated with an acidic snarl that belonged more in the maw of a Changewing.

     [It always comes down to choices. You cannot blame yourself for someone else’s choices. Your flockmates chose to set you aside when you did not fit in their mold. You chose to keep giving your all to make their lives a little easier, despite how easy it would have been to give in to apathy. They chose to spurn what way to peace you tried to show them, and there is no worse ignorant than the willful one.] The Night Fury rested his head on his friend’s lap and purred. 

     [That night, I may have lost the sky… but I gained so much more, more than I could tell you right now. Your sire was right in something. You are not a viking. And you should take pride in it.]

Hiccup considered the dragon’s words carefully, mindlessly tracing the small crest of nubs on his forehead.

     “All my life I tried so hard to be one of them. A viking. If I can’t be one of them… then what am I?”

     [My best friend… my Brother.]

That made Hiccup’s mind stop dead on its tracks.

The young blacksmith could almost feel the word physically bouncing inside his cranium.

Brother.

Toothless had named him a brother. His brother.

For as long as he could remember, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III had longed for something. As a young lad he couldn't put a name on it, and he had only experienced it scantily and for short spans of time before it was snatched away from him. First with his father when he was little. Then with Astrid until age eight after that fatidic night. After that, for a couple months with Fishlegs at age ten. He felt it with Gobber the most throughout his apprenticeship at his smithy, but there was always a lingering barrier of awkwardness of sorts between them. He felt it faintly with his fellow heirs, but distance and time were enemies hard to outstrip. There was someone who offered it freely, but Hiccup couldn’t bring himself to accept it out of fear.

It was a rainy night at age twelve in the Mead Hall, relegated to eating alone on a table near the far corner of the room while he watched his fellow tribemates feasting and singing around the fire and brawling goodnaturedly with each other, when it hit him.

Belonging.

A sense of belonging is what he had been looking for.

He had dedicated his life to become a part of the tribe, to become one of them. To find that feeling of companionship that everyone in Berk seemingly had. The assuredness that no matter what, your fellow Hooligans would be there to watch your back. All with different degrees of success ranging from ‘outright failure’ to ‘Why haven’t we tossed this guy into the open sea yet?’

And now he had finally found it. And this time, he knew deep in his bones that it wouldn’t be taken from him. He wouldn’t allow it.

And he only had to leave everything he had ever known behind. And he found it totally worth it.

He hugged Toothless’ neck tightly as his frame shook lightly with quiet joyful sobs, basking in the warmth of the dragon’s scales and letting it seep into his bones.

For the first time since Gothi picked him over Astrid, he felt himself relaxing. 

“Love you, Bud.” It was just three words, but they conveyed gratefulness, joy and love so deep it fanned Toothless’ soul-flame to burn brighter. “And if I'm not allowed to blame myself for doing my best, then neither are you. Seriously, Bud, you crossed Berk in record time on foot. That 's awesome.”

The dragon puffed his chest in pride. [Yes, I am awesome.] Toothless snarked, eliciting a snort from the human, before enveloping both of them under his wide wings. [Love you too, brother.] He cooed back.

‘Brother, huh?’ The word brought back bittersweet memories of someone else who also had called him so. Ugh, that was going to be a long conversation.

The heartfelt moment was cut short by the sounds of hissing and violent clanking by the campfire along with the acrid smell of smoke.

“The kettle!” 

[The fish!]

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

The fish was saved.

Just barely.

After scrapping it a little with his knife, Hiccup was finally able to eat something for the first time in almost two days. He hadn't been able to stomach anything after being chosen by Gothi, and the next morning he was so nervous before facing the Nightmare that he thought of feeding himself didn’t cross his mind.

It was just an overcooked, unsalted, unspiced perch.

It tasted like glory. 

He had put on his tunic, tended to his mangled torso and eaten something. He had also managed to get the kettle out of the fire before the water bubbled over and snuffed it out, and now he was letting the boiled water cool down. He still felt a little dizzy, his left eye was still puffy and red-rimmed for crying so much and the right one hurt something badly. Now he just had one more thing to take care of…

[I do not understand why you do that.] Toothless grumbled. [Lots of delicious fat you are wasting. Cold-season is close, you will need all the fat you can get.] Toothless shaked his head and slurped down a whole perch. The originally sizable pile of fish was down to half its size.

“Well, Bud,” Hiccup said from his spot lying on the floor with his head leaning on the dislodged saddlebag. “Unlike you I can’t just eat these guys raw,” And he waved his impaled fish. “That’s a great way to make your guts try to up and leave your body. Besides, I could drink the fat of a whole school of salmon and I doubt I’d put on a single pound”, he shrugged. “I'm just not built that way.”

Toothless drooled slightly with the mention of salmon but shook it off and cocked his head inquisitively. [But back at the cove, you ate fish.]

“I was more worried by the fire breathing dragon prowling over me at the moment,” He jested with a chuckle. “I didn’t know if it was rude not to accept it.”

Toothless seemed to consider it, and nodded sagely. [Yes, it would have been rude. But worry not. You were uneducated and savage back then. You know better now.] Toothless warbled magnanimously.

Hiccup raised an eyebrow. “I’m moved beyond words. Thank you kindly, Bud, I feel ever so grateful.” He said sardonically.

Toothless chose to roll with Hiccup’s snark and doubled down on his patronizing. [Think of it not. We shall make a fine wing-scale out of you in no time. It is my duty as your older Brother.]

“Sounds great! I expect my wings to be delivered within five to ten working days, I just hope they get notice of my change of address.” The boy commented, having wings of his own would be pretty sick. “Hey, what’s that of ‘older brother’?” He inquired. “How do you even know you’re older than me?”

[You know how to gauge a wing-scale’s age?]

“Do you know how to gauge a human’s age?” Hiccup retorted skeptically.

…

Hiccup touched his busted lip with the tip of his tongue and scratched the back of his neck mindlessly. “So… jokes aside, how old are you? I feel that’s the kind of stuff a brother should be aware of. Not that I know anything about that.”

Toothless looked up to the full moon and pondered it a few moments before answering. [I should grow my fourth barb by the end of next cold-season.]

“Barb?”

[Yes, barb.] Toothless lifted his head, showcasing his lower jaw to Hiccup, where he found three tiny barbs on either side of his mandible no bigger than the tip of his pinky finger, followed by a much smaller, barely noticeable nub. [Every four cold-seasons I grow a barb. The fourth one should grow mid-cold-season.] 

Hiccup gasped. “Really, Bud? Me too. We’re the same age! How cool is that?” He said with a smile.

The Night Fury harrumphed. [I still am the older brother. You are free to challenge me for the title if you wish.] Then Toothless remembered something Hiccup just said and looked at him strangely. [Wait. You had no clutchmates back in your old nest? Not even one?]

That didn’t sound right. It was a fact that many nestlings didn’t make it past their first cold-season, and he didn’t think it was any different for the soft-skins, but to lay only one egg in their lives? Even he, scarce as his kind was, had at least four surviving clutchmates before he drifted apart and got himself caught by the Flock-Master’s Song. And with how many of them fall in raids one would think they would do everything to replenish their numbers. Were they self-sabotaging their nest? What were the soft-skins thinking?

Hiccup stopped mid-bite from his perch, scratching his cheek as he answered. “Well, humans don’t really lay eggs so there’s no clutch so to speak.” Toothless arched the draconic equivalent of a skeptic eyebrow. “Yeah, we don’t come from eggs -and no, I'm not elaborating on that tonight, I’ve already reached my trauma quota for the next year- anyway, we normally have only one child at a time. And my parents only had me. Then my mom...” He shook his head and sighed. He had been sighing an awful lot that night. “Then mom got carried off during a raid.”

That killed the momentary levity of the discussion. Toothless crooned sadly and looked away.

“Hey, we just talked about people's actions being their responsibility only. And we’re the same age, you were barely a hatchling back then.” He took the last bite of his perch and tossed the stick aside. He absently reached into the saddlebag behind his head and pulled out a horned helmet. 

“Dad had this made for me. It's made out of her, eh, armor.” He was too tired to go into what a breastplate was. “He never got married again after her, even though it was expected of him, especially with how sickly I was as a child, but he never took another wife. She was the only woman for him… I don’t really remember her, I was just a few months old when she died.”

He stared into the battered reflection of himself on the metal, distorted by the helmet’s irregular surface. If he squinted, he could see someone else in there instead of himself.

Someone bulkier than him. Taller than him. Braver than him.

Someone Stoick the Vast loved.

Someone that didn’t exist.

“Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if she would have had my back… or if I’d just have had another parent to disappoint.” He muttered softly.

[Do not linger on that. We are free now. To none but ourselves we answer. You owe them nothing.]

Hiccup gave him a crooked smile in return and shoved the helmet back into the saddlebag.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. We're free, Bud.”

Toothless nodded and gave an approving trill.

Hiccup turned to the kettle and tentatively dipped a finger in the water. It was still hot, but not scaldingly so. He set up the bandages ready for use and prepared the needle and catgut thread.

It was time to take care of his eye.

‘It won’t just go away if I ignore it.’ Hiccup thought. ‘C’mon, Haddock, man up!’

He looked at Toothless, green meeting green. “W-Well… moment of truth, Bud.”

Taking a deep breath he reached to the bandages over his right eye with shaking hands and started to expose the wound.

The bandages started to come off as Hiccup's hands worked their way through them. Finally, Hiccup started to dislodge the last of the bandage, slowly and through pained pants and muttered swears that would have made Gobber blush, as the fabric had seemingly chosen to stubbornly cling to the wound.

The crusted blood had shut the eye closed and just trying to open it stung like a swarm of Fireworms had decided to nest under his right eyelid, so he decided to wash it away first, hoping the warm water would soften the dried blood. Soaking the clean rag he brought with him in the kettle and lightly wringing it out, he started to dab at the right side of his face as gently as he could manage.

He could hear Toothless’ distressed whines but he couldn’t stop now, or he wouldn’t be able to keep going.

By the time he finally felt his face clean of blood and grime he had rinsed the rag so many times the water in the kettle had turned ruby red. He still couldn’t fully open it or see much out of it and what he did make out was all blurry but he chalked it up to the constant tearing and the swelling of the surrounding flesh.

He rummaged frantically in his saddlebag until his fingertips brushed what he was looking for, an old and dented round sheet of bronze he had polished into a plate-sized hand mirror.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself for whatever may greet him in his reflection. He was ready.

He looked into the mirror and sucked in a breath.

He wasn’t ready.

The least worrying part of it was the deep purple tinge the skin around the eye had, that came from the same right hook that had busted his lip prior to his face´s encounter with live steel. Stoich’s hack had sliced a deep slash that seemed to almost jump out of Hiccup’s pale skin like a bright crimson snake slithering out of its nest across fresh-fallen snow. The fact that it hadn’t exposed the bone underneath was nothing short of a miracle.

The frightful wound followed its way down the young man’s face from across the eyebrow, splitting the upper and lower eyelids in asymmetrical halves before going further down marring the skin across his cheek and coming to a stop right before reaching his right jaw.

The worst part was the eye.

Its former color, forest green, had turned to a dimmer and dirtier shade like that of bog water. The sheath had turned cloudy and was bisected by a gaping canyon.

The eye was lost.

'...I'm blind,' Hiccup thought hollowly as he let the bronze hand mirror clatter to the cool blades of grass under him. ‘I’m blind in one eye.’ He wasn’t really assimilating what he was seeing. It was surreal, like seeing it happen to someone else, it just happens that the other person shares your face. Like a nightmare.

He touched the wound with a tremble on his hand.

It stung so much it made him full-body flinch so hard his bruised torso resonated in a painful harmony.

It was no nightmare.

It was real.

He had lost an eye. By hand of the Chief of Berk.

The hand that used to gently rub circles on his back when he woke up from a bad dream for staying up late listening to the bloody stories of the warriors at the Mead Hall.

The hand that placed itself on his shoulder to comfort him as a young child whenever he saw other children walk by with their mothers.

The hand that taught him how to hold the knife safely when he whittled wood.

The hand that pointed animatedly to the portraits of their ancestors hanging proudly on the walls of the Mead Hall, stating that one day, their prtrait would join the rest.

The hand that started to vacillate when it tried to reach out for him, until the point it didn't even try.

The hand that smacked him across the back of his head whenever he messed up.

The hand that covered a shame-filled face whenever he screwed up.

The hand that took to shove him hurriedly toward his house whenever he was caught outside as if that could hide his ineptitude from the village.

The hand of his father.

All at once, every single scrape, cut and bruise across the young man’s body started to sting with searing pain. Hiccup turned to Toothless slowly, as if to confirm the dragon was seeing the same as him. The Night Fury met his eye with a mournful gaze full of sadness, understanding and sympathy.

Not pity, though. Never pity. Toothless respected his bond with Hiccup too much to let something like pity stain it, even on the young soft-skin’s weakest moment.

The dragon advanced until he was eye to eye with Hiccup.

Neither said anything, no words were necessary. No words could verbalize the emotions the pair felt.

Toothless closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Hiccup’s in silent but heartfelt support and started to croon and purr reassuringly.

Hiccup stood frozen for a full minute before leaning his forehead back against Toothless’. He didn’t cry, not again. He had cried more than enough that night. He had sobbed and screamed and begged and moped.

At that point, he was just tired.

The brothers stood that way for a long time under Máni’s⁸ watchful eye, with the soft chirpings of the insects around them and the soft murmur of the wind breezing through the leaves of the trees as the only signs that the time had not frozen along them.

For good or ill, Midgard⁹ kept turning.

And tomorrow, ever relentless, waits for no one.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

And I want a moment to be real,

Want to hold things I don't feel,

Want to hold on and feel I belong.

And how can the world want me to change?

Ther're the ones who stay the same.

They can't see me.

But I'm still here...

“I'm Still Here” by Goo Goo Dolls

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

Chapter Text

The logs crackled placidly in the fireplace, the fire’s warmth and amber glow were a welcome respite from the freezing cold outside the Haddock’s home, winter was closing in and the snowstorms were picking up. Seated at the head of the table, Stoick the Vast chopped carrots and onions up into small squares with practiced ease and slid them gently across the chopping board and into the steaming pot of yak stew boiling softly over the fire before closing the lid. He started stroking the flames when frustrated grumbling pulled him off his chore. He was turning his head to the source of the sound when he was met with an impact to the temple by something soft and itchy that almost knocked his horned helmet off his head.

     “Stoick! I’m so sorry dear. I flew off the handle a little there.”

His eyes crinkled with mirth and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth the moment he heard her voice. Valka always had that effect on him, she softened his roughest edges with her very presence. He scanned the floor for the offending object, finding it a few feet from the fireplace.

It was a plush dragon, with black button eyes and woven from white and teal dyed wool. What species did the knitted demon belong to? He couldn’t tell. The head was not unlike a Nadder’s but the belly was bloated and pudgy like an overfed Nightmare, it had two extra legs on the front, one of the wings was slightly bigger than the other one and the tail didn’t resemble that of any dragon he had slain. The seams were a bit crooked and too far apart from each other so maybe that added to its misshapedness.

Stoick sat the knife down on the table, crouched down to pick the plush toy up and made his way to Valka who was seated on a rocking chair surrounded by a small army of wool yarn placed haphazardly over the armrest of the chair and a sack of sawdust at her feet. Her braided auburn hair was a bit frazzled, there was a crease in her brow that made the Hooligan Chief want to smooth it over with his calloused thumb, one hand clutched furiously long bone needles while the other rubbed soft circles across the pronounced bump of her belly. She was so slender it looked out of place on her, and yet, according to Gothi, the bump should be much bigger at that stage of her pregnancy, and she had felt sick and weak the last month. She had lost weight, there were dark bags under her eyes and her skin had taken a sickly pale pallor.

The babe would be small, and would be born in the middle of the roughest winter to date. It didn’t bode well for the new Haddock… nor for the mother.

     Stoick kneeled and playfully presented the misproportioned toy to his wife like one would an offering to their angry liege. “Not that I don't appreciate yer change o’ mind ‘bout the beasts, but what could have the poor fellow done tae earn such wrath?”

     Valka rolled her eyes at his antics and refrained from starting an argument about the creatures by putting on a tense half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. They had been married for two years plus the three years of courtship and five of friendship and that was the one thing they would never agree on. But he loved his wife more than he hated dragons, so they rarely touched on the topic or they actively avoided it. “Oh, nothing. Only refusing to knit itself into existence.” With a huff, she stabbed the needles into a ball of spoon wool with such strength they stabbed through the wool and the wooden armrest underneath but in her discontent she didn’t seem to notice.

     “The gall o’ the beast,” he replied seriously.

     She huffed annoyedly in response and crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t you have better things to do than mocking my shoddy needlework? Like, I dunno, wrestling yaks or something?”

     “Nah, the yak wrestlin’ tournament was cancelled due tae the blizzard. Heh, poor Spitelout seemed ready tae burst into tears, trained fer it fer months.” He plopped down on the rug at the foot of the rocking chair and leaned an elbow on the sawdust sack, turning his head up to look at his wife. “A’right, I’ll bite. What’s got ye so down, luv? I know it’s not just crooked seams, it’s not the first time ye’ve taken ‘creative liberties’ with your knittin’ and I know it won’t be the last.” He said with a small chuckle. “Remember the tunic ye gifted Gobber last snoggletog?  It had three sleeves and no neck! At least he liked it, said the crop top made ‘im feel young and handsome again.” But his laughter died a quick death almost immediately, as he took on Valka’s deepening frown.

     “That's just it, Stoick!” She shouted, standing up so quickly she stumbled and nearly fell over under the sudden weight of her belly. Stoick stood up and caught her, quick like a Speed Stinger. “I can’t knit,” she began, “I’m shit at housework, I most definitely can’t cook. I barely know how to be a wife, much less a mother! I can’t even kill a dragon!” Once she calmed down a little, her eyes shimmered with unshed frustrated tears. Stoick rubbed her biceps comfortingly but said nothing, not daring to interrupt her. If she was referring to her inability to slay the demons in a negative light, it meant this is serious. He suspected this outburst had been building up for a long time and she needed to get all that out of her chest. 

