Vikings are a simple type of people. No, I'm not joking. You don't believe me? Well, we're hard headed, stubborn, good with weapons, and tend to attack things before we look at reason. So we're not the smartest. That's okay because we've survived here on Berk perfectly fine for seven generations in our homes and our lives and our everyday routines. Of course, even the things that the eye tends to skip over have their, shall we say, off-putting aspects, and Berk is no exception. It's not the Vikings that are the problem, no, see; we have these certain pests that just refuse to go away. But they're not the ordinary pests that everyone has the fortune to deal with. Here, we have-
A line of fire goes shooting back and I quickly dive beneath it, narrowly missing the flames.
"Dragons," I snarl crudely, giving the freak of nature in front of me the most icy glare I can summon, which, believe you me, can be pretty scary. I would go into more detail, but, well, I'm a little occupied.
I say Dragons, and I use the term lightly. That's really just our term for them. Dragons aren't really Dragons, but, in a way, they are. Does that make sense? No? Well, Vikings aren't known for their abilities to explain things, but I suppose it won't kill me to try.
Real Dragons, or, as we call them, Ancestral Dragons, died out a long time ago, way before I was even born. We Vikings tended to war with them (hey, just like, what do you know, nowadays) until eventually, their numbers dwindled down to extinction. We thought that was the end of it but oh no, that was just the beginning. It wasn't until many years later when the Berkians were under the false impression of peace that the first Viking Bonded. That's another term we have, a term specifically meant for Draconic kind. The thing is, Dragons only died out for half a century or so. Then, they returned in the way we least expected them to: from inside us. Literally. Nobody can stop Bonding, it's not a choice, it's an occurrence. Nobody knows how it happens or why, there appears to be no pattern to the disease, but once a Viking begins to Bond, they're done for.
An Ancestral Dragon will Bond with a Viking, turning him or her into a mindless beast with wings, claws, fangs, tails, and eyes of a vicious fire-breathing creature. Of course, Dragons don't actually breathe fire, they spout it from their hands because, well, they do still have some human genes and humans- if you don't know already- are not made to breathe fire. All the same, it's a terrifying process, one that has cost us hundreds in the past.
But, us being us, refuse to let them win. We fight them, any way we can. A Viking found to be Turning is to be banished before they can inflict harm upon the village. Once they Turn they don't remember their lives, their family, their tribe. They don't even remember themselves. That's why they're so dangerous.
This one is a Gronkle, a Boulder Class Dragon with a hide thick as rock and the molten fire of a volcano. They're tough, but not impossible. This one is young, maybe a few years older than me. She has a heavy build as all Gronkles with small, ugly brown wings, yellow slit eyes, and claws outstretched- ready to kill.
It, I correct myself. It, not she.
Even though the former person is obviously female, it just doesn't work that way. Dragons don't get genders. They don't have names, they don't have emotions, they don't have souls, and they certainly don't get genders. There is no free will to a Dragon except its Ancestral instincts, that is what's drilled into us in Training. They. Are. Not. Human. End of story.
I narrow my eyes at it, daring, just daring the Gronkle to get me. It lets out one tremendous roar and I charge it with the speed of lightning, my battle ax swinging high and dangerously. The Dragon reluctantly recognizes a greater warrior and growls at me, buzzing off right after gobbling up a pile of fish. I huff, blowing my straw-colored bangs out of my face, glaring at its retreating form. Another Dragon will have to pay for that insufferable little thief.
Suddenly, my battle field instincts kick in and I sense something behind me. I slowly turn around and I do something I rarely ever do: I freeze.
A Deadly Nadder has landed not ten feet away and is focusing its subhuman eyes on me, the yellow color practically glowing in the light of the flames dancing across the rooftops in the night sky.
Deadly Nadders. I shudder inwardly at the very thought. They're actually a quite common Dragon, one that most Vikings go after as a first or second or third kill. Not particularly dangerous, though those sneaky little suckers got an advantage of a tail filled with poisonous spines that they could shoot with fatal accuracy, but they aren't just another Dragon to me. This is the species that killed my parents.
In the night, the Nadder's patches of scales are a hazy green, the accents on its wings are a more reddish color with a cream underside. Its white crown of horns protruding from its head seem to be brighter than they actually are. Its large, pointed wings are pointed downwards in a nonthreatening way, but I don't buy it for a second.
All Dragon species seem to have different kinds of wings; Nadders' are always attached to their arms but they are big enough that when they fly they don't look like idiots flapping their arms up and down. Arguably, they're one of the better looking species, but they couldn't be more hideous to me.