     “You know Gothi doesn’t like our odds.” She said under her breath so softly Stoick almost didn’t make it out. "The babe might not make it out of the birthbed, Stoick. Or he could make it... and I don't know which outcome scares me the most." She turned to meet her husband's gaze, her beautiful teary sea-green eyes meeting his forest-green ones. "The one where I have to carry on with the death of my babe in my soul... or the one where they live,  and grow up to be ashamed of me. I've been feeling so useless these last months." She lamented, looking back at the plush dragon where lied sadly on the seat of her rocking chair. “I just wanted to make something for them. So no matter what, they would always have a piece of me, something tangible that says ‘my mother loves me’... but I can't get even that right.”

     Stoick took a moment to let Valka breathe, took her softly in his arms and pressed her firmly to his chest, placing her head under his heavily bearded chin. “First o’ all, I want ye tae promise me ye’ll never talk ‘bout yerself like that ever again. Nana Gertrude would place ye in her lap and spank yer arse raw no matter yer age.” He said with a little levity, earning a sound halfway between a chuckle and a sob out of her.

     “Heh, it’d be a tad awkward with my belly like this, but she'd find a way to make it work. She’d dress me down saying she raised no self-pitying pansies and she’d whack me over the head with that stupid wooden ladle of hers,” she commented, making both of them laugh. Not at Nana Gertrude, of course, they had seen her knock a Gronckle out with that ladle and they weren't eager to meet its business end. How the damn thing hadn't even splintered was a mystery. Valka sniffled a bit but the thick of the tears seemed to have come to an end, making him smile. “...Maybe I should talk this over with her, she always seems to know what to say. Hilda too, she was on the same boat until a few months ago.”

     “Aye, we’ll go together,” he declared before carrying on. “Second o’ all, our son-”

     “-Why do you think it's a boy?” Valka interrupted.

     “Fatherly instincts.” Stoick replied cheekily, making Valka look up from his chest with a side smile and a cocked brow.

     “As I was sayin’, our son would ne’er feel ashamed of ye. Ye might not slay the beasts, but ye’ve never let that keep you from protectin’ the village. Remember that Nadder ye suplexed tae keep it away from the pantry? So what if ye don't kill dragons? I do more than enough of that for both of us.” Stoick remarked. “Besides, you can kick the arse of anyone in Berk blindfolded and with a hand tied tae yer back! Ye're stubborn, brave, kind and resolute like no one I’ve ever met.” He cupped her face with one of his oversized mitts and wiped the tears off her cheek with a gentle thumb. “Everyday, ye stand before a whole tribe o’ people sayin’ ye're in the wrong, telling ye tae change, tae move, but ye remain steadfast and true tae yer ideals. Berk disagrees with ye -myself included, I’ll admit- but ye’ve made us respect ye. What child wouldn’t feel proud o’ a mother like that?” He asserted with stars in his eyes, looking down at his wife with the same wonderstruck expression he had when she knocked two of his molars loose with a roundhouse kick after a crass remark right after meeting him all those years ago. Their ideals may differ, but her passion for what she thought was right was awe-inspiring.

     He grabbed the plush and handed it over to Valka. “So what if it's not perfect?” he uttered softly. “It's made with love and care. What else could someone ask for?”

     Valka nuzzled her forehead into Stoick’s chest like it was the safest place in Midgard. “You really think the child will like it?” she asked, both of them knowing very well they weren’t talking about the toy anymore.

     “Without a doubt,” Stoick answered, holding her gaze. “Our child will love anythin’, as long as it comes from ye, no matter what.” He finished, placing a tender kiss on her temple. After a minute of comfortable silence, he whispered in her ear. “But I'll do the cookin’, just in case.”

In response, Valka swept her leg behind his ankles and pushed his chest at the same time, making him fall on his butt so hard that the house shook for a moment. Stoick bellowed out a hefty guffaw on his way down.

     “You were doing so well, love.” Valka chastised playfully before laboriously taking a seat on Stoick's lap and leaning on to kiss him hungrily and slowly on the lips, grounding herself on the feeling of her loving husband wrapping his arms around her. “Stoick,” Valka breathed, “just… promise me one thing.”

     “Fer ye? Anythin’,” he answered, holding her hips.

She rolled over to the side to sit beside him, took his hand and placed it over her belly.

     “Promise me-”

~~~

“-you’ll protect him no matter what.”

4 Ýlir, Year 0 A.E (After Exile) - Isle of Berk, Barbaric Archipelago - Midnight.

Stoick sighed heavily, feeling the weight of the last hours pushing down on his shoulders, like walking on the seabed with the pressure of the ocean threatening to crush you like a grape. He sat by the fire slumped on his wooden chair with a heavy heart and a half-empty tankard of ale, having a staring contest with the same woolen critter his wife had woven while sitting in her now dusty and dull rocking chair that snowy night all those years ago. Stoick scrutinized the stuffed dragon’s button eyes, now battered and worn by use and time, like it held all the answers to the questions that bounced back and forth in his brain.

Why?

How could this have happened?

For how long has his son Hiccup consorted with the enemy?

'How could I miss the signs?'

'Had the dragon somehow bent Hiccup to its will?'

'Could I have done anything to prevent it?'

'I failed him so badly. Maybe if I’d been a better father my son wouldn’t have felt the need of consorting with the enemy? Is he alright? Did the ax cut too deep? Is he alive? I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to Ididn’tmeantoIdidn’tmeantoIdidn’tmeantoIdidn’tmeanto.'

He had tried to do right by his son with all his might, but he had always fallen short. He might be one of the best dragon killers of his generation, but he was under no delusions of immortality, he knew one day he would have to present himself before the Allfather, and so, he decided the best way to protect Hiccup was to teach him to protect himself. He tried to teach his son to be a proper viking, strong and brave for when such a time came, his son could take care of himself, but as time went on it seemed more like a doomed endeavor with each passing day. 

Whenever he tried to have a chat with him, father to son, it was like talking with one of Johann’s deckhands from foreign lands, their languages alien to his tongue and ears. Where Stoick would see a wall to demolish, Hiccup would try to climb it. Where Stoick would find a fallen tree blocking a road and simply reduce it to splinters, Hiccup would just skirt around it, take note of it and avoid it next time he went to town. Where Stoick would face detractors head-on with steel and brawn, Hiccup used sarcastic jokes for sword and witty comebacks for shield. He always sought a way around his problems instead of tackling them head-on like a proper Hooligan, never fought back, letting the other kids trample over him. He was just so… different. So unviking… so much like his mother, and that terrified him to the marrow. All the things that Stoick had loved of his late wife, he dreaded to see reflected in his son. He had seen where that path led. He should have fought Valka harder on that topic, he didn’t, and he lost one half of his heart almost fifteen years ago.

When it became clear that Thor wouldn't bless Hiccup with the strength he had rest of the Haddock’s line, he set him up for an apprenticeship with Gobber thinking maybe some time of hard work at the smithy would help shape him up, maybe after he filled out a little he could start his training in proper. They could finally have something to talk about.

It was the absolute worst mistake he had ever made. By far.

Instead of curbing down his unviking ways, he had been gifted the keys to a borderless realm of gears and bolts to aid him in his craft of avoiding facing his problems as much as possible. Despite working almost a decade under Gobber, Hiccup never gained an ounce of muscle and, if anything, the destructive aftermaths of his many failed contraptions outweighed the costs of Hiccup’s works in the forge. He actually talked to Gobber about ending the lad’s apprenticeship, but Gobber had answered by threatening with burning down the smithy and sailing off in the next ship if he even thought of taking Hiccup from him, he had offered to help repair the aftermath of the failed inventions for half the price but he would not hear a word of taking him from under his wing.

Stoick had blinked for a second and suddenly, Hiccup didn’t need him as a father. He hated himself for resenting Gobber’s relationship with Hiccup, for poaching his son from him is it poaching when you all but dumped the lad on his lap?, but after that it was even harder to try to be his father, to talk to him and try to relate with his son. The silences were tense and unbearable, he never knew what to say and never understood a word of what Hiccup tried to say. His son didn’t need him as a father anymore. He had stopped reaching out and someone else stepped in. Stoick had lost his chance.

It had hurt more than any battle wound he’d ever felt, but Hati and Sköll won’t stop their eternal chase over the grief and self-loathing of one man, and even if he wasn’t Hiccup’s main father figure anymore, he was still his chieftain and Hiccup was still his heir to train and his subject to look after. He would still protect him, he promised himself, but a Chief cannot put the needs of one person above the rest, not even his heir. And more often than not, this dichotomy landed him protecting the village from Hiccup and his penchant for havoc. The lad was almost fifteen winters old, Stoick couldn’t keep coddling him, so, at Gobber’s advice, he signed him up for dragon training.

When he came back from his latest hunt for the Nest and got news of Hiccup’s newly found skill with the beasts, he was elated! He was so over the moon he could have kicked Máni out of his chariot in the night sky and steer the damn thing himself! He had finally dusted off the helmet he had commissioned off Gobber when Hiccup was two and gave it to him, he had feared having missed his chance and Hiccup would have outgrown it but for once his son’s stunted growth had played in their favor. Then, the day of Gothi’s choice, Hiccup had owned the whole test, he barely grazed the Gronckle’s muzzle and the demon dropped like a fly! His son was a viking at last, he would be safe!

‘He can take care of himself now, Val!' Stoick thought at the moment. 'Do you see it, my love? Do you see our boy? I did it! I didn’t fail after all!'

And then, the Kill Ring. 

That display.

That defiance of every staple of the viking lifestyle. He had turned his back on Berk.

His son had sided with the demons. The demons who took his wife from him.

After the Nightmare dropped like a pup begging for bellyrubs, Stoick wasn’t listening anymore. He could see Hiccup’s lips moving from his throne in the arena’s gallery, but the only sound reaching the Hooligan chieftain’s ears had been a deafening ringing with no evident source.

The mob had risen from their seats with weapons raised and slayed the dragon with no regard for the Final Test, such was the last thing on anyone’s mind. As the mob ran to Hiccup, Stoick looked at his son like it was the first time he lied his eyes upon him.

‘He’s a disgrace.’

‘He’s my son.’

‘He’s a traitor.’

‘He’s my boy.’

‘He sides with the abominations. 

He spits on Valka’s grave! 

He’s a menace to Berk!’

‘Berk is a menace to him, the Hooligans will not forget this day.’

When Stoick regained his bearings, his s-Hiccup was brought before him, forced to kneel so harshly he heard the crack of bone meeting stone. He sported the beginnings of a black eye on his right eye, his lip was busted and he could see small stains of blood across his now dirty tunic. His or the dragon’s? He couldn’t tell. He was still speaking to Stoick, most likely some sort of plea, but the Hooligan chieftain heard not a single word, none could pierce the ringing that clouded his ears. From the looks of vitriol from the Hooligans around him, he gathered he had to intervene before things got even more out of hand. 

He would have to exile his son. He would be disowned and expatriated, but at least he would live. Maybe to Berserker Island, young Dagur had always liked Hiccup, as their frequently exchanged letters and Dagur’s kidnapping attempt on Hiccup last time his ship landed on Berkian shores seemed to indicate. Maybe he could grow up to be an adviser for Dagur and gain power and respect by having his new Chief’s ear, just like Gobber had his.

The words tasted like ashes in his mouth, but he spit them out anyway, feeling a little lightheaded. He was clutching the ax in his hand in a death grip in an attempt to ground himself, like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning in the tempestuous sea of his thoughts.

“Ye’ve thrown yer lot in with ‘em. Yer not a viking... Yer not my son.”

He steeled his heart lest he caved to Hiccup’s devastated expression, but before he could resume his banishment decreet, an unholy shriek from the depths of Helheim split the air, making every viking sound of mind within hearing range take cover. Everyone in Berk knew that accursed scream, but for the first time in recorded history, the people of Berk would finally get to put a face to the name.

“Night Fury!” “Get down!”

The steel chainnet the arena had for roof was destroyed with a loud crash, sending sparks and droplets of molten metal all over the Kill Ring. Stoick’s eyes were only able to briefly make out a batlike silhouette with pitch black skin and venomous green eyes before a second blast shot right between him and his son almost sent him flying back a couple feet, kicking up dust and debris that obscured everyone’s sight. Stoick quickly regained his footing and attacked the obscured shape of the beast with his ax, feeling the briefest resistance for a second before blood splattered on the ground and a pained howl filled the air.

Only, it was a human howl.

Wind fanned the dust away revealing the Night Fury batting its wings and about taking off, and Hiccup riding on its back, a hand clutching the right side of his face before flying off. 

He spent the next half-an-hour getting the crowd under control and ordering a tribal Thing in the Mead Hall at midnight, mandatory attendance for everyone above fifteen. As soon as everyone was out of sight, Stoick the Vast took a good look at his bloodstained ax and puked his guts out in the middle of the arena like a lad after his first kill.

Now, in his too quiet house, he just waited for Spitelout’s call to make his way to the Mead Hall and address his people as their chieftain.

A knock came from the other side of the door. Stoick sat his half-empty tankard on the table and placed his horned helmet back on his head. He took a moment to wipe the moisture off his eyes and shake off the pain, forcing himself to numb it as he had done so many times before. He shoved the grief of the father within him deep into his bosom and beckoned forth the Hooligan chieftain.

     “It’s open.”

Spitelout made his way into the house the second he heard his half-brother’s voice. He carried a torch to ward off the dark and, like many of the onlookers from the Ring, still sported a fine sheen of ashes and dust.

     “Stoick, they’re all in the Mead hall, waitin’ for ye,” Spitelout declared in a firm voice.

     Stoick nodded and got to his feet, stomping his way toward the center of the village with a deep frown marring his brow. Without slowing down, he demanded from his brother: “Talk tae me, Spitelout. What do I need tae know before gettin’ in there?”

     “Well, for starters, I took the liberty o’ hidin’ away all o’ the ale in the kitchens ‘till the end o’ the meeting.”

     “Will that make ‘em easier or harder tae deal with?”

     “Eh, guess we’ll find out.” Keeping up with the chieftain, Spitelout recounted, enlisting with the fingers of his free hand each issue. “I’ve had tae stop at least three crews from loadin’ up their drakkars¹ tae hunt the lad, I’ve set up guard ‘round the arena in case any o’ the kids gets any ideas of followin’ yer boy into the skies, or tae an early death.” He shook his head and muttered something about ‘goatshit mad Thorstons’. “Dragon trainin’ has been cancelled ‘till further notice, without the chains containin’ ‘em they would just fly right into the village. What else? Ah, right. Mildew’s spent ‘round half an’ hour preachin’ tae anyone within earshot ‘bout Hiccup being some dark seiðmaðr² or vixlingr³ and how we must kill ‘im before he comes back tae rain fire and’death upon us.”

     Stoick made an acknowledgement sound in the back of his throat. “Good. Those ships will be better put tae use fishin’ before winter freezes the water, no drakkar can catch up with a Night Fury, less one with a headstart. Start workin’ with the buildin’ crew as soon as the meeting is over tae clean up the debris and repair the Kill Ring, an’ make sure the raid torches are hoisted an’ lit during the night, Hiccup might try tae rescue the remaining fiends.” He shook his head to clear his ideas for a minute, realizing he was mere feet from the Mead Hall’s carved doors. He could already hear the heated shouting of his people. “Start butcherin’ the Nightmare from the arena an’ harvestin’ its parts, Merchant Johann should touch port within the fortnight an’ we’ll need his iron tae repair the chainnet before reasumin’ dragon trainin’. Speak with Gobber an’ give me the numbers. We’ll have tae see if the beast’s hide, claws an’ horns will suffice tae cover for the expenses,” he finished decidedly. Just as his fingertips grazed the wooden surface, a meaty hand landed on his shoulder.

     “Aye… Gobber. Speakin' of ‘im, Chief… well… ye see-” Spitelout grimaced, struggling to find a way to explain himself that would not enrage Stoick further.

     “Cough it up, brother. I’ve not the head fer yer blubberin’ right now,” Stoick said impassively.

     “...” Spitelout took a deep breath, clenched his eyes shut and took off his horned helmet, holding it with both hands in front of his face as if it were a shield between him and Stoick. “...He’s not coming tae the Thing”.

     The wood of the door cracked under Stoick’s grip. “...What in Hel do ye mean ‘he’s not comin’?” he asked, frozen in place without even turning back to look at his brother, his broad shoulders coiled like a bowstring.

Spitelout would have very much rather his half brother screamed. They were Vikings and Stoick was the Chief, shouting at each other was their bread and butter. Overcomposed Stoick, on the other hand, was as predictable as a Thorston left alone in an armory, and just as volatile.

     “He's hunkered down in the smithy and isn't comin' out no matter what. The last man that tried to get ‘im out o’ there left knocked out an’ with his teeth in a pouch.” Spitelout placed a hand on Stoick’s shoulder and squeezed lightly, trying to convey his support. “Don't take it personal, ye know he was close tae the lad. He just needs time tae come tae terms with all o’ this. Tae accept the new reality o’ things”

Stoick didn’t move for a solid minute. He just stared at his feet trying to keep himself steady after yet another punch to the gut. He had known Gobber would be just as hurt as him if not more, because he had actually known Hiccup enough to miss him but to refuse an order from his chieftain… A part of him wondered if he had lost his eiðbróðir⁴ as well as his son on the same day.

     “The tribe waits for none,” he breathed out. “I’ll give ‘im the footnotes of it all later, for now… Let’s just let ‘im have his peace fer tonight.” Having said his piece, he opened the doors. The second he was seen by his tribesmen, demands and questions started to rain down on him like arrows.

     “The lad has done it now, Stoick. We can’t just let it go this time!”

     “Let’s board the ships and drag ‘im back tae Berk by the balls!”

     “He played us like a fuckin’ fiddle! He’s violated the sanctity o’ the Final Test!

     “He’s a seiðmaðr, I tell ye! Sold his soul tae Loki fer dominion o’er the beasts!”

     “I say we mount 'is head on a pike next tae the demons he loves so much, the treacherous piece o‘ shite!”

Stoick paid them no mind until reaching his place on the council’s table, trying not to look at Gobber’s empty chair. The moment he sat upon his chair he smacked a gigantic fist on the wooden table, the resounding thud echoed throughout the Mead Hall hushing shouts into whispers. Once the hall was quiet -or as quiet as it could be while housing a plentiful gathering of vikings- the Hooligan chieftain addressed his people.

     “My friends, ye all know why we are 'ere. We all were at the Kill Ring, we all witnessed the same thing at the same time, so I’ll spare us a lengthy meeting an’ get tae the point already: There will be no search parties lookin’ fer Hiccup.” The second the statement left his lips the crowd erupted in outraged and loud protests, but he had foreseen this so he would give them ten seconds to vent out their frustration before resuming. He was about to speak to quell the crowd when Mildew’s voice reached his ears, grating like two dry whetstones being rubbed against one another. 

     “This has gone ower far, Stoick! Ye should've gotten rid o’ the lad since the first time one o’ 'is “enhanced” catapults wrecked a building mid-raid, but ye’ve always coddlit ‘im ower much an' look at ‘im! Dragon lovin’ traitor just like-” the old man cut himself off right before stepping on that proverbial caltrop. “Ye protect ‘im e'en now? You would deny us the justice we are rightfully owed against a traitor against Berk? A traitor against mankind itself?!” The crowd joined their roar to his voice, and their combined might shook the Hall. For such a disagreeable, grumpy and downright nasty old coot that had to have his house built so far from the village because no one could stomach him on a daily basis, he had a staggering amount of charisma he seemed to save for railing up crowds.

     “If ye would sit down an’ shut up so I can wrap this up.” Stoick’s retort came from behind clenched teeth. The lanky old man sat down next to that smelly sheep of his that he insisted on taking wherever he went. “As I was sayin’, no one is goin’ after Hiccup fer a simple reason: It would amount no nothin’. He rides a Night Fury, fer Thor’s sake! He left hours ago, there’s no way in Hel we could catch up with ‘im. We still have tae repair the fleet after the last hunt fer the Nest and winter is around the corner. Every viable ship is tae fish as much as we can, I want the pantries full before the ice sets in.”

     Another viking, Hoark, got up from his seat. “That’s all well and good, Stoick, and I agree, we need tae have our winter supply ready, but what o’ Hiccup? He can’t get away scott free, If we can’t catch up with ‘im why not send a message to the other allied tribes tae be on the lookout?” His comment earned him the approval of the room, but Stoick mercilessly stomped on their vindictive spirit.

     “Fer starters, I doubt Hiccup will remain in the Archipelago fer long, he might be clumsy, aye, but he’s smart too. We could write to the Allied Tribes… an’ tell ‘em what? That the heir tae the chiefdom o’ the Hairy Hooligans was caught fraternazin’ with dragons? It would be mayhem!” Stoick threw his hands up in the air. “Ol’ Mogadon would declare war on us, the Alliance would break apart even if we win and there would be nothin’ left keepin’ the Lava-Louts, Outcast an' Hysterics from landing on our beaches! Besides, does anyone o' ye want tae tell Dagur that we ran Hiccup out o’ the island?” The collective full-body cringe that passed through the crowd was answer enough. “No one beyond these shores can know there is a dragon rider native to Berk, an’ as such I pronounce it as a tribal secret… but ye’re right, Hoark, Hiccup cannot just go unpunished.” Stoick stood up and walked to the wall where the shields with portraits of every Hooligan Chief along with their heirs hung proudly, tracing the Haddock line all the way to Hiccup I. He felt as if they were all looking at him. Analyzing and dissecting his every move, his every choice. He knew what he had to do. What he must do as chieftain. He braced himself to make the hardest decision he would ever make.

‘Val, if ye’re lookin’ down on us… I’m so sorry, luv. But he’s left me with no choice. I can’t protect ‘im from himself anymore, not this time.’”

     “I, Stoick the Vast Haddock, son o' Hamish, tribal chieftain o' the Hairy Hooligans o' Berk, hereby declare that the Viking known as Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III is henceforth no longer a member o' our tribe. I declare his name taboo, never to be pronounced again  I disown 'im as my kin. I strip 'im o' his title of heir. I strip 'im o' the name Haddock an' pronounce 'im as útlagr and óbótamaður, never tae set foot on Berkian lands ever again under penalty o' death. Anyone who tries tae help 'im or communicate with 'im will be exiled. Henceforth, for all intents an' purposes, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock is dead. Anyone who tries tae help 'im or communicate with 'im will be exiled. And so it shall be made known tae our allies. As far as they know, Hiccup was killed by a Night Fury during 'is Final Trial.” If anyone other than Stoick himself noticed how his vogue got more choked up with every syllable he spewed, no one let it show. Out of solidarity with their chieftain’s pain, or maybe out of simple pity… the gods sure had a twisted sense of irony, imagine losing all of your family to dragons but in such wildly different. “This Thing is adjourned, ye may go.” 

With that, the people started to trickle out of the Hall in almost sepulchral silence, a notable contrast to their previously uproarious demeanor. He felt once more Spitelout’s hand on his shoulder before he, too, left the building. At the end, only Stoick and Gothi, the withered and mute Elder of the village, remained. She looked at him with something dangerously close to disappointment in her features. Despite this, she had the good grace of not pointing out the tears staining Stoick’s braids mustache.

“If ye’ve got somethin’ tae say, say it, Elder.” Gothi’s response was a slow shake of her head before she pulled free a waterskin full of sand from her belt and poured its contents onto the ground. Painstakingly slowly, the butt of her staff slid across the granules, leaving her message for Stoick written in the floor”

Stoick huffed in annoyance. What was the old woman getting to? “Only a couple hundred times.” Gothi’s brow furrowed before replying.

Stoick arched a bushy red eyebrow. “Well, don’t leave me in suspense. Please, enlighten me.”

“And he was right. Eventually they would come to unleash Ragnarok upon us all, etc, etc. Every child in the village knows the story, would ye quit the riddles an’ get tae the point alre-” His protests were cut short by a solid whack of Gothi’s staff dealt right to the top of his helmet. Her glare conveyed the clear message of ‘Do not interrupt me again’.

And with that she exits the Hall, leaving behind a conflicted Stoick alone with thoughts that echoed against the walls of the vault-like building.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

My father's house shines hard and bright

It stands like a beacon calling me in the night

Calling and calling, so cold and alone

Shining 'cross this dark highway where our sins lie unatoned…

“My Father’s House” by Bruce Springsteen.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

Chapter Text

18 Tvímánuður, Year 8 B.E. (Before Exile) - Isle of Berk, Barbaric Archipelago - Midnight.

A cold night of autumn, Aurvandil's Fire lit up Berk’s sky with a lightshow worthy of the Aesir. To an outsider’s eye this otherworldly yet mesmerizing and majestic event would be welcomed as a once in a lifetime experience to regale retellings of to one’s children and grandchildren. Tales of blue, orange, green and yellow lights dancing across the night sky in chaotic harmony, the rivers of the island shining in response like glowing blueish purple veins beating to the rhythm of an unseen heart... 

But not to berkians. No, for the people of Berk, every ten years for the last sixty years,  Aurvandil's Fire was but the herald of the upcoming storm: The Flightmare. An unholy beast no viking had looked in the eye and survived, its horrid visage was said to be terrifying enough to turn a man’s blood to ice  and his brain to mush, and its banshee-like scream, shrill and bloodcurdling enough to rip flesh from bone. To fight it was futile, one lone beast was as aggressive and destructive as a whole raidflock. Even at age seven, Astrid Hofferson was well aware of these facts, but none of it mattered, because Uncle Finn had decided to take on the beast. Alone.

It was wrong. ‘No berkian fights alone’, Uncle Finn said so. Nor even Stoick the Vast would face the beast one on one, no one could… so Astrid would help him. She had her axe ready -a little heavy on her little arms but she would do- and had taken her father’s old helmet -a bit too big for her head but it would do- and would back her uncle up. She was ready, her uncle had trained her, Hiccup said it was sui… swee-sai-dal or something like that? -he was always using big words and she didn’t understand him half of the time but he made her laugh- but she would not be dissuaded. She would not be stopped.

Until something stopped her.

Her father's helmet had tilted forward with the jolting of her hurried march, making her trip and bump into someone’s knee and falling on her butt.

     “Wha-? Astrid?! What are ye doin’ out ‘ere? Ye should be in the Mead Hall with Hiccup an’ the rest ‘o the children?” Uncle Finn’s scolding stung, but she would not budge.

     “B-but you’re out here all alone! What happened to ‘no berkian fights alone’?” She hoped the light sheen of moisture on her eyelashes did not make her statement seem weak.

     Uncle Finn’s bushy blonde eyebrows relaxed slightly into something more gentle as he kneeled beside her and placed his ample hand on her bony shoulder. “Aye, lass, no berkian fights alone, an’ I stand by it, but there are fights a man -or woman-”, he amended with a conspiratory wink, making her giggle, “must fight on their own. Remember what I told ye when I gifted ye that axe?” he asked.

     She looked at the kid-size weapon in her grasp, staring into her reflection's eyes in the blade and remembering her *father’s* uncle’s words. “When you carry this axe, you carry all of us with you.” She looked at her uncle with the beginnings of understanding.

     A faint smile peeked from beneath Finn’s blonde mustache. “Aye lass,” he remarked, pulling out his own axe. “An’ when I carry this axe, I carry all who I stand for, and those who came before, with me. I fight with the force of Berk as mine own. As long as ye remember that, Wee Valkyrie, ye’ll ne’er be truly alone.” His look then turned stern but no less gentle. “The beasts have taken my father as well as your own. Not one more, not while I can still hold my axe. This glowing plague has terrorized Berk fer long enough, I’d say, and it’s time some put an end to it. So why not me?” He raised an eyebrow.

     “B-but aren’t you afraid?” She croaked out.

     A loud rough laugh was Fearless Finn’s answer. “Hah! Afraid? Don't let Nana Gertrude hear ye talkin’ like that or she’ll break ‘er ol’ wooden ladle on yer head”, he jokingly warned her and lovingly readjusted the oversized helmet over her head. “There’s a reason us Hoffersons bear names like Ivar or Bjorn instead o’ Boarbottom or Madguts. Names that lessen the parents’  fear o’ the trolls and fae”.

     “Or Hiccup!”

     “Ha! Aye, or Hiccup”. He rose with his hand firmly around his axe and steel in his gaze. Before her meager form, he looked enormous and heroic. He was like a mountain or an ocean, untameable and larger than life. Something that had always been there and would always be. With a steady voice, brimming with conviction, he simply stated: “Hoffersons do not yield tae fear”. He looked toward the sky and his shoulders tensed as he heard a high-pitched shriek and a shining star detached itself from the heavenly lights, growing brighter the closer it got to Berk with a ghostly wail. The light vanished behind a hill in the forest near the river.

     “It's here”. He breathed, turning to Astrid with a cocky smile. “Why dont’cha go back tae the Mead Hall an’ get Hiccup tae help ye pick a place on the wall fer my next trophy? Mind escortin’ ‘er tae the Hall?” he asked someone behind Astrid, and she was greeted by a cold iron hook on her shoulder, the smell of soot and a cheery voice marked by an even stronger alban accent.

     “Can dae, Finn! Come now lassie, Nana Gertrude an’ yer ma’ must have their knickers in a twist lookin’ fer ye, hehe. Best we dinnae make ‘em wait.” The blacksmith gave her a gentle smile with a stone tooth poking from behind his lower lip and hushed her back to the Mead Hall with the elderly and the children. She gave her father figure role model a last look over her shoulder as he disappeared behind the hills .

     “Go with ‘im, Wee Valkyrie! I’ll see ye in a couple hours! Go protect yer ma’ fer me, aye?” She nodded and turned on her heels toward the Hall under Gobber’s watchful eye. 

She had intended to obey her uncle’s instructions. Really. Until a minute later, a bloodcurdling scream of agony coming from the forest ripped through the air.

     “Uncle Finn!”

     “Astrid!” Gobber tried to catch her before she gave him the slip and while Gobber was far more agile than a man of his girth and with only 50% of his limbs had any right to be, Astrid still had to her favour the speed and nimbleness only a child could be blessed with. 

She ran uphill until she almost reached the top when a shimmering shooting star, all wrath and light, flew right past her and toward the clouds sending her stumbling down the hill a couple feet. She got to her feet and finally reached the top and got a look of the river that passed through the valley between hills, flowing with a calm that looked out of place next to the scene that painted its shores.

Her axe clattered to the grass and she could feel all the blood on her face rushing to abandon it, running through her vessels like ants leaving their anthill. A grief stricken wail ringing through the berkian forest was the last thing Astrid heard before blacking out.

It was not until she woke up in her bed drenched in sweat from nightmares of bloodtainted water and the smell of dissolving skin that she realized the scream came from herself.

Bloodtainted water and dissolving skin would be her recurring bedmates for years to come.

~~~A.H.T.O~~~

4 Ylir, Year 0 A.E. - Isle of Berk, Barbaric Archipelago - Midnight.

     “Woohoo!!! Is this the best day of history or what?! All hail Snotlout, future Chief of Berk!” Snotlout Jorgenson’s smug voice snapped Astrid from her reminiscence as they walked back to their homes after the Thing. “The line for delivering offerings starts here”, he pointed to his feet with a meaty finger. “One at a time, please.” Astrid was simply tuning him out. She was too furious with Hiccup for stealing her shot at bringing glory to her clan only to toss it down the latrine to care for Snotlout’s megalomaniac fantasies. She had needed that opportunity for herself, for her clan. For Brynhild.

     Fishlegs’ voice, shy but still firm, hurried to dispel his delusions, drumming idly with his fingers on the red leather cover of a thick book under his arm. “Actually, Stoick hasn’t officially named you Heir to the Chiefdom. There needs to be a ceremony with Gothi and the rest of the Council, you need to be adopted under the Haddock name, and there’s also-” he was cut off by a moody Snotlout. 

     “What do you know, Fishface? I'm Stoick's next of kin, who else could be the new heir? Hiccup?” He cupped his chin and pretended to think for a second and widened his eyes  and mouth in a faux gasp of surprise, putting his palms on his cheeks. “Oh right, it can't be him because apparently he had a previous engagement, oh I don't know…” he punched Fishlegs square in the gut, making him bend over in pain. “RIDING A FUCKING DRAGON IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE DAMN VILLAGE AND FLYING OFF TO THE EDGE OF FUCKING MIDGARD!!!”

     “Yeah, it was awesome!” Tuffnut said excitedly. “Who knew Hiccup was cool like that? I mean, his rampages were always entertaining but riding the Unholy Offspring of Lightning and Death Itself? Now that's inspired. It's always the quiet ones, I tell ya.” He gasped and grabbed his twin sister by the flaps of her goatskin vest, pulling her close until their horned helmets crashed onto each other. “Do you think he would teach us to ride dragons too? You think that Night Fury of his has a friend? If not, I’m willing to share. I’m open minded.” He demanded excitedly.

     Ruffnut grabbed her brother by the face and pushed him away just enough to put him in a headlock. “That is indeed a most worthy question, Brother Nut,” she said with eyes alight with mischief.” But I must counter with another question: Can he actually teach others to ride dragons or is his gift the product of some… godly intervention?” She rubbed her chin pensively with her free hand.

     “Wait, you don’t mean…?”

     “We shared a womb, lil’ bro, you know exactly what I’m thinking.”

     “But of course. We were blind. Blind, I tell you! The signs were right there and we missed them! Everything’s comin’ together now…”

     “What are you two muttonheads talking about?” Snotlout asked with a frown.

     “Just think about it!” Exclaimed Tuffnut. “The wanton chaos,-”

     “-those lanky ass arms,-” Ruffnut went on.

     “-the destructive yet comedic timing of some of his his screw ups,-”

     “-the way he practically wiped his ass with centuries of tradition,-”

     “-and now the dragon riding thing. The writing is on the wall.”

     “Hiccup is Loki’s Chosen One!”/“Hiccup is Loki’s Chosen One!” The Thorston twins exclaimed in unison.

Snotlout and Fishlegs turned to look at each other with identical looks of bewilderment, then to the twins, and once again to each other.

     “Guys, Hiccup is many things, but a chosen champion of the gods?” Fishlegs doubted, having regained the air. “That's stretching a bit too much, don't you think?” 

     Snotlout laughed obnoxiously. “Ha! Hiccup a chosen of the gods? A chosen jester, more like it.” He shrugged “Wouldn’t blame him, everyone needs some amusement every now and then.”

     “Oh yeah?” Ruffnut defied. “Then explain how he tamed a freaking Night Fury, Faithless Heathenson?”

     Fishlegs’ barrel-like chest puffed out and he held out the book under his arm, revealing it to be his personal copy of Bork’s Book of Dragons. It was thicker by a half than the original book since he had added extra blank pages to fill with new discoverings. “Simple, despite their above average intellect -compared to other beasts, at least- dragons are still animals, and with enough study, constancy and resources, any animal can be tamed to a certain degree, just like a hunting hound or a hawk.” His tone became giddy and he opened the book in the last entry, the virtually empty entry on the Night Fury. A fine piece of sharpened charcoal grasped between thick fingers flying across the page tracing the silhouette of the enigmatic dragon while the picture of it remained fresh in his mind. “Last raid Hiccup said he had shot down a Night Fury, so that answers how and when he got it, but how did he manage to get close enough to it to tame it?” Fishlegs looked up from the page and wondered out loud with a furrowed brow. “And where in Thor’s name had he been hiding it this whole time? Strike class dragons are a sneaky bunch but they’re still big dragons.”