The green Dragon cackles and cocks its head at me. Then, its head shoots into the air and the spiked tail whips around, raised and poised to shoot.
Something very loud sounds behind me and I realize it's a battle cry right before I'm harshly shoved out of the way. Eret, son of Eret (whoever named that child should be tied to a mast and shipped to fall off the ends of the earth), charges in with his sword, though he disregards the blade as he gifts the Nadder with a vicious punch to the face right before it can snap at him with its wicked sharp teeth.
"What do you think you're doing?"
I can't tell if he's amused or actually, genuinely pissed off, but I don't care as I catch my breath on the ground.
I hear him sigh, striding over. Eret's a bit more on the leaner side for a Viking, dressed with several types of furs. He has black hair that touches his ears but are covered by a mildly impressive helmet with horns that I'm not even sure he's familiar with the beast they originated from. In all, he's not the worst looking Viking out there, but, like me, he's a bit more on the focused side of things, and I can connect with and understand that.
"You alright, there?" he asks, and I nod, reaching for my ax that lays just a few feet from me. Falling to the ground with a sharpened weapon, don't try this in your own village, kids. He then smiles, showing a rare, bemused grin. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were afraid of Nadders."
Quicker than he can wipe his smirk off his face, I stand and lean in to his face with my battle ax in hand, growling, "Say that again, I dare you."
He has a head or two on me, not to mention he's a few years my senior, but I'm not intimidated in the least to take him on. I've defeated better in physical Training.
"Easy there, don't bite my head off," he holds his hands up, surrendering. Then, the nitwit has the nerve to laugh and shout out, "Your welcome for saving your life!" as he runs off.
I don't remember thanking him nor being in danger in the first place, but I dismiss it. Boys will be boys. They're such a distraction. Actually, most other people are a distraction. Can you blame me for wanting to train by myself most (all) of the time?
A chorus of angry voices sound from around the corner and, double checking to be sure that my arm wrappings are secure, I quickly take my leave to find the village blacksmith, Gobber, who also happens to be the only person remotely close to family that I have. He's not blood related to me directly, but, well, I've been through a bit in my childhood and he was the only one willing to take me in seeing as he had no direct family either. I've learned quite a few things from him, even though my heart's on the battle field.
"Well, nice of you to join the party," he greets with his heavy Scottish accent and thick, braided mustache falling off the sides of his mouth. He waves his one hand, and instead of the appendage that should be there, in its place is a hammer greater than the circumference of my head.
"You know me," I say dryly, picking up a pile of disfigured, contorted swords and dropping them on a bed of coals. "Always the Dragon killer."
"Now, you know you're not supposed to be doing any killing before your Training's over, right?"
"Yes, Gobber," I roll my eyes. "I didn't even get to really fight anything, anyway."
Our brief conversation is cut off by a small, eerie noise that presents itself to all of our ears, softly at first, then it grows in volume and intensity. I quickly glance up. That's a cry known and feared by all, the only warning we get before it strikes. The most mysterious and deadly Dragon out there. We call it the-
"Night Fury!" someone cries just a following shouts out, "Get down!"
"Ju-ump!" Stoick the Vast, chief of our tribe and the best Viking known to this day, demands and not a moment too soon. Just as his massive figure leaps off the tower he had previously been standing on, a ring of blue fire spans out and the building bursts into flames, collapsing to the ground.
The only thing closest to a sighting of a Night Fury is its silhouette. Nobody has ever killed one in the history of everything. They're just too dangerous. I'm not entirely sure why, but the beast intrigues me. It never steals food, never shows itself, and, as demonstrated time and time before, it never misses.
Another structure of ours is sent tumbling to the ground by the invisible force that is the Night Fury.
It is said to be impossible to kill one. That they're invincible. They are smarter, faster, and superior to all Draconic kind.
I glance down at my lower arms, which are still snug in their wool wrappings. They itch with a burning fury but I don't dare touch them. My eyes narrow before going back to work.
Thunk! My ax hits its target with a satisfying sound. I growl, yanking it out of the tree before hurling it into another. Yank, aim, hurl, thunk!, repeat. The cycle goes on and on, again and again.
I try not to focus on the worries that Gobber had ever so slightly expressed this morning, about me being a female Viking and getting to "that age". I can be a successful warrior without a husband! I don't need anyone protecting me, and if they want to, they can try. It probably doesn't help that my variety consists of a shut-in older guy, a mentally challenged pain-seeker, a wimpy brainiac, and… Snotlout.