     His question made Astrid stop short. But of course, that’s where he would always run off to. “The woods.” When the rest of her dragon training class turned to look at her, she elaborated. “He would always go into the woods after dragon training after he started getting good at it. He had been acting even weirder than usual so I tried to follow him, but he would always give me the slip,” She finished with a frustrated huff.

     Fishlegs looked at her with a timid smile, looking up from his book. “Don’t feel too bad, Astrid. Hiccup spent as much time in the forest as he did in the forge, he knew it better than anyone.” His look turned something dangerously close to sad. “And, well… he didn’t really talk much to… anyone other than Gobber and Gothi, did he?” He trailed off, trying to remember the last time he and Hiccup hung out or just talked before he became Hiccup the Promising. He had never joined the likes of Snotlout, Dogsbreath or Wartbrain, he just… hadn’t wanted to risk the same treatment, so he just drifted apart from his old friend. Ironically, his burly build allowed him to fade into the crowd.

     Something cold and heavy coiled uncomfortably in Astrid’s gut at Fishlegs' mention of Hiccup’s self-imposed isolation. She, too, used to be his friend. In almost any of her earliest memories Hiccup was right there beside her. But after the Flightmare’s last ‘visit’ and Uncle Finn's supposed freeze up. And after her mother…

     She shook her head, hoping the movement would set things clear in her head. She turned to see that the road had taken them close to the Hofferson’s neighborhood part of the village. “This is my stop, guys. I have to check on Lorna and Nana Gertrude.” She made her way to her house, trying very hard not to think of her past friendship anymore, or the reason over half the houses on that part of the village were empty and scorched without it having anything to do with dragons.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

20 Tvímánuður, Year 8 B.E. (Before Exile) - Isle of Berk, Barbaric Archipelago.

     “WHAT DAE YE MEAN HE WON’T BE GRANTED A FUNERAL BOAT?!!!!” Gertrude Hofferson’s wizened voice rumbled through her house’s walls, fighting for dominance with Hilda Hofferson’s inconsolable sobs. “He bled fer this tribe for o’er thirty years an’ they would deny ‘im the proper rites? A proper sendoff to Valhalla?!”

     Stoick's voice was firm, but carried a sense of regret for the woman that had been his wife’s second mother. “I'm sorry, Nana Gertrude, but multiple witnesses saw Finn freezing up while facin’ the Flightmare. Gothi and I tried tae appeal tae the rest o’ the Council, bringing up his heroic deeds… but it was for naught. They won't grant ‘im a hero’s farewell.” The sound of a chair hitting the floor was quickly followed by the steps of Hilda hurriedly walking up the stairs, making Astrid scramble behind a wall to keep herself out of sight while she eavesdropped. “Gertrude… you were like family tae Valka… if there is anything, anything at all that I cou-”

     “Mah sight might hae left me in mah auld age, lad, but Ah assure ye mah hearin’ haesnae,” the Hofferson's clanhead sneered, stabbing at the floor with her cane. “Ah can hear the pity in yer voice. Take it alang with yer empty apologies oot o’ mah house. Clan Hofferson needs nae pity, yers or anybody else's.”

Once the Chief had left and she believed herself alone, Gertrude let herself fall apart.

~~~

Astrid was balled up under her covers, crying her little blue eyes out and clutching Finn Hofferson's helmet like a piece of driftwood amidst a sea storm. Ciara had left a food tray for her at the foot of her door after trying to get her to talk and failing soundingly. That was over four hours ago. The food had long since gone cold.

It had been around a fortnight since the exchange between Stoick and Gertrude, and Astrid had never felt so alone before. Her Uncle Finn had been buried in the family cemetery a week ago, having been denied a hero’s sendoff. Her mom spent all of her time holed up in her room, coming out only to empty her chamber pot and find new full barrels of beer to replace the empty ones. The warm and nurturing woman who had been her mother was drowning herself in a sea of woe, and the castaway that came out of the wreckage was a complete stranger to her. 

Nana Gertrude was slaving off putting the clan back into shape, trying to bury her grief in a so unsubtle way that even Astrid herself could see it peak out whenever the almost blind woman let her guard down and a slight constellation of tears laid itself on her eyelashes. She had also been pushing Astrid forward even more since, after Finn's death, Hilda’s line was next in succession for clanhead of the Hoffersons. Meaning, Astrid.

The worst part, though, was the Looks.

Whenever a Hofferson would go into the market, the smithy or the Mead Hall, they were met with heavy Looks of disapproval. The scorn of the village to the clan that hosted a coward dressed up as a hero. Some  Looks were charged with pity that made her feel queasy and uncomfortable in her own skin. It made her want to scratch herself raw until she reached the bone and then the marrow. It was horrible.

She had seen Looks like those before buy she had never been in the receiving end, it was always-

*Knock*

The sound of a soft impact to her window called her attention. Grabbing her kid-size axe she crept slowly to open the window.

And she got a pebble to her eye for the inconvenience.

     “Wha-?! Who did it?!” She demanded of the night.

     “Shhh!” Was her answer. “Gertrude or Ciara will hear you!” The high-pitched nasal voice answered in the loudest whisper she had ever heard.

     She looked down to the ground to find Hiccup's frame, illuminated by the glimmer of a lone torch held in Gobber’s flesh hand. The blacksmith grinned and gave her a wink.

     “Hiccup?” She questioned. “What are you doing here? It's almost midnight?” She whispered back.

     “Come with us!” She whispered/shouted, vibrating under the firelight with barely contained excitement.

     “...now? As in right now?”

     “Yes!” He answered. “And bring Finn's helmet!”

     “WHAT?!” She asked befuddled, clutching said helmet to her chest protectively.

     “Shhhh!” He shushed, reminding Astrid of the need to whisper. “Just… trust me, okay?” He pleaded earnestly, his big and expressive green eyes reflected nothing but vulnerability. She looked down the window to her best friend, then to the helmet in her grasp. She took a deep breath and made up her mind.

~~~

     “Hiccup, I swear to Thor if this is something like the armored battleship you tried to build last month…”

     “How was I supposed to know it would sink?” He defended himself.

     Gobber answered for her. “T’was a ship. Covered in metal. O’ course it would sink, toothpick.” He swapped the torch deftly to his prosthetic hook to keep lighting the way and ruffled his apprentice’s auburn hair, eliciting a sincere laugh from the boy and exposing the toothgap left by the incisor tooth he had lost a week ago. Astrid hadn't noticed when it happened, she hadn't talked to him much in the last fortnight. Or to anyone else, for that matter. “Did ye nae even suspect it may fail?”

     Hiccup shoved his mit to the side playfully with a grunt of effort, still with a boyish smile on his face. “Of course I did, meathead! But I wasn’t sure-sure. Now I know it would sink if I did it again. It's not a failure, just… a temporary setback in an idea in need to tackle from another angle.” He defended himself.

     “Ah hope this ‘other angle’ o’ yers lands ye by the bay, we still have tae fish the blasted thing from oot o’ the bottom.”

     “Could someone please explain why we are sneaking off into the beach at this hour in the night?” She interrogated them with a scowl when she realized grass had given way to pebbles and sand, feeling a bit miffed at being left out of the conversation. 

     “We're almost there, lass. Just a wee bit more an’ ye’ll see, Ah promise.” Gobber placated her with a grin, adjusting the long burlap sack hanging from his shoulder.

     “It’s bad enough that you kidnapped me in the middle of the night, and now you won't even tell me wh-” The words caught at her throat as if the sight before had grabbed ahold of her neck, stealing her breath away.

It was a boat. A funeral boat.

It was small, barely bigger than a skiff, the sail was patched up all over the place with mismatched pieces of fabric. But it looked seaworthy, and it was decorated with carefully braided ribbons of white silk and the inside was covered with a bed of hay and coated with oil to make sure it caught on fire rapidly. A fake cough pulled her from her mind and she saw Gobber had replaced his hook with a special attachment that allowed to fix a modified bow to his stump. Next to the blacksmith, his apprentice was offering Astrid a tremulous smile and a bow along with arrows with a cloth drenched in oil tied behind the tip.

     “What? B-but the Chief said-”

     “Astrid,” Hiccup said with what he hoped was a sly smile that, unfortunately, made him seem like he was fighting with his life to keep his white underpants from becoming brown. “Since when do I listen to my dad?” His look then turned more serious and regretful. “I’m sorry that d-dad denied your uncle a funeral ship. T-that was w-wrong. And I thought that if I couldn’t get him to change his mind… o-or desecrate his g-grave… then at least I could give you this. To say goodbye properly.” He looked at her expectant and held out a bow and arrow for her to take.

She fully ignored the bow and threw her arms around Hiccup's neck, giving the best bear hug her tiny arms allowed her to give. Hiccup stiffened for a second before hugging back. Gobber grinned and had to bite his tongue not to chortle at the shade of red his apprentice's face had taken.

     “But where did you get the boat from?” 

     Hiccup shrugged apologetically and nodded towards Gobber. “Why, lass, whate’er dae ye mean? This boat was lost durin’ last raid.” He waggled his eyebrows rougishly. “Nobody will miss it.”

     Hiccup then extended the bow to her once more. “Now there's only one thing missing.” And he pointed to the horned helmet in Astrid's hands. 

That is where it downed on her. This was really it. This was goodbye forever, until she earned the right to step in Valhalla. Letting go of the helmet would be letting go of Uncle Finn…

Of the only father she had ever known.

     Noticing her inner dilemma, Gobber took to one knee in front of her. “Ah ken it hurts, lassie. Believe me, Ah’ve lost so many friends o’er the years, an' it ne’er gets any easier. But Ah dae ken this.” He lifted her downcast chin with his flesh hand. “Finn woudnae have wanted ye tae let yer memory o’ ‘im become an anchor tae drag ye down, but rather the oars tae push ye forward. And tae dae that… ye must let go.” The understanding and sincerity in his voice stung so bad it made Astrid want to either lash out or throw herself at him and cry.

     “B-but I don't wanna forget him. I don't wanna say goodbye, I-I’m not ready.” She whispered in a pained voice.

     “Life rarely is kind enough tae wait ‘till we're ready fer whate’er it may throw at us, an’ if ye wait ‘till ye feel ready ye’ll die waitin’. Letting go is nae the same as forgettin’. So long as ye live like he would’ve wanted ye tae live.”

     “...and how is that?”

     “Fearlessly, lass.”

The blacksmith’s words resounded in her brain. Fearlessly. She was scared of what life would look like without Uncle Finn. What she would do without him to guide her step… but she would not let that keep her from living on.

‘Hoffersons do not bend tae fear.’

With slow but purposeful steps she headed to the boat. She admired her reflection in the helmet’s cool surface and gave it a soft peck before placing it in the center of the haybed.

It was time to move on.

     “I'm ready.”

     “Dae ye ken the words, lassie?” Gobber asked. Astrid gave a single nod as her answer. “Beauty. Would ye like tae be the one tae say ‘em.” Once again Astrid nodded.

With everyone ready and in position, Gobber gently pushed the boat into the bay and on its way to the depths. Once it was in the water, Astrid recited the words given to the departed.

     “There do I see my father, my mother, and my brothers and my sisters. They bid me take my place among them in the Halls of Valhalla... where the brave shall live forever.”

     With the last words stated out loud she turned to Gobber for him to light up her arrow. Her flaming arrow struck true through the patchwork sail, one more arrow soon followed her, setting the haybed ablaze. One more arrow grazed the side of the ship briefly before falling into the ocean, fizzling out with an inaudible hiss.

Tomorrow, the Looks would still weigh down on her. Her mother’s self-abandonment would remain and Nana Gertrude’s apparent intent to work herself into a not so early grave and her heavy expectations on Astrid would not go away.

But for the first time since Finn Fearless Hofferson died, Astrid Ivorsdottir, heir to Clan Hofferson, didn't feel like Ragnarok would arrive tomorrow.

She would make it through. Somehow. Someday.

     “...Hiccup.”

     “Yes, Astrid?”

     “...thank you. I think I really needed this.”

     “How are you feeling?”

     “...lighter.” She held out a hand he quickly took. “Really, thank you. For being my friend.”

     “Always.”

They contemplated the burning boat fading into the starlit night, both committing themselves to words that spoke of a vow far too grand for their young selves.

Too bad that only a year later, this vow would be savagely torn apart by Astrid herself.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

Astrid opened the door to find Nana Gertrude in her rocking chair, bundled in thick blankets and staring emptily at the fire. Her formerly blonde hair had turned cotton white to match her milky eyes, now fully clouded with blindness. Her face was furrowed with the wrinkles and scars of a lifetime of battle and strife. Her hands betrayed her often and it had been five years since she couldn't wield even a kitchen knife without the tremors making it unsafe for everyone in the vicinity.

A few years ago, she had started to waste away, losing muscle and fat at worrying speed, and Gothi said all they could do was get her comfortable. She was younger than both Gothi and Mildew, and yet, the Hofferson clanheir was grimly sure that her grandmother would face the judgement of the Allfather earlier than either of them. The old woman seemed to hear her, because she turned her blank gaze to her granddaughter.

     “Well? Dinnae leave an auld crone in suspense. Tell Nana everything, what happened at the Thing? An’ what in Hel happened at the arena that's been havin,’ everyone babblin’ like they've lost their wits?”

And so, Astrid sat on a chair across the old woman and retold everything. Hiccup dropping his knife and helmer and working his sorcery on the Nightmare, followed quickly by the crowd turning against him, the slaughtering of the Nightmare, Stoick's disownment decree, and finally, everything regarding Hiccup's unorthodox means of transport and his final leave.

     “A Night Fury? Fer real?” Nana Gertrude asked lowly, almost growling.

     “Why would I lie over something like that? Ask literally anyone in the village. He stole the Nightmare from me, and for what?” Astrid snarled, wrath at Hiccup’s betrayal greater than ever. “He betrayed us, the village, his own father… for a dragon.”

Gertrude remained silent for a minute, before a coarse sound left her throat, like a bear’s roar. It was when Astrid saw the smile contorting Gertrude’s wrinkled face and the shine of tears in the corners of her eyes that she realized the old woman was laughing.

     “Har! A dragon rider! An’ ridin’ a Night Fury, nae less. Oh, Valka must be lookin’ down on ‘im an’ smilin’ ear tae ear.” She shook her head fondly. “Ye mad lass, o’ course yer bairn would be cut from the same cloth as ye.”

     Astrid looked at her grandmother in bafflement, wondering if age had finally taken its toll on the old woman’s sanity and Loki had laid claim to her mind. “Nana, what in Hel are you talking about? The Chief’s wife?” Her question seemed to make Gertrude snap out of her bout of merriment.

     “Ah, right, ye’d be too young tae remember, an' nowadays ‘tis nae spoken o' very often. Truth is, Valka was always an odd one, a bit of a hermit from the rest o' the village… Ah would ken, Ah raised ‘er.” She casually dropped. Astrid'd eyed widened at her grandmother’s casual admission.

     “Aye, as ye hear it. ‘er mother was mah best friend, we were like sisters -Eiðbróðir in every way that mattered, nae matter what the auld farts from the time may have said ‘bout us both bein’ women-, Zephyr was always there, lookin’ out fer me, and Ah did the same.” The light in her ice blue eyes, which seemed to be fanned further with every word she said, suddenly dimmed. “But nae matter how many battles ye fight with a sword in yer hand, as a woman, the birthbed is the most treacherous battlefield o' them all… an' t’was a battlefield Ah coudnae help ‘er in.” Stubborn tears kept trying to leak out of her eyelids, but Gertrude wiped them off with a shaky hand. “When she passed, Ah took Valka as mah own. Nursed ‘er off mah own bosom at the same time as yer- as Hilda.” Her tone curdled for a second at the mention of her wayward daughter.

     “So she was a Hofferson?” Astrid asked, feeling deeply hooked by Gertrude's story, and eager to see where it led.

     “Nae by name, Ah dinnae want tae step o’er Zephyr’d memory like that. She was Valka Zephyrsdottir tae all, an' Ah was only Auntie Gertie tae ‘er, but she carried the Hofferson spirit like none Ah’ve ever met before -except Finn, mayhaps-. Free, stubborn, brave, with a spine made o’ steel an’ uncaring o' what anyone might think o' ‘er. She did what she thought was right, no matter what, an' if Thor ‘imself were tae come down tae Midgard tae make ‘er move one fingerswidth, well, Ah ken who Ah would’ve betted on. Finn an’ Hilda loved ‘er as a little sister, almost broke Stoick's jaw when he came tae ask fer her hand.” She said with a laugh.

     “An' had that been the end o' it, she would've been regarded as one o’ the best Hooligans o’ ‘er generation… the problem was that ‘er stubbornness an’ will o’ iron always shouted the loudest in defending her stance on dragons. Let's just say, if she’d been there at the arena watchin’ Hiccup's performance, she would've cheered loud an' proud.”

     “She was a dragon sympathizer?” Astrid’s eyebrows rose further upwards at Gertrude's nod. “Why would Stoick the Vast, dragon killer extraordinaire, marry a dragon sympathizer.”

     Gertrude gave him an indulgent smile. “Why dae men dae crazy things whene’er even everyone else tells’em nae tae? He was in love. Mah Valka, before hardheaded or bold, she was kind. Unrelentlessly kind tae every creature under Sunna’s light. Dragons included.” Gertrude’s cheeks twisted in a way that denoted a clenched jaw underneath. “She believed that dragons were more than mere demons, that they were nae different from a bear or a wolf, and that there must be a reason for the raids other than them being purely evil. She even refused tae take part in dragon trainin’.” She seemed to choke up a little, and Astrid took her wizened hand in her with a reassuring squeeze. Gertrude gave her an almost toothless smile and a squeeze of her own in return.

“That opinion was nae more popular back then than it is nowadays, got ‘er into more than a few fights back in the day, she always came home bloodied an’ covered in scrapes an' bruises, but with her will intact. Oh, she did defend the village during raids, she just dinnae finish the beasts off. She would always seclude ‘erself for a day after the blood was shed. That's what Stoick loved o’ her: her strength and her kindness. They ne’er agreed about dragons, but they loved each other enough tae make it work ne’ertheless.”

     “When she died durin’ a raid, Ah blamed Stoick, an' he blamed me.” Regret bled into the old woman's voice. “Ah blamed ‘im fer nae getting there in time, fer failin’ her. An' he blamed me fer nae snuffin’ oot Valka’s love fer dragons as a child, said ‘er hesitation got ‘er killed… but we blamed ourselves first an' foremost. We blamed each other fer the same exact reasons the other told us. We were just voicing what the other thought o' themselves, but t’was easier tae hate each other than grieve with each other. We pushed each other away.” She swallowed with a dry throat. “By the time we managed tae put our grivances aside, wee Hiccup was a lad o' almost nine with nae memory o' the auld hag who in other life would've been ‘is grandmother -in spirit, if nae blood- an' Ah was too… coward tae approach him.”

     Astrid's head turned so fast her neck creaked. “Aye, lass. Ah was a coward. ‘is eyes may have Stoick’s color, but ‘is look was all Valka, an' Ah was too coward tae look into the eyes o’ the daughter Ah lost, so Ah pushed ‘im away.” She laughed sardonically. “ It's ironic, actually. We vikings boast o’ feelin’ nae fear, but the truth is we dae. We may call it ‘tradition’, ‘honor’, ‘pride’, or ‘rage’. But it's fear that leads our hands. It's easier. That way, nothin’ has tae change.”

     Astrid's face formed a frown her grandmother couldn't see, and felt offended in behalf of their tribe, of her clan. “Hoffersons do n-”

     “-dinnae yield tae fear, Ah ken. Who dae ye think came up with that tae begin with? An' yet, ‘ere we are: Ah pushed the lad away out of fear o' mah dead lass. Stoick pushed the lad away out o' fear o' failing tae the tribe. Hilda pushed us all away out of fear tae lose someone else-”

     “Do not speak of her to me-!”

     “An' ye.” Astrid was taken aback by the sudden accusation. Her milky gaze all but screamed ‘I don't need eyes to see through your yakshit.’ “Ye pushed away the best friend ye’ve ever had out o' fear o' bein’ as scorned as he was. Ye were afraid, admit it. Hoffersons dae nae bow tae fear, but we acknowledge it. We own it up, we dae nae shove it in the closet an' pray fer it to die out.” A weak and calloused hand cupped her cheek and dried tears the shieldmaided never even felt starting to fall. “The longer ye try tae keep it all bottled up, the worse it will be when it boils out.” 

     Astrid stood up so fast her chair crashed against the door. “I-I need to check on Brynhild.” She climbed the stairs two steps at a time, leaving her grandmother to her ghosts and regrets. 

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

26 Skerpla, Year 7 B.E. (Before Exile) - Isle of Berk, Barbaric Archipelago - Early Morning.

     “Are ye seriously sneakin’ oot like a thief in the night?” Asked Gertrude's voice, brimming with anger. Her grip tightened painfully around her cane. “Just like that, ye’d abandon our ancestral home fer seven generations? Yer clan?” Her voice softened just the slightest bit. “Yer daughter?”

     Hilda didn't look back from the doorstep of the house that saw her grow, tears running down her cheeks, her eyes filled with shame and guilt, and a burlap sack hanging heavy from her shoulder. “...I can't do it anymore, mama. It's been a year, an' I still feel their looks on the back o' my neck everytime I walk through the village! The sneers, the looks o’ pity or revulsion.” Her face tightened with fury. “An’ I hear the way they speak o' Finn. As if he hadn't bled in the field next tae ‘em and drank and laughed next tae ‘em in the Mead Hall. They spit in ‘is memory.” She turned back to look her mother in the eye, her look teary but firm. “Clan Hofferson has defended Berk since we claimed this rock as our home, but now Berk’s decided that three hundred years o' fightin' fer her don't matter! I can't keep fightin’ fer a village that treats us like útlagr. An' I'm not the only one, mama. Many others in the clan are loadin’ up their drakkars, we’re goin’south. Tae begin anew.”

     Gertrude looked at her daughter with an inscrutable expression. The tension in the air was thick enough to  choke on it. “An' yer bairn? Yer just gonna leave ‘er behind?! Are ye drunk again?!!”

     “No, mama. I've never been so sound o’ mind.” She replied with shame, knowing she had no defence against her accusations. It had taken her six months to get a grip of herself, but she knew Astrid would never forget the picture of her mother drowning herself in drinks. “I know my daughter, mama. She's like Finn, like ‘my Ivor…. She's a warrior. An' loyal tae Berk down tae ‘er marrow.” Hilda declared with a wry smile. “She’s a Hofferson. Even if I take ‘er with me, she’ll try tae find ‘er way back, an' keep fightin' an’ fightin' an’ fightin' ‘till she meets the same end as ‘er uncle an' ‘er father… don't ask me tae watch that. Don't ask me tae watch my daughter self-destruct in that way.”

     “An' when dae ye plan on tellin’ ‘er?”

     “...”

     “Ye werenae goin’ tae tell ‘er, ye’d let the lass wake up a mornin’ tae find ‘erself motherless.”

     “How am I supposed tae jus-”

     “Leave.”

A tiny almost whispered voice shattered the tension between them. They both turned to the foot of the stairs where little Astrid was staring at them, tears streamed down her cheeks, still filled with baby fat. Neither of them had noticed her going down the stairs. Her face, illuminated by the scant pale moonlight peaking through the open door, was contorted in a grimace of hurt and confusion and anger.

     Hilda felt the blood rush away from her face and a cold fist of ice grip her heart and pull it down to her stomach as she was faced with the very scenery she wished to avoid. “A-Astrid.” She whimpered. “I-I j-just wanted t-”

     “Leave.” The child repeated once more with a wobble in her voice. Hilda broke down and crossed the distance between them, engulfing her daughter in the last hug she would ever give her baby girl. Astrid started to trash and turn in her arms, trying to escape the grip of the mother who would abandon her before the end of the night. “NO! LET GO OF ME! LEAVE! I HATE YOU!!!” Her tiny arms punched her mother in the chest and face and the underside of her fingernails and her cuticles ended up caked in Hilda's blood from trying to claw her way out. “YOU'RE A COWARD! YOU'RE NOT MY MAMA AND I HATE YOU!!!”

Hilda did not relent her grip.

Gertrude did not step in. The shouting ended up rousing Ciara from her sleep. She was about to walk up to the pair of mother and daughter when Gertrude stopped her, holding out her cane in front of the alban woman. 

This kept going for almost half an hour until the fatigue and heartbreak finally took their toll on Astrid and she passed out in Hilda's arms.

When Astrid woke up, a quarter of the clan was gone. Nana Gertrude smelled of smoke and had soot in her hands. A quarter of the Hofferson houses had burned to the foundations.

And Hilda Hofferson was gone.

~~~

In the weeks following the parting of her mother, Astrid had retreated into herself, a shell of the normally happy and smiling girl she used to be. Her answers were short and curt and she rarely talked to anyone anymore. She just trained.

The weight of the Looks doubled on her. On her clan. The tribe believed them weak. Flimsy. Coward.

She was not a coward. She was not. She was not weak. Her clan was not weak. And she would show them all.

She would show Berk.

She would show the entire Archipelago.

She would make them respect the name Hofferson again. She would be the best shieldmaiden ever. The strongest. The boldest.

She would show her mother.

She didn't miss her.

She hated Hilda.

Hilda never loved her in the first place. Why didn't she love her? Was she a bad daughter? Was she not worth staying for.

…why did her chest hurt so bad when she thought of her.

So she trained. And trained and trained. Her hands had started to form callouses from wielding her axe, and a considerably deep furrow had been carved into the side of a tree near the edge of the forest. The most recent receptacle of her wrath exhibited many of the scars its brethren around it did, but his were the worst by far. And since at the moment most of the adults were off looking for the Nest once more, Astrid trained alone.

Astrid didn't know how long she had been going at it, nor did she care. She let herself get lost in the burning feeling of her arms and back getting strained and forced to their limits. Muscled being torn, knitted back and torn again and again. The pain was good, it was her friend. It meant she was getting stronger. That's all that mattered.

     “A-Astrid?”

Hiccup's tremulous and nasal voice surprised her, making her use more force than intended and her axe buried itself deep into the trunk. She hadn't heard him approach. She let her guard down, that could have been a dragon or an enemy. She must remain aware of her surroundings all the time.

     Astrid placed a foot on the trunk while pulling the axe free with a grunt. “Not now, Hiccup. I'm training.”

     “Oh, I-I know. I could hear it from the smithy.” He shuffled with his feet, looking to the ground. “I just thought that maybe you could-” she finally managed to free her axe, almost slicing Hiccup's nose clean off before she caught her footing. “-take a break?” Hiccup finally squeaked. “It's just… Phlema said she hasn’t seen you in the Mead Hall today, so you haven't eaten yet. Sooooo… I brought something to eat.” He pulled out a bag filled with apples and what looked like strips of dried meat. The sight made her salivate a little and her stomach groaned loudly, demanding nourishment. But that could wait. Now wasn't time for eating. It was training time.

     “I'll eat later,” she replied, resuming her hack-and-slash routine without looking away from the splintered tree.

     Hiccup blew a raspberry and walked up to Astrid, trying to find her gaze. “Look, Astrid. I get that the last few weeks have been… difficult.” She snorted at the word. “Y-yeah, I know. It's an understatement. I just want to help. I g-get it, alright? I know what it's like to not have a mom. M-my mom is gone too, a-and I miss her too. And it's fine to mis-” He never got to finish his sentence. He was pushed to the ground so harshly the air escaped from his lungs. The contents of the bag he carried rolled over the grass. One apple was unfortunate enough to land in the wake of Astrid's enraged gait, getting smashed without an afterthought.

     “You know what it's like?” Astrid asked, her face a rictus of fury and eyes alight with aggression, like twin cold blazes. She crouched down on Hiccup practically straddling him and held him by the neck of his tunic. If she had had more presence of mind, she might have regarded her actions and words more carefully. But she was too blinded by her grief, by her anger, to notice the terror marring her best friend’s face. “No. You know nothing. You don't even know what having a mother is like because yours was stupid enough to get herself killed by a damn dragon.”

    “M-my mom is n-not stupid!” He stammered. “A-and Finn a-also died f-fighting a d-d-ragon. A-and he’s not a-!”

For the second time in the day, Hiccup was interrupted, this time by a right hook that broke his nose. “Don’t speak of him!” She followed up with a  fist to his mouth that left her knuckles stinging.  “You don't know what it's like.” Punch. You can't know what it's like!” Punch. “You. Know. Nothing.” She lost the rhythm in her punches, and were now uncoordinated and violent hits, more passion than technique Finn would be disappointed, and she could feel him struggle sluggishly under her hold. “You can't help.” Punch. “I don't need your h-help.” Punch. “I don’t want your help!” Punch. “I d-don't need anyone’s help!” Punch. “A Hofferson d-doesn't need help!” She shouted, a primitive part of her mind hoped that if she shouted it loud enough, her voice could mutate the world into heeding her wishes. Her breath had started to come in gasps and her frame shook with a thousand emotions that even almost a decade later she could not name.

She woke up back to reality when she felt something clawing weakly at her shoulders.

     “A-Astrid… p-please…”

As reality hit her senses, she was finally aware of what she was doing. Of where her hands were. And what she had almost done.

     “H-Hiccup!” She rushed to her feet, letting go of her friend's neck who greedily filled his lungs with the forest air in big gasps. His face was covered in blooming bruises and blood ran from his mouth and nose, the latter of which was crooked to the left and swollen badly. His forest-green eyes were hidden behind a wall of tears and his mouth was in a rictus of terror. “I'm sorry! A-are you alright?! I'm so sorry! I didn’t mean to…”

Hiccup wasn't listening to Astrid. He wasn't listening to anything, the blood rushing through his ears was deafening. His heart beat as if trying to break out of his ribcage. The world didn't exist at the moment.

Only fear.

In that moment, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III knew only two things:

A)Astrid had hurt him.

B) Astrid could hurt him again.

     He crawled on his back away from Astrid with fright firmly settled behind the steering wheel guiding his steps. “D-don't t-toush me!” the words escaped his bruised lips with a lisp. He scampered to his feet and fled the scene to find refuge in the warmth of the smithy.

Astrid could only watch him flee absently. Her head felt as if studded with wool and her hands shook. She looked down at her hands. They felt like someone else's hands. She felt her whole skin itch. Her frame shook with a spine-deep shudder as the depth of her actions hit her like a charging Gronckle to the gut.

She had hurt Hiccup.

Her lifelong friend.

She got to her feet and fled to the village. 

She didn't run. She powerwalked. The itch in her skin louder than ever, and she only avoided scratching herself raw by gripoing her axe like her life depended on it. She could feel the Looks of the people again. They were watching her. It was too much. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe shecouldn’tbreathe shecouldn’tbreatheshecouldn’tbreatheshecouldn’tbreatheshecouldn’tbreatheshecouldn’tbreatheshecouldn’tbr-

She bumped into someone so hard they both tumbled on the cobbled path leading to the plaza, Astrid ended up covered in what seemed like beer, making her knuckles sting a little.

     “Wha-?! Oi, watch where you're goin’ Hofferson!” Came the bellow from Porksbreath Jorgenson, one of Snotlout’s distant cousins, eight years older than her, thrice as big, but not even  wiser than her and her cohorts. His cheeks were flushed and his words slurred. “Who do you think you're? You made me drop my beer!” He shouted, and shoved roughly the now empty mug to her chest. “Now go get me another!”

     “I-I’m-” She stammered.

     “Y-y-you.” He mimicked mockingly, Astrid could feel the Looks intensifying. “What, you gonna cry, brat? Wee Hofferson’s gonna cry?” He shoved her to her knees, making her shed a few tears. “An' now what? Want me to call your mommy to change your diapers?”

Her mommy.

Hilda.

Astrid saw red.

With a quick move, Astrid slammed the mug in her hands against Porksbreath’s groin, making him bend over in pain and leaving his head in position for Astrid to follow up slamming the mug against his temple.

The Hofferson clanheir sat on his chest and slammed the mug repeatedly time and time and time again until someone ripped her off the now wailing and sobbing Jorgenson.

She was shoved in her room by Ciara, who embraced her tenderly without making questions.

Astrid Hofferson shed the last tears she would shed for six and a half years.

It wasn't until she woke up that she realized the sting in her knuckles came from one of Hiccup's teeth, buried deep into her flesh.

~~~

That was the last day Hiccup looked her in the eye.

She was expecting to be dragged before the Chief as soon as the armada returned from another unsuccessful hunt for the Nest, but nothing happened. Apparently, Hiccup never told anyone about it. In the beginning, Astrid saw it as a sign that Hiccup didn't hate her, but whenever she tried to talk to him, he would always deflect and avoid the topic altogether with sarcastic jokes and witty comebacks, shielding himself with a crooked smile.

Just like he did with everyone else.

Like he didn't know her.

Like they weren’t lifelong friends.

Would you call a friend someone who beats you within an inch of your life?

Well, if he wanted to act like they never met in the first place, she would pay him with the same coin.

As soon as she drifted away from Hiccup, she noticed changes.

For starters, the Looks didn't look her way anymore. Or at least, not the same way they did before.

Apparently, reducing a lad eight years her senior to a blubbering mess when she was barely old enough to wear a kransen had garnered her a lot of respect from her elders. And since it was obvious Porksbreath started everything, she received no punishment.

     “Ha! Feisty lass, just like ‘er grandmother, Ah tell ye!” She overheard someone say. “Give ‘er a few years an' Ah see a worthy shieldmaiden joinin’ the skjoldmur!”

She felt something within her breast swell with pride.

A part of her always hoped Hiccup would quit his childish behaviour giving her the cold shoulder, stop avoiding her gaze whenever she went to the smithy to get her axe sharpened. That he would ask for her help whenever Snotlout or another of the bigger children would pick up on him.

But he never did.

He kept getting shoved in the mud.

And he kept getting up.

Well, she had no time to wait for him to come to his senses. She had other things to do, her clan’s honor to restore and a tribe to defend.

And she would never approach him first because she was a filthy coward. 

And she got one more responsibility one day of Heyannir almost two years ago, when her mother's last gift to her reached berkian shores, along with woeful news.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

Astrid opened Brynhild’s door as quietly as possible, pushing it upwards a little to keep it from creaking too much.

     “Brynhild?” She greeted. “Little Valkyrie? Are you still up?”

     “Shhhh.” Came a whisper came from the corner of the room. “Ah just got ‘er tae fall asleep.” Astrid peeked into the room to find a little colorful army of toy vikings and dragons of every kind scattered across the floor being put away by Ciara, lit only by the flame of a sole candle. The woman, nearing the end of her forties, had a short mane -she had been allowed to grow it out for twenty years, but she found keeping it short more practical- of red hair peppered by gray hairs here and there. There were some wrinkles in the corner of her eye, and the callouses formed around her neck by the iron collar she used to have to wear whenever she left the house did nothing to detract from her beauty. Her gentle eyes were the same shade of robin egg blue as her brother’s. “What are ye doin’ ‘ere so early? Ah thought the Thing would drag lang into the night.”

     Astrid sighed. “Not tonight. There was only one topic to discuss and it was dealt with quickly,” she whispered before sitting on the furs of the bed next to her half-sister’s sleeping frame and playing with her Hofferson-golden locks. Her chubby cheeks were adorable and she had the slightest dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose.