With a ferocious scream I hurl my ax as hard as I can and I hear it dig deep into the tree. I pause for a moment, catching my breath. Slowly, I make my way over to it and try to yank it out, but it doesn't budge. Great.
My arms are killing me but not in a sore way. I know it's dangerous, but it's been this way for three days now, a little air won't hurt, right? Besides, I'm so far in the woods, not even Bucket has wandered to this area. I take a deep sigh and carefully unwrap the bindings.
Now, do not be mistaken with the thought that I am weak. I am not afraid of anything, least of all Dragons. But that doesn't stop people from pitying me. And why shouldn't they? I mean, I'm the last of my line, what with my parents killed by Deadly Nadders, and what shame I must feel with my family name tarnished by my Uncle Finn Bonding with an Ancestral Flightmare.
I have watched my family ripped from me when I was helpless to do anything other than watch- twice. I was merely a babe when my parents were first killed. I don't remember much about the accident, it wasn't exactly a memorable way to go, death by Dragons, but I can still picture their limp bodies dangling from the claws of those creatures.
And I've never told anyone this, but I watched my uncle Turn.
I was six when I sat behind a cracked door, watching as glowing blue, transparent wings sprouted from his arched back, as his claws unsheathed themselves from his hands as if they had been there all along, as his eyes slowly dilated until they were no longer the familiar stormy blue, but the glowing blue of something that was not human. All while he looked partially human.
Watching him suffer through the transformation, sitting there praying to the gods that he would not sense the little girl cowering behind the door, that wasn't my biggest secret.
No, my biggest secret was that I had thought him beautiful.
But how can that be? There he was, Turning into a monster before my very eyes, just another to fall victim to Dragon kind and leaving me all alone, a glowing, roaring, terrifying beast, and yet I had been thinking that he was a beautiful specimen, if I had ever seen one.
Up until a few weeks ago, that was my biggest secret. But now, it's different. Things have changed, I've changed, everything is just completely upside down and wrong.
The scales on the inside of my wrists are growing.
Turning has never been known to be this agonizingly slow. My uncle had taken three days- I'm on week four and I still don't know what kind of Dragon I am. Not that I really care, just, you know, it'd be kind of nice to know what kind of monster is trying to possess you.
But I won't let it happen. It's taking this long for a reason. I can fight it; I'm strong enough, I can do it. I will not let this creature take over my mind. I am me and I want what is rightfully mine. I will not allow anyone- Dragon or Viking- to claim me as their own.
The weird thing is, though, the fact that I'm Bonding isn't my biggest secret. Yes, I could get exiled, or even killed, if anyone found out, but that's just a secret I won't let anyone discover. Strange, I know, but I don't recall saying that I was an exceptionally intelligent one.
No.
My biggest secret, the one I will guard with my life above everything else is that I, Astrid Hofferson, am purely, and utterly terrified.
Something snaps in the distance and my head goes shooting up. I keep my eyes trained to the ground as I rely on my hearing to locate the owner of the noise. Nobody should be out here, there's not a chance that anyone could have seen, right? ...Right?
Something small flutters down and brushes my shoulder. A leaf. Funny, there isn't any wind. A sinking feeling presents itself in my gut and I gradually look up, dreading what I might see.
The first, not to mention the only, thing I process is a pair of startlingly green eyes. A pair of startlingly green Dragon eyes.
Sonofahalf-trollrat-eatingmungebucket…!
A dark figure leaps down on top of me, growling viciously in my ear. We both go tumbling down a hill I somehow seem to have missed earlier on. I'm not gonna lie and say it's not painful because falling down a hill isn't fun anyways, imagine it with a clawed beast fighting for a slash at your throat to go with it!
Its heavy tail then comes into harsh contact with my face and my vision goes dark for a moment. With luck and a bit of fury on my side, I manage to gain an upper hand and kick the Dragon in the face. It comes wheeling to a stop and warbles in confusion, maybe a little pain, too. Serves it right.
I spring to my feet, my Training with Gobber kicking in as I sprint back up the hill, racing to my ax still stuck in the tree. I grab the hilt with both hands and pull as hard as I can but the wood protests, seeming to tighten its hold on my blade. Not now, please, it could come back any second!
Just to prove my point, a loud roar echoes from below and I frantically jerk at it.
In one second, about fifty million things happen. My mind decides to focus on three. The first is the stark realization of holy gods of Asgard I'm being attacked by a Dragon. That gets tossed out of my mind as soon as it enters because, well, I've got more important things to think about. Like, for example, said Dragon leaping at me. The second is the Dragon itself, which I get a clear sight of for the first time. It's male, that's for sure. He's pitch black, nearly covered in scales, which is abnormal. Mostly, the scales are on their wings, around their tail, and some on the arms, but not the whole body. I don't know, it could be dirt. I don't exactly look long enough to establish. I don't recognize the species, my mind doesn't recall any pure black Dragons. All I know is that his wings are black, his clothes are black, his face and hair are black, and his eyes are green, green, green.