     “Aye, Ah heard ‘bout that…” Ciara bit her lip and looked at her shoes before emboldening herself to ask something. “Miss Astrid, if Ah may ask-”

     “You know you don't need to ask for permission to do anything, right? Not inside these walls, at least. You're family.” Astrid says kindly. And she meant it. Ciara had been a part of her life since she could remember, and after Hilda left and Gertrude buried herself in clan work, Ciara was the only motherly presence in her life. What scarce traces of gentleness she had in herself she had learnt them from Ciara, although she tended to save them for the little girl sleeping next to her.

     Ciara’s smile was full of gratitude and resignation, as if she knew in her heart the words were true but she could not afford herself to fully believe them. “Ah ken, lassie. ‘Tis just… did ye see mah brother tonight? Ah worry fer ‘im, Hiccup was like a son tae ‘im.”

     The shieldmaiden sighed, letting go of her sister’s silky hairstrands. “Sorry, Ciara, I didn't see him, he didn't even attend to the Thing.”

     Ciara dropped her head and released a tired sigh of her own. “Aye, Ah dinnae expect ‘em tae. He’s ne’er liked tae let anyone see ‘im when he’s upset, he’s always holed up in that smitty o' ‘is.” She shook her head and placed her hands on her hips. “Wee siblings, Ah tell ye.” She raised a dark brow and pointed from Brynhild to her and back. “Ye just wait 'till she goes from bein' cute tae bein’ cute an’ a wee terror. If she's anything like ye were, ye’ll have yer hands full.”

     Astrid laughed quietly, trying not to wake her sister up. “Something to look forward to, I guess.”

     “Ye won’t have tae wait too lang, t’was an uphill battle tae get ‘er tae sleep tonight, she wanted tae stay up waitin’ fer ye. Had tae play with ‘er fer hours ‘till she dropped. Ye Hoffersons are a stubborn lot.” Astrid's heart melted a little whenever she thought of how much her sister looked up to her. She saw it in her big blue eyes whenever she told her of her nights with the fire brigade or her days of dragon training. “Good thing she has you to be the kind but stern figure in her life, and me to be the cool role model.” She pronounced in jest.

     Ciara crossed her arms and raised both eyebrows. “Ye mean ‘the meanie who always says nae’ an' ‘the weak-willed one who is absolute putty in her hands’.”

     Astrid's cheeks and the tips of her ears flushed crimson. “I-I’m not putty in her hands.”

     “If ye say so.” Ciara said, unimpressedly. “Good thing she has so many toys tae choose from, where she gets so many ideas fer games, Ah’ll never ken.” She said as she put the last of them away inside her toy trunk. “But where did Ah put-” she looked around for something before her eyes stopped next to the foot of the bed. “Lass, Ah think the last o’ ‘em is under the bed. Would ye mind tae pass it tae me? Mah back is nae what it was an' this cold doesnae help.”

     Astrid acquiesced and bent next to the wooden bedframe and reached until she felt something small and smooth made of wood. When she pulled out from under the bed, she was greeted by a toy-sized effigy of the demon from that very same day at the arena.

Her blood froze.

     “...Ciara?”

     “Aye, Miss Astrid?”

     “Why does my little sister have a toy Night Fury?”

     Ciara's eyes flew wide open. “Ah dinnae ken it was a Night Fury.” She replied easily, softly taking it from her hands and examining it with new eyes. “He would make ‘em whene’er he had free time. Nae just fer her, fer some o’ the other bairns too, but this model was new. ‘Tis ‘er newest favorite.” She smiled softly.

     “...Hiccup made it, didn't he?”

     “He made all o’ ‘er toys. Why dae ye think they're so detailed?”

     “Why wasn't I made aware of this?” Astrid demanded.

     “...He was afraid.” Came her reply, soft and pensive. “At the beginnin’ some o' the parents would burn the toys when they came from ‘im, so he started droppin’ ‘em off anonymously after that. The bairns love ‘em.” She contemplated the toy sadly and clutched it to her chest. “Ah guess Gobber won't be the only one tae miss ‘im.” She put the last toy in the trunk and walked to the door of the room, but not before placing a soft kiss on Brynhild's forehead and one more on Astrid's.

Astrid stayed there, contemplating her sister's sleeping face, colored golden under the gentle candlelight, trying to make sense of how, apparently, her sister's favorite toys came from someone she had threatened with an axe not even a month ago.

“Our parents' war is about to become ours!” She had proclaimed boldly that day on the arena. “Figure out which side you're on.”

If this was how he treated the tribe, comparing it with how the tribe -herself included- treated him… was it really any wonder, in hindsight, what side he had chosen?

“Hiccup, you might be a traitor,” she thought, “but I really hope you don't die out there.”

With that final thought, she kissed her sister's forehead and blew off the candle.

~~~A.H T.O.~~~

9 Ylir, Year 0 A.E. - Somewhere in the Norwegian Sea - Morning.

It had festered.

Of course the wound had festered, why did he think he was allowed the small mercies of life? He could feel the wound on his face suppurate and ooze with a foul-smelling fluid. He could feel his forehead start to sweat and his teeth chitter in a way that had nothing to do with the aproaching winter.

He could die.

And if he died, Toothless would follow him not long after.

     “Toothless!” He called. “W-we g-gotta fly! Now!”

     The Night Fury snorted. [You are in no shape to fly. You're sick, you need to rest.] He declared.

     “B-bud, if I rest n-now, I might not l-last the week.” He hurriedly shoved his scant belongings in the saddlebags attached to Toothless’ saddle. “I n-need help!”

     Toothless’s hackles raised and he snarled. [The whole point of running away was to avoid other soft-skin nests!] The Night Fury protested, but still crouched so Hiccup could mount easier.

     “I know! But this isn’t something I can just sleep out!” He babbled as he fumbled with the straps of his harness. “L-look, I know I guy who lives in an island south of here. H-e can help.”

     [And what makes you think he won't just hand us over to the leader of his nest?] Toothless' eyes narrowed.

     “He is the leader lf his nest.”

     [...You would trust him that much?]

     “With my life.” Hiccup said with certainty.

     [But would you trust him with mine?]

     “Look, he's not your t-tipical viking. We have t-two possible outcomes: 1) He tries to kill you, or 2) He pesters me into oblivion t-to go in the m-most reckless, n-neckb-breaking, risky and d-deranged flight you're ever b-been at.”

     [...]

     “...”

     [Well, at least it's better than the rest of the nests. With this friend of yours we at least have a chance.] Toothless tone took a more patient cadence. [He likes you that much?]

     “...Like brothers.”

And so, the pair took off, about to face one more face of Hiccup's past.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

You had every chance to make amends,

You got drunk on bitterness,

And you still claim that you're innocent, it′s sad.

So sad.

“Burning Down” by Alex Warren.

Chapter Text

“Do you remember, Óðinn,” said Loki, 

“that we two, in the beginning of time

blended our blood together?

Never should you drink ale,

unless we were both invited.”

-Lokasenna, Edda poem.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

9 Ýlir, Year 0 A.E. - Berserker Island, Barbaric Archipelago - Early Night.

Dagur Oswaldson clan Einsindri, “the Deranged”, High Chief of the Berserker Tribe, was having a pretty damn good night. The heavy rain that left him soaking wet notwithstanding.

He had held court and dealt with a few mind-numbing disputes over stolen cattle between neighbours, performed an inspection of his armada -everything was top notch, of course, it was Dagur's armada-, sparred with his men in some pretty intense bouts that had left him warmed up and ready for the surprise cherry on top of a great day: He got to test his newly Dagur-approved armada on some foolish thrall sellers who thought it was a good idea to sail on waters belonging to a tribe founded by ex-thralls that had revolted against their masters.

Sure, that had been over three hundred years ago, but it was the principle of the matter. No slaver sails Berserker waters without paying their pound of flesh.

The battle had been short and the executions swift. The kasterarms* he had gotten from Hiccup’s designs had quite literally ripped the masts clean off the decks of the slavers' ships, punched holes through decks and hulls and snapped a good number of their oars in half, after that it was like fishing in a barrel. Now, he had forty new tribesmen and women among those who chose to stay, six new ships to repair and add to his fleet and the coin and cargo the ships carried to add to the tribe’s treasure. The whole business had left his blood singing and had allowed him to let loose some steam… he had to make sure to order someone to cut the corpses loose from the tree they hanged on and get rid of them before they stunk up the sacred grove… actually, one of the farmers had been complaining about lacking feed for her pigs. 

Boom! Talk about killing two birds with one stone!

     He ran a calloused hand through the choppy and untamed mohawk that was his dark red hair. ‘I really am the gift that keeps on giving,’ Dagur cheered to himself in his mind, feeling giddy and unconsciously letting out a giggle that would set people's hair on end.

Now, all he needed was a tankard of beer and a scalding hot bath to have the perfect end to a perfect night.

His feet led him all the way to his house and, as his hand reached the Skrill-shaped doorknob of his door, he realized the door was left ajar, and there was a trail of water and mud that went past the door…

He was sure he had locked before leaving, and only two people in the entire Archipelago, himself included, had a key to it… meaning someone had broken into his house… and probably they were still inside.

There was smoke coming out of his chimney.

     Dagur rolled his eyes with a smile. “Well,” he said to himself. “A light workout before goin' to sleep has never killed anyone. Yet” He started to warm up by stretching his arms and pulled out a dagger from his belt with a flourish. “Either some kid got dared into doing this, or this is the sloppiest assassination attempt this year.” He rolled his shoulders and he cracked his neck with a satisfying pop. “Whoo!” He exclaimed, feeling the tingling of his cracking bones. “Either way, ready or not, here I come!~” He taunted in a singsong, descending into a maniatical cackle as he crossed his doorway.

     He took an oil lamp he always kept at hand next to the door and lit it up, casting a ghostly halo around him and using it to follow the muddy trail left by the intruder, leading to the hearth. “Come out, come out, Mr. Intruder~. Come to daddy Dagur~,” he taunted with an uncanny giggle. “We can do this the easy way, or the fun way. Please, make my day.” The crazed smile abandoned his face, replaced by an intrigued frown as the wide and amorphous trail gave way to something unusual.

Footprints. And quite obviously not of the human variety. They were wide and round, with four indentations on the wooden floor on the front face that denoted the presence of claws crowning its digits.

They were dragon footprints.

Weird, because dragons on Berserker Island were scarce, actually they seemed to actively avoid the place, with exception of the occasional Skrill coming to occupy the island’s highest peaks during the winter months, but even they seemed to prefer to mind their own business.

Double weird because dragons don't pick locks.

     ‘Curioser and curioser,’ Dagur thought. He followed the trail of muddy footprints that seemingly followed up one of the walls, and lifted the lamp even higher to get a better sight of the upper beams.

     “H-hi, Dagur.”

Dagur’s blade was pointing at the stranger’s throat before he even registered. When his brain caught up to his body, the owner of the nasal voice and the face before him finally garnered a name.

     “...Hiccup?” Dagur was officially very confused now.

     “I used m-my own k-key.” He stuttered, holding up the iron key Dagur himself had gifted him a few years ago, in case he ever visited the island. The eye of the Skrill engraved onto the metal seemed to glint mockingly in the hearth’s light “I h-h-hope you d-don't mind “

And yes, it was none other than Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Heir to the Chiefdom of Berk, his friend, his brother. The only person who didn't fear him.

And he was sickly pale, shaking violently, soaked to the bones and with a giant ass festered wound on his face.

Before he could say anything else, a warm and humid -and fish smelling, too- air current hit the crown of his head, followed by a guttural growl.

     “...Hiccup?”

     “Y-yeah?”

     “You’re really here?”

     “Y-yeah.”

     “... And there’s a dragon right above me?”

     “...W-would you b-believe me if I said it's just a v-very big cat?” He said with a painfully awkward smile that faded two seconds later when a tinge of green tinted Hiccup's face. He collapsed to the floor on his hands and emptied the contents of his stomach onto Dagur’s bearfur rug.

     “Hiccup!”

He hurried to lift his friend up when a black shadow jumped from the beams and intercepted him, pinning him to the ground and knocking the dagger out of his hand. It was black like a starless night and had poisonous-green slitted eyes. He tried to reach the blade, but the beast was too heavy. A blueish-purple glow lit up the back of the beast's throat, of which he had a clear view.

     “T-Toothless, no!” Hiccup reprimanded from his place in the ground. “He's Dagur, I t-t-told you about him.”

The dragon’s -which was apparently called Toothless, what the fuck, Hiccup?- eyes went from thin slits to wide round discs framed by a ring of green at Hiccup's voice. The dragon’s earfins flopped down like a scolded dog and he crooned back to Hiccup, what the absolute fuck, Hiccup?!

     “Hiccup, would you mind telling me WHAT IN THE NAME OF YMIR’S FROZEN BALLSACK IS GOING ON?!!!!” Dagur demanded, flabbergasted like never before. “The dragon. You. Here. Your fac-YOUR FACE!!! What happened to you?” Bewilderment was mercilessly pushed aside by concern and fear.

     “Healer,” Hiccup begged. “N-need. H-h-healer.” Was all he got to say before he fell to a feverish sleep.

     “Hiccup!” Dagur shouted with worry at the same time the dragon crooned in worry. Both hurried to Hiccup's side, their previous scrape forgotten. The dragon nudged Hiccup with its snout with a pitiful whine, and Dagur touched Hiccup's forehead. He was shivering and soaked, his lips had a tint of blue and his skin was deadly cold. The wound on his face spread from his forehead to his jaw, it was an angry red color and a foul-smelling yellow-green fluid trickled out of the eye every time the wound pulsated.

He turned to the dragon.

     “If I leave him with you for two minutes, you promise not to eat him?” The dragon snarled and snorted at him, but curled protectively around Hiccup nonetheless, who even being unconscious, nuzzled onto the dragon’s warm scales. Dagur arched an eyebrow. “Uhh… good boy?” The dragon roared at him exasperatedly, as if to say ‘hurry up, you nimwit!’ “Yes, yes, I know, I'm going!” He left the house and raced to the healers hut. “He better be in one piece when I come back or I'm making myself a brand new dragon rug out of you!” He shouted over his shoulder.

     ‘Somewhere in the Nine Realms, Loki must be laughing his ass off.’ Dagur thought.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

     “Hmmmm.” The healer, an old man called Håkan who had served as Berserker Island's main healer since the times of Dagur’s grandfather, hummed as his green eyes trailed across Hiccup's mangled face. “The length o' the wound seems tae be healin’ quite nicely. A tad swollen an’ the stitches are amateurish at best, but were made by a steady hand. That's good.” He then prodded Hiccup's sides carefully with calloused fingers. “He has a couple o’ ribs bruised, but it should heal on its own so long as he stays still for a couple weeks and he doesn’t lift ‘is boney arse off the bed.” 

     His brow furrowed and he caressed his braided salt-and-pepper beard. “The main issues right now are the cold an' that eye.” He turned to Dagur and started throwing orders, uncaring their receptacle was his Chief. “Help me get ‘im out of those soaked clothes an’ get ‘im under the furs next tae the fire, then fill a basin with hot water and bring clean towels, we need tae warm ‘im up gradually, less he goes into shock.” Without looking up from his new patient, he started pulling out a myriad of flasks and jars from the leather sack he had barely managed to snatch from his hut before being dragged by the scruff of his tunic to Dagur’s private residence. Thank Thor that the tunic he slept on reached his knees.

     “...What about the eye?” Dagur asked, observing the healer’s every move critically, a hand on the pommer of the dagger in his belt, ready to throw it at any sign of treachery or foul play from the old man. And if he failed the shot, the Night Fury hiding in the cellar would finish the job for him.

   The healer sighed and shook his head. “The wound was too deep, an’ the infection has rooted deep into it. If we don't keep it from spreadin’ now, yer friend won't make it past the week.” He took a breath before releasing the words Dagur knew were coming but dreaded them all the same. He pulled out a

     “The eye has tae go.”

And once again, Dagur had failed someone he called family.

~~~A.H.T.O~~~

1 Mörsugur, Year 4 B.E. (Before Exile), Isle of Berk, Barbaric Archipelago.

Berk sucked.

Why had the old man thought it a good idea to make an alliance with the dullest tribe in the Archipelago? Dagur had no idea, but he would make it work. He had to, if only to honor his memory since this alliance was his last big achievement before dropping off the edge of Midgard. He could do that, make peace instead of just breaking things like he broke his family in pieces. It's his fault they're gone, he chased them away. 

Besides, it was his first big accomplishment as High Chief of the Berserkers, he would not fuck this up…

But it was just. So. Lame.

Stoick had barred the Berk Guard from sparring with him because, apparently, maiming the locals was bad for diplomatic relationships, and his own men feared him too much to spar with him. Bunch of crybabies. You crack one guy’s skull open and they never let you live it down. Who gets those guys? He cracks some skulls open and suddenly he's too berserker for half the tribe, and if he goes to make peace with other tribes suddenly he’s too soft-hearted for the other half of the tribe. Make up your goddamn mind already!

At least that served to keep the tribesmen that wanted to go back to the old ways at bay. For now. They were planning on getting rid of him, Dagur was sure, some of them weren't even trying to be subtle. He just had to keep his cards close to his chest and with some luck, he would get enough evidence to toss them on the next ship to Outcast Island in a couple years without causing the rest of the tribe to revolt.

Still, the negotiations were due to start the next day and there was nothing to do here! Half the place was trashed from the last dragon raid, and the isle was pebble-sized, like, a quarter of Berserker Island’s size. He had passed the same pile of sheepdung three times already.

The only mildly entertaining thing as of yet had been the pitiful parody of a puddle this people called a boarpit, and the pair of blonde twins competing with each other to catch and submit the boar. It had been amusing, for about fifteen minutes. The twins had bumped into each other, forgetting about the boar and turning into a slugfest. Past the fifteen minute mark, it had become dull and repetitive, and they were so similar and covered in mud that you didn't even know who to root for.

At that moment, Dagur had managed to shake off his bodyguards and was roaming through the woods in search of anything that could make the evening more bearable. Huh, bear… were there bears in Berk? Thor, please let it be so, at least a bear attack was bound to kill the boredom.

A moment later, a familiar cadence of dry thuds and pained groans greeted Dagur's ears like an old friend.

It was the sound of a good walloping.

     Dagur's lips curled up into a wolflike smile. “Ohhhh, this oughta be good.” 

He walked deeper into the forest following the sounds of fist hitting flesh to find a young but stout Hooligan messing up a much scrawnier and shorter second one who was holding something close to his chest, who he had cornered against a boulder. Dagur himself was far from the beefiest viking, having a leaner and more agile build. If your typical viking was built like a bear, Dagur was built more like a wolf. But Odin above, the guy was a fishbone. The kid had a black eye and there was blood running down his nose.

     “Ugh, what a letdown,” Dagur thought to himself. What was the point in beating the everliving yakshit out of someone if that someone was so much weaker than yourself? Where’s the challenge? The glory?

So, before deciding if it was worth to meddle, he observed from his hideout behind a tree as the apparent leader of the Hooligan gang, a stout young lad of wide shoulders and short locks of black  hair covered partially by a horned helmet a little too big for his head, grabbed Twig-boy by the vest and slammed him on the boulder -making Dagur hiss sympathetically, he didn't need to be a völva to foresee the full-back bruise in the scrawny guy’s close future- before letting him fall to the ground with a rustle of fallen leaves and pine nettles.

     “Now, let’s review this one last time, alright cuz?” The snotty guy said. “Did you, or did you not snitch to Stoick that I stole Sven’s sheep?”

     The poor kid struggled to his feet. “For the third time, Snotlout. Yes, it was me. You were ther-” he was interrupted when the now named Snotlout put a sausage-like finger on his lips.

     “Hupupup,” Snotlout shushed. “I'm the one talking, alright, Hiccup?” His fake smile was replaced by an angry frown. “And now, because you went and flapped your gums to daddy, my dad has to pay Sven a geld* because the fucking animal’s already butchered!” He shook the boy violently before tossing him to the ground, forcing him to let go of whatever he held in his hands, which turned out to be some sort of book  “Which means I am gonna have to pay a geld cause dad's gonna make me work my ass off like a packmule to pay for it!”

Hiccup.

Of course, Stoick's boy. He had almost forgotten about him, since his father’s girth almost literally eclipsed him wholly during the formal greetings and he had fled the place as soon as it was over. Dagur didn't get it, all he had done was give him a perfectly friendly smile!

Did he have something in his teeth?

     “Y-yeah?” Hiccup stuttered, wiping off some spit from the corner of his mouth and getting back on his feet once more. “Well, maybe you should have thought about it before stealing from someone who lives three houses away from you.” He went on, shaking the dirt and dry leaves from his clothes. “All you had to do was not steal from your neighbor. Even I could do it,” Hiccup snarked. “Or not do it. Whatever.”

Dagur had to give it to the little dude, he kept getting up. He could respect that.

     Snotlout looked at him halfway between confused and repulsed. “What kind of viking are you? You don't wanna steal, you can’t fight… Thor, you won't hit back even when you're getting pummeled.”

     “Gee, I would, but I just washed my hands,” Hiccup clicked his tongue and gestured to his dirt-stained hands. “So I'm not really eager to get them anywhere near to… that.” He delivered, pointing Snotlout head to toe and making Dagur laugh. The kid had a sharp tongue.

     Snotlout went red to the tip of his ears and once again grabbed the smaller Hooligan by the robes, lifting him up a couple inches in the air with one hand while the other one clenched into a fist and pulled back. “You fucking shitstain son of a-!”

     “Whoa! You kiss your dad's butt with that mouth?” Hiccup snarked once again, but braced himself for the impact… the impact never came. He opened an eye, curious of what could be keeping Snotlout from delivering retribution.

Well, talk about jumping from the frying pan and down the gullet of a fucking dragon. Snotlout’s meaty fist was held back by none other than Dagur the Deranged.

     The Berserker Chief gave the two Hooligans a manic smile. “Hi there! What are you playing, guys?” He asked with a giddy voice as he pushed Snotlout back and slowly shielded Hiccup with his own body. Snotlout had let Hiccup fall to the ground. “It looks fun! A tad on the rough end, though.” He said, and tightened his grip on the boy’s fist. “Can I play too?”

     Snotlout, seemingly smart enough to recognize the bigger predator in front of him, but not enough to keep his pride in check, stammered a response as he freed his fist from the Berserker’s grasp. “W-what’s it to you?” He challenged, puffing out his chest in an attempt to make himself look more intimidating. Would have been much more effective if the Jorgenson clanheir hadn't been four years younger and over a head shorter than Dagur, who gave him an unimpressed stare and shrugged. 

     “Nothing, actually.” His response earned wide eyes from both of the cousins, both balking for different reasons. “I’ve got nothing against a good ol’ beatdown, it’s kinda part of my culture, actually.” He said offhandedly. “But that back there just looked just so… boring. I mean, the guy’s runnin’ on the fumes -no offense, lil’ Haddock,-” he added, to which Hiccup could only shrug, it's not like Dagur was lying. “Whereas I?” Dagur giggled in a way that would turn ale to vinegar, sending chills down Snotlout's spine. “I’m fresh like a cod. So, what dayya say, big guy?” He put his face a finger's width away from Snotlout’s. “Wanna try your luck?” His voice halfway between a purr and a growl.

The Berserker and the Jorgenson held each other’s gazes for a tense minute. Snotlout refused to back down on pure principle, but for the first time in his life, he felt what it's like to be the one looked down on. 

     Trying to save face, the moody Hooligan huffed a low “whatever” and fled the woods. “I'm not done with you, Useless!” He yelled before disappearing from view.

     Dagur snorted. “They never learn,” he said, mostly to himself. “There’s always a bigger fish.” He gave a step and his foot touched something flat. He looked down and found the sketchbook Hiccup had been trying to keep away from Snotlout, now open in a page that showed a sketch of something similar to a catapult, but the design was… off. There was no force rope or torsion bundle and… were those counterweights? They were huge! He dusted off some of the mud and dirt off the page and passed it to Hiccup, who had, once again, risen up. “You ok, lil’ dude? Looked like you bit more than you can chew.” He asked Hiccup.

Hiccup looked at him tensely as he struggled to his feet, leaning against the boulder he had been cornered against and appraising Dagur once again. He was four years Hiccup’s senior, taller by a head and fit like a chase predator with a fresh-looking tattoo of three blue claw-like marks across his left eye. He had seemed scary beyond all reason at the docks with his swift and unpredictable mood swings and the creepy giggles that made him grit his teeth. Hiccup's initial reaction had been to place Dagur the Deranged on top of his ‘avoid at all costs’ list, above Snotlout but just below Mildew and make himself scarce during the visit, at which he had clearly failed. He was both bigger than him and politically more powerful than him, so he decided to tread carefully but trying not to alienate a tribal ally.

     “W-what? That?” Hiccup asked, pointing vaguely at Snotlout's chosen escape route. “Nah,” he sniffed, wiping off the blood from his nose. “I had him on the ropes.” He said with false bravado, accepting the sketchbook from Dagur.

     Dagur raised an eyebrow and gave a half-smile. “On the ropes, huh? Trying to… what? Break his knuckles with your face?”

     “You think I couldn’t?” Hiccup challenged in jest. “Am I not a paragon of raw vikingness incarnated? Full of strength and valor?” He puffed out his chest and stood on his tiptoes, mimicking Snotlout's typically vikinger-than-thou behaviour. Dagur must have caught on to the object of his parody because he barked a laugh and shook his head.

     “Ha! You are full of something alright.” He tilted his head sideways like an overgrown curious pup. “What’s with the book, by the way?” He stretched a hand forward. Hiccup clutched the sketchbook tightly to his chest, trying to hide it from sight. Dagur seemed slightly taken aback by the defensiveness, and raised his hands in surrender. “Take it easy, man. You don't have to show me if you don't want to, I respect privacy.” Noticing Hiccup’s tension and trying to get the kid to relax, he adopted a wolfy grin and elbowed the Hooligan in the ribs. “It's one of those spicy ones from Miklagarðr*?” He asked with a giggle and wiggling his eyebrows. “You dog.”

     “...W-what?” Hiccup blushed up a storm.

     Dagur clasped a hand to Hiccup's scrawny shoulder. “I mean, you're kinda young for that kind of stuff, but who am I to judge? Don't worry, kid, on Berserker Island we have a saying: ‘Snitches get thrown into ditches.’”

     “Wha-? I-It's not- I'm n-not- I wasn’t-” Hiccup took a deep breath and clutched the book even tighter, but stopped trying to hide it. “They're my designs.” He sighed. “I work at the smithy with Gobber, so he lets me take some of the scrap material for my projects.”

     Dagur's eyes shone with enthusiasm and something else… something dangerous. “Ohhh. What do you design? Weapons? Do they maim? Do they explode? Can I see them?” He held out his hands, making grabby motions.

Hiccup glanced at Dagur, then at his sketchbook, and back at Dagur again. He wasn't sure it was a good idea, and he had firsthandedly seen how fast an open hand could turn into fists… But it's been so long since someone other than Gobber showed true interest in his designs. He thought back to a couple years ago when Astrid would sneak into the smithy and throw in her own improbable ideas of weapons, and impossible and inefficient as they might have been… he missed that.

Hesitantly, he extended an arm offering Dagur the worn leather-bound tome, who snatched it like a kid opening his gifts in Snoggletog morning. He watched as Dagur passed the pages frantically with the manic grin splitting his face widening the further he read.

     “S-so… what d-do you think?” Hiccup asked nervously, bracing himself for the inevitable sting of rejection. 

     Dagur took a deep breath and cleared his throat, schooling his face and facing the Haddock clanheir. “This here?” he gestured at the sketchbook in his hand. “Half the stuff here could wreck a village in minutes.”

     “...O-oh.” And there it was.

     As suddenly as it came, Dagur’s seriousness was assassinated by the most sincere smile Hiccup had seen in the foreign chieftain’s face. “You taking commissions, shortstack?”

A bright joyful grin made its way into Hiccup’s face.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

And so, the two became fast friends, talking for hours well into the night. It was nice for Hiccup to talk with someone who took him seriously other than Gobber, and who saw him for who he was instead of who they thought he should be or who he wasn’t. And it was refreshing for Dagur to have a decent back-and-forth with someone who didn’t shrink every time he raised his voice or when he got carried away when something picked his interest, Hiccup welcomed his eccentricities with open arms. And sooner rather than later, the boys found something in each other’s eyes that they often found in the mirror.

Loneliness.

At that moment, it dawned on Hiccup that Dagur was too young to be a chief. Intellectually, he knew young chiefs were not unheard of on the Archipelago, with many of them falling in battle against dragons or enemy raids and leaving young heirs behind, but it was the first time he saw it in real life. Furthermore, most of Dagur’s retinue was composed by Berserker veterans who were his seniors by at least a decade, and he had never seen him cross more than a few sentences with them, and they always treated him not with the respect a chieftain was due, but as if we would spontaneously combust.

Dagur was too berserker for half of the Berserker Tribe, and Hiccup was not hooligan enough for the Hooligans of Berk. They exchanged anecdotes of their -mostly unintendedly- destructive exploits and laughed over their missteps. And when the time came for Dagur to depart he made Hiccup promise to write every now and then, and to tell him if someone gave him grief again.

Hiccup only followed through with one half of the promise.

They exchanged letters as frequently as the distance between their islands allowed it, and with Cami and Thugg’s letters starting to dwindle in numbers as they took on more and more responsibilities on their tribes -Thug’s last letter dated from last winter- Dagur’s letters and bi-anual visits had become the highlights of his year -along with the occasional playful kidnapping attempt, to which his own resistance was token at most-. After a few years, Dagur started to refer to him as his little brother, and from the get-go something told Hiccup that it was no hyperbole. And Hiccup had latched to Dagur like a barnacle to the belly of a drakkar.

Dagur's most recent visit had included a bloody gash on their right hands and oath of brotherhood under a jarðarmen* witnessed only by the gods and Gobber.

And for that very reason, Hiccup could never be fully honest with Dagur, for the Berserker was loyal to the bone, and the young Haddock knew what would happen to Berk if Dagur found out just how bad things had gotten.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

14 Ýlir, Year 0 A.E. - Berserker Island, Barbaric Archipelago - Early morning. 

The worst part of the procedure, Dagur thought as he carried two buckets full of trout to the Eisindri Clanhouse, had not been when Hiccup started thrashing out or screaming from the top of his lungs in agonizing pain. No, Dagur had seen it coming, no matter how much Coronien wine and willowbark tea Old Håkan could shove down one’s gullet, there's no way in Hel you don't scream like a newborn baby through something like that. It hadn't been seeing how the healer cut out the mangled and purulent remains of Hiccup's right eyeball either.

The worst part had been the stillness afterwards. Hiccup had never so deathly still, he was always tapping a foot to the ground or fidgeting with whatever trinket caught his fancy at the moment or doodling away across the pages of his sketchbook. For almost a week, Hiccup had barely made a move aside from the occasional twitch of the left eye, or during his brief and terror-addled moments awake as he went in and out of unconsciousness, during which he almost always called for ‘Toothless’, which Dagur had deduced to be the Night Fury. The dragon had almost brought down a couple walls of his house trying to reach Hiccup, he had had Hiccup moved from his private house to the Eisindri Clanhouse so the dragon would have more and bigger rooms to hide in when he wasn't brooding over Hiccup's sickbed like the deadliest mother hen of the world. The overgrown newt better appreciate the effort put into keeping him secret.

He still had questions about that. About everything, actually. Why was Hiccup here? How had he gotten hurt? What the Hel had possessed him to fly with a fever in the middle of a storm? Did Stoick know where he was? He hadn’t heard a word from the Hooligans, that was worrisome for many reasons. The questions consumed Dagur. Thankfully, Hiccup's fever had finally broken last night, so he should be waking up at some point today according to Håkan. 

Reaching the doorstep, Dagur shoved the door open with his shoulder and went to Hiccup's sickroom, trying not to think of the pang of hurt in his chest at the emptiness of the building. This had, once, been his home. There were Celtic carvings made by his mother to honor her Alban origins crisscrossed with those depicting traditional Viking eddur*, the hearth -just recently reignited- had gone cold gathering dust for years without his old man to force him to lectures and lessons next to it. The wooden swords in the playroom had also gathered a thick layer of dust without his sister to duel against him. He hadn't looked into a single one of their rooms in years. He hated the silence, that's why he moved to his own house, it's easier to avoid your loneliness in a home built with one person in mind. 

Smaller houses echo less.

It was all his fault. They were gone because of him. His fault. His fault his faulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfaulthisfa-

SMASH!

Dagur's head crashed into a beam with rancor, the dullness in his mind and the warm trickle of blood blooming from his forehead thanks to the collision ground the Berserker chieftain, stabilizing his breathing and bringing some much needed clarity.

     “Alright, Dagur, lock in,” he muttered. “Hiccup needs you. Help little brother first, nag him for answers second, and find out who hurt him and shove them into the cold pits of Helheim with my own hands for last. Yeah, that's the plan.”

He picked up the fish buckets and shoved the door to Hiccup's sickroom open with a shoulder and put the buckets down by the corner. “Well, tuck in, Mr. Night Fury. Hope you like trout.”

The black dragon descended from its perch on the beams above Hiccup's bed and padded toward the smelly buckets of fish. It sniffed at them tentatively, snorting and furrowing its nose before starting to slowly devour the dead fish.

     Dagur crossed his arms over his chest. “Hey, I'm hiding you here rent-free, pal. You don't get to be picky.”

     “H-he's actually more of a cod guy.” Hiccup stated absently from behind him with a subdued and groggy tone.

     “He's also a sixteen-hundred-pound dragon hidden in my house. Beggars can't be choosers, Hic-HICCUP!” Dagur bolted to greet his brother, who had just sat up in the bed, and glomped on to him with all his strength, hugging Hiccup close to his chest. “Oh, you beautiful, small, cuddly bastard! When did you wake up? Why didn't you tell me? You need something? Some water?”

     “D-Dagur…”

     “Yeah, you're right. You just woke up, we need to get some ale in you!”

     “D-Dagur…”

     “Have you ever tried Berserker ale? Let me tell you, it's gonna put some hair on your chest. How about we crack op-”

     “Dagur!”

     The Berserker chieftain finally snapped from his celebratory rant. “What's it, bro? What do you need? Just tell big bro Dagur and I'll-”

     “Dagur…” Hiccup whimpered from his prison in Dagur's arms. “Bruised… ribs…”

     “Oh, shit!” He swiftly released Hiccup, dusting him off and shaking his shoulders nervously between voracious gulps of air, as if trying to rearrange his innards into a more comfortable configuration. “Are you alright, lil’ bro? You want me to get the healer? Don't go towards the light!”

After regaining his breath, Hiccup looked at him -or through him, more like it- with a glassy stare, his only remaining eye looked a dull shade of green, as opposed to its usual vibrant deep forest shade, and his skin, though of a much healthier color, still had some of that pale pallor he had arrived with. He opened his mouth a couple times, unsure of what to say or if he should say anything at all. Heeling Hiccup's turmoil through the Tether, Toothless abandoned his pile of seafood and padded toward the bed, laying his massive head on his Rider’s lap and giving him a supportive look.

     “Hiccup?” Dagur called softly, trying not to startle him but the need to know what the hell was going on in his brother’s head was overpowering. “What happened to you?”

     Hiccup looked at him in the eye, and then to the black dragon. It seemed whatever determination Hiccup was looking for, he found in the dragon's viridian gaze. He let out a deep sigh. “You said something about ale?” At the same time, his gut gave a rumble worthy of a Hooligan. “Maybe with some food on the side?” He added with a crooked smirk.

Dagur smiled.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

Hiccup’s fingers drummed anxiously against the half empty cup of ale. Dagur was sitting across from him, between them there were three empty bowls -one belonging to Hiccup, and the rest to Dagur- still with some remains of the delicious fish stew Dagur had put together for the two of them. Hiccup had eaten ravenously, before being forced to eat at a much more sedated pace by Dagur, which made sense, since according to Dagur and Toothless, he had slept for almost a week.

The two vikings ate in comfortable silence, with only the crackling of the logs in the hearth making any sound. When Dagur finished his third bowl of stew, he took a hearty swig from his ale and looked at Hiccup dead in the eye.

     “Alright, lil’ bro. You've had your beauty sleep, you've had your meal. Now spill.” Dagur said evenly. “Who do I need to kill?” He asked with a totally straight face.

     Hiccup averted his eyes and lost himself studying the way the tremor in his hands made tiny waves in the ale in his grasp. Toothless padded to his right side, making a lot of noise comparing them to his usual featherlight steps, and laid his head on Hiccup's lap with a commiserating croon. Hiccup's remaining eye zeroed in on Dagur's. “Before I say anything, you must promise me something.”

     “Anything,” he asserted with serious expression.

     “I need you to swear you won't start a blood feud or something when I tell you.”

     “Fuck no.” Dagur delivered with a deadpan face.

     “Dagur!” Hiccup begged, but his plea lost some severity due to Toothless’s chortles of laughter. Hiccup turned to look at the dragon with a betrayed look. “You're not helping, bud.” He scowled.

     [Good,] the dragon barked. [Because I agree with him!]

     “Hiccup, you can't just come here pale and cold like a dead fish in the middle of a storm, with broken ribs and missing a fucking eye and then ask me to do nothing about it!” Dagur threw his hands in the air with an exasperated huff. “I had to watch the healer gouge the mangled remains of your eye out of your skull!” He shrieked. His mention of Hiccup's most scandalous injury made his empty right eye socket itch under its bandages. “I get violence is not exactly your cup of tea, but you're my eiðbróðir*, my sworn brother! I'm bound by oath and blood to avenge and protect you! Therefore, whoever hurt you better start getting their affairs in order, because they have an appointment with me, Mr. Flaying Knife and Mrs. Sack of Salt.”

     [Oh, I like him,] Toothless approved. [That is a perfectly logical and measured response. You were right to come to him, tell him I forgive him for feeding me trout instead of cod.]

This was exactly why Hiccup had been so reluctant to meet with Dagur in the first place; he had done so because he had run out of time and options. Because Dagur was loyal, steadfast, surprisingly sensitive for someone with his record -he didn’t believe for a second that spiel of Dagur killing his own father and sister, he might be a little unhinged but he wasn’t a kinslayer-, and he would absolutely, without a shadow of doubt, totally and thoroughly obliterate whoever tried to hurt him in the most, well, deranged ways possible. If you counted the physical beatings, the constant dismissals from the adults in his life, the business owners who would overcharge him whenever he needed to buy something -a little extra charge the villagers liked to call the ‘Hiccup Insurance’ to rebuild their stands whenever some of his contraptions went up in flames-, and the attacks on his self-esteem…

Dagur would have put eggs of Whispering Death underneath Berk and watched as they hatched, eating away the foundations of the isle and sank it into the watery lair of Njord from a safe distance long ago. He didn’t have a sense of proportion whatsoever. And that would be his response to his day-to-day treatment. If he found out that he had been literally chased off Berk and that Stoick almost sliced his head open like a rotten cabbage… it wouldn’t be pretty. He would break the peace treaty and declare war on Berk, which would spark a two-front war of Berk vs Berserkers and Berk vs Dragons. 

The Berserkers needn’t worry about their home being ransacked by the dragons because most dragons seemed to actively avoid Berserker Island, so they could attack Berk leaving a skeleton garrison behind, and since they were allowed to grow as a tribe without having their population regularly culled down they had the biggest armada of the Archipelago -he really should start charging royalties for the kasterarms, Dagur was producing them in bulk-, while Berk would need to make sure to have enough food to last through the winter, keep the dragon raids at bay and fend off the Berserkers. And that’s without including the rest of the allied tribes that would enter into the fray as per their treaty, or the Lava-Louts or the Outcasts who would undoubtedly want a piece of the cake.

The Barbaric Archipelago could be plunged into an all-out war.

     “Stop siding with him, Toothless!” Hiccup gritted his teeth and looked at Dagur with a pleading gaze. “Dagur, I'm serious. If you don't keep a cool head, there could be a war!”

     Dagur's eyes lit up like a child in Snoggletog morning. “You promise?” He gasped in wonder with his hands clasped in front of him in a supplicant gesture.

     “Dagur!”

     “Fine! Spoil my fun, why not?” Dagur crossed his arms with a pout, which looked so out of place in an eighteen year-old chieftain with crazed eyes and face tattoos that it was jarring. After a moment, Dagur heaved a deep sigh and deflated visually. “Alright, you have my oath. I swear not to raise arms against whatever poor fucker hurt you until you say otherwise. But only because because I find your idealism adorable, lil’ bro”

To Dagur, oaths were sacred, so he would follow through. He would not draw blood, but whoever had hurt his brother would not go unpunished. There's more than one way to skin a cat, after all.

     Visibly relieved, Hiccup gave him a side smile. “So… where do I begin?”

     “How about the dragon resting its head on your lap?” Dagur retorted with a raised brow, he took the jar of ale and refilled both their cups to the brim.

     Hiccup brought the cup of ale to his lips with a smile and took a small and measured sip, letting the bitter flavor dance on his tongue. Toothless and him exchanged conspiratory grins. “Actually, that's the best part to start.” He sombered a little, remembering all he had omitted in his letters. “But before, I gotta tell you something I never really told you before… I'm sorry, brother.”

He bared to Dagur the truth of Berk’s treatment of him. The full truth. Fury flared behind Dagur's green eyes, but he took a deep breath and bit his tongue. Hiccup needed him right now, plans of rightful retribution could wait.

For now.

And so, Hiccup started his story. 

He talked of the most recent dragon raid on Berk. 

He talked of his success in building and firing the Mangler, his most recent  weapon, and his subsequent regret when faced with its aftermath.

He talked of finding the reflection of his soul in the eyes of an enemy.

He talked of being strong armed into participating in dragon training, which had yesteryear been his dream.

He talked of slowly earning Toothless's trust. The part where he had to eat a regurgitated fish had Dagur howling with laughter.

He talked of the realization of the extent of the damage he had inflicted on Toothless, and all he did to give his new friend what he had so thoughtlessly snatched from him.

The part with him turned into Midgard’s scrawniest skipping stone also had Dagur howling with laughter. Hiccup had a good laugh himself, looking back it was very funny.

He talked of his performance in the Kill Ring. He talked of his overnight ascent to fame. He talked of improving the artificial tailfin over and over.

He talked of their first successful joint flight. The thrill, the wind in his hair, the synchrony with Toothless, the freedom.

He spoke of the Tether.

     “Hold on, time out,” Dagur called, putting the tips of his hand to the palm of the other in a ‘T’ gesture. “You can talk to i-him? Like, talk-talk, back and forth?” He raised a red eyebrow and sniffed at the jug of ale in jest, as if looking for signs of adulteration.

     “I know how it sounds, but I swear I'm telling the truth,” Hiccup insisted. Toothless headbutted him playfully in the right flank and gave him a gummy smile, his tongue lolling to the side. At that point they had moved from the table to sit on furs next to the hearth -taking the jug and cups with them, of course- and the dragon had settled on his blind side for all the conversation, and Hiccup felt tension he didn't know he felt leaving him. “During our flight when I regained control of the tailfin, he and I were in perfect synchrony. I could feel in which direction he needed to go just by the way his muscles shifted underneath me. Then, I heard something like the ring of a bell and I felt like something here-” he pointed to his temple, “and here-” he pointed at his heart, “slotted into place. It was like regaining a limb I didn't know I was missing.” He smiled remembering the joy he felt there among the clouds. “Then we landed and he started complaining about the Terrible Terrors trying to steal from his pile of fish.” He smiled and laughed, remembering the baffles look on both their faces. 

     Toothless harrumphed haughtily with an emphatic nod. [Those were MY fish! That gaggle of opportunistic winged parasites should have given it a second thought before messing with someone of my category.]

     “Uh-huh, because that one fish was the difference between life and death for you. Look at you, you're practically skin and bones,” Hiccup said with friendly snark.

     [And you would know of being skin and bones, would you not?] The Night Fury snarked.

     “Hey! Now that was uncalled for! Besides, you could do with losing a few pounds or I'll have to replace the straps of the saddle,” Hiccup snarked back. “You're looking a bit round on the sides.”

     [Really?] Toothless's green eyes shone with mischief. [I'm too round, you say? Why don't you take a closer look?]

     “Toothless wha-?!” The dragon pounced on Hiccup, pinning him to the ground softly to not put pressure on his ribs and licking all over his head but avoiding his bandages. “Toothless, that doesn't wash out!” He was reprimanding him and laughing at the same time. “Come on, Bud, you reek of fish!” He said as he shoved the dragon aside, who only moved because he willed so. 

     [Why, thank you.] Toothless answered with sincerity and preened at the perceived praise.

     “That wasn't a complim- oh forget it.” Hiccup rolled his eyes.

     “Woah, that's freaky.” Dagur said, snapping them both back to reality, pointing from dragon to boy and back and forth with a hand that held his cup of ale. “Awesome, but freaky.”

     “Yeah. It gave us a good scare back then, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.” Hiccup's voice then became solemn, and his lone eye was charged with a steel Dagur had never seen in the usually shy and insecure Hooligan. In Dagur's opinion, it suited him. “That was the day I lost all doubts. Toothless was not a mindless beast, or just a particularly smart animal, he's a person by his own right. He's my friend… he's my brother as much as you are.” Toothless nuzzled against his cheek. Dagur looked at them, and instead of jealousy or envy, he felt  grateful that Hiccup had found such a worthy companion.

     “Hey. Any sibling of yours is a sibling of mine.” He shrugged with a smile and looked Toothless in the eye, extending an open hand. “Thank you, big guy,” he said softly. “For being there for him when I couldn’t.” Toothless sniffed at the hand experimentally, taking in the Berserker chieftain’s scent. On the way here, Hiccup had told him he only got to see Dagur twice a year, and yes, Dag-ger’s kin-scent on his Cleverpaws was faint, but still ten times stronger than that of the enormous soft-skin who had mutilated him. Of the four -now five, with his own- scents that composed his soft-skin’s kin-scent, Es-toe-eek’s was the faintest one, second only to that of Hic-cup's defunct dam.

     Closing his eyes, Toothless leaned his forehead onto Dagur's open palm, drawing a barely contained squeal of childlike wonder from Dagur as the dragon moved from his hand no nuzzle briefly under his chin, and a grin so wide from Hiccup that it started to make the right side of his face sting. “Hiccy, we gotta have a proper fóstbræðralag* for the two of you. If you're gonna do this, you’d better do it the right way!”

     “Fóstbræðralag with a dragon… heh, now that's something I never saw coming in my future. You would really witness?”  With Dagur’s enthusiastic nod, Hiccup resumed. “I had been studying the other dragons in the Ring, none of what I saw matched the Bork’s Book of Dragons. Toothless was not an exception to the rule, they're no vicious demons by birth, but gentle and intelligent creatures. Coexistence is possible, we are a proof of it,” he signaled to himself and Toothless. “The war could end that day if I could convince the tribe.” He ran his hand over Toothless's scaly forehead. He spoke in a small voice. “So, during my Final Test, when they released the Nightmare, I tamed her before the whole village.” His voice trembled and his left eye began to sting. “I showed them that peace was still on the table, we just had to reach and take it… but they didn't care.” He hugged his battered ribs as memories assaulted him. Both Dagur and Toothless leaned on him in support. “They mobbed us and killed the Nightmare. Stoick disowned me… I'm not even a Haddock anymore. I'm an útlagr now, Dagur… I can't go back. I can't even stay in the Archipelago, it's just a matter of time before we become wanted all over the Allied Tribes.”

     Dagur was silent for a moment. “Was Gobber in on that?” He asked with poorly hidden fury, pointing at Hiccup's bandaged face.

     “No. He tried to reach me, but the mob was too big.”

Well, Dagur would spare the jolly blacksmith from his Revenge List. One good man out of around a thousand.

     Dagur held his eiðbróðir tightly. “Hiccup, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You stood up to a whole ass tribe, saved your dragon, gained a brother and defied three centuries of tradition all by yourself-” Toothless gave an indignated huff that even Dagur, who was incapable of understanding what Toothless called ‘scalespeech’, understood as a ‘And what about me. “Sorry, T,” he amended. “What you two did, brother, takes a big pair of balls to do. I've always told you you'd be an amazing Berserker,” He said with a laugh. “And you know what? I'm so fucking proud of you, get that shit very well engraved into that thick skull of yours.”

     Hiccup gave a teary snort, but thankfully no actual tears came out. He had cried more than enough. “Well, that makes one person in the entire Archipelago.”

     “Hey, better one than none.”

     “True.”

     “And as for where to go, you and Toothless are more than welcome here in Berserker Island for as long as you need.” 

     “I’d love to take you up on that offer, but it would be impossible to hide Toothless here in your clanhouse forever, he needs to stretch his wings. And all it takes is one person to see a glimpse of black scales and one loose-mouthed merchant-”

     “Johan?”

     “Johan,” Hiccup confirmed. “If word gets out, you'll have the Berkian, Meathead and Bog-Burglars’ armadas knocking your door down for harboring an útlagr.”

     “We could take them on! No armada is stronger than Berserkers’!”

     “Maybe, but how many would die?” Hiccup shook his head. “It's not worth the risk.”

     Dagur rubbed his chin, considering the possible outcomes of the conflict. Hiccup was smart, but he wasn't war smart -not yet! He thought with manic glee- Dagur knew his eiðbróðir, he was physically incapable of being subtle. Sooner or later, he would be known and the truth would come out. The rest of the Allied Tribes would turn on him once his ties with Hiccup came to light, and Dagur would never deny his brother. Old Mogadon might even turn on Berk for siring Hiccup. The Outcasts would want to take part of the fun, maybe even places like the Shiver Isles or the Hopeless tribe would jump in.

War was on the horizon. It was inevitable: hordes of warriors clashing with steel and will and earning an escort of Valkyries to the gates of Valhalla and Fólkvangr*… It brought a joyful tear to Dagur's eye.

     ‘Oh, brother,’ he thought. ‘Without even meaning to, you have become the mistletoe arrow in Baldr’s breast. You are the harbinger of the war that will change the Archipelago forever. And you don't even realize it yet.’

But he would not overwhelm his little brother with such thoughts. He might be ready for the battle. His tribe might be ready, but Hiccup wasn't. He was still green like the grass of spring. He still had to grow. And it was Dagur's duty, as big brother, to ensure his little brother grew… even if he had to do so far from him. In the meantime, Dagur would make sure to strenghten his army, sharpen his swords... and weaken his enemies.

Yes, Dagur the Deranged was about to play the Long Game.

     “Very well,” Dagur conceded. “At least stay until you're good to go… And, you never know. Maybe it would be best to wait for news before you make a move, ‘y’know? Test the waters.”

     “News?”

     “Yes! So far, we don't really know what the rest of the Allied Tribes actually know. You might not have been the most beloved of the heirs to chiefdom but you're still an heir to a chiefdom. Stoick needs to have a good reason to remove you!”

     “...And treason against humanity isn't reason good enough?”

     “C’mon, Hiccy-”

     “Please, never call me that again.” Hiccup countered.

     “Objection noted and ignored, Hiccy.” Dagur counter-countered, making Toothless laugh. “As I was saying: C'mon, bro, use that brilliant noggin’ of yours. You really think Stoick the Vast is gonna tell everybody ‘hey, so, my son kinda wiped his ass with three centuries of tradition and kinda sorta consorted a dragon. Big oopsie, I know. If you see him, please send him my way, thanks’?” They both laughed at the image of Stoick saying something like ‘big oopsie’. “Yeah, I don't think so either. It's best you wait here until we get news from Berk.”

AAAAAHUUUUU!

AAAAAHUUUUU!

     The conversation was cut off by the sound of a horn blasting through the air. The brothers felt themselves stiffen at the sudden intrusion. Toothless hackles rose, snarling and with his green playful eyes turned into feline slits, his muzzle a ferocious snarl. Hiccup jumped onto the saddle containing a grimace and Dagur's hands flew to the pommels of his ever present daggers.

     “Is it an attack?” Hiccup inquired, hooking his left foot to the pedal of Toothless's tailfin rigging.

     “No…” Dagur breathed, letting go of his weapons. “No, two short blows, that means ‘allied ship incoming’. We’ve got visitors, it seems.” He barely uttered those words when frantic knocking assaulted his door.

     “Chief!” Håkan’s voice was muffled by the wooden door. “Chief Dagur, ye’d better hide yer guests! We've got a ship incomin’. Berkian sails.”

     “...Well,” Dagur grinned, clapping his hands. “That was a short wait! That's some damn good postal service!” He cheered, missing Hiccup's chalk-white face of dread, paling more than even his linen bandages.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~

Oh, my brother. You don't have to follow in your bloodline

Oh, we got each other, and if you got tomorrow, then you still got time.

To break the chain that left you scarred, from where you came isn't who you are.

Oh, my brother.

You don't have to follow in your bloodline.

"Bloodline" by Alex Warren.

~~~A.H.T.O.~~~