Then, finally, the one that I am most concerned with, is the hot, searing pain that shoots up my arm as I firmly yank my ax out just in time to swing it with force fed entirely by adrenaline- straight into the Dragon's face. It shrieks and rockets back into the sky.
Suddenly, I see a miniscule figure circling back around from the clouds and a hauntingly familiar screech fills the static air around me. My insides drop to the earth's core.
Oh my gods. Don't tell me. That couldn't have been- it wasn't a-
My suspicions are confirmed when a blue plasma blast explodes upon impact with the ground at my feet and I'm sent sailing through the air like a rag doll. I feel the weight of my fall land almost directly on my already dislocated(?) arm and I cry out, but my vision thankfully goes dark before the pain consumes my thoughts. Right before my eyes close, I can't help but notice a dry, cracked patch of scales on the inside of my outstretched arm.
Oh great Thor, he saw...
"Astrid is to stay. Put. There." Gobber demands, gesturing wildly at me like some child.
After claiming I threw my shoulder out in practice and avoiding the village elder, Gothi, for an entire afternoon, it's nearing nighttime and the Dragon raids could begin at any moment. I blow my bangs out of my face, annoyed, because it just has to be my right arm that gets rendered useless for a couple weeks. Does he understand the work I went through to make it look like nothing serious happened? Following arising in a dazed state, I don't think he gets just how hard it is to rewrap your arms with one hand! Not to mention the panic that comes with the territory, as well.
Chief Stoick looks at me. For a moment, I think he'll lean towards my side and let me get out there to fight a few Dragons, but instead, he just grumbles, "You heard Gobber. Stay in the forge."
"But that's not fair!" I protest.
"Too bad, lass. With that arm, you wouldn't last a minute out there," Gobber pats me on the back reassuringly but it doesn't help anything. I shake it off.
"Wanna bet?" I mutter, eying my ax hanging on the wall.
"Don't even think about it," he warns me and I huff, folding my arm and holding back a cringe when a stab of pain makes itself appear in my right arm. Gods, the one night I need to be out there…
Somewhere in our conversation, Stoick exits without us noticing until he's already gone. I don't entirely get why people always give me pity stares. It's not like it's a rare thing to be the last of your bloodline, take Chief Stoick for example; his wife Bonded years ago and took their only son with her.
I grumble to myself as I singlehandedly (literally) run through the forge procedures while Gobber assembles an array of weapons. There aren't any signs of attack, maybe there won't be any. Wouldn't that be a shame?
Nope, spoke too soon. The first rain of lava blasts come terrorizing down and instantly, Vikings of all ages come racing out with their weapons held high. That should be me.
I hear a shuffle of feet outside the forge window and recognize it as the other teens, but I don't glance up at them. It's a little annoying spending an entire night with Vikings dumping their discarded weapons to be repaired, only to run off with new ones without a word. Why oh why did this have to happen to me on this night of them all?
I'm drowning in my own pity when I hear it. The Night Fury's cry.
"Night Fury!"
"Get down!"
All the usual warnings. Sometimes, I find myself wondering whatever happened to our creative genes.
"Hold down the fort, Astrid," Gobber quickly shifts his hammer to a sword, "they need me out there."
I promptly fold my arms and give him a cold glare.
"You know it's for the best," he reasons with me. "You're not ready to go back out."
"Whatever," is my response. He sighs, shaking his head and then hobbles away with a loud battle call. I keep my eyes on my ax still hanging on the wall, counting to ten to be sure he's really gone. Once I'm certain, a mischievous ghost of a smile graces my lips. I throw off my apron and run to the back room where a stack of my failed experiments had been kept.
I scurry to pull off the thick cloth shielding one such experiment from view. The wooden contraction doesn't look like much, but I can't throw anything. Good thing this is designed to do just that. I pat the top of it, "You, my friend, are going to be my ticket to freedom."
Just as the words leave my mouth, one my hands brushes against the frame in the wrong way and it snaps to life, springing a bola out and hitting some innocent Viking in the face. I cringe. Whoops. So it has some minor calibration issues, I can fix that… I think. Besides, inventing things aren't exactly my forte so there are going to be a few mishaps here and there. And no, I don't think it's necessary to bring every single mishap of every single invention to mind.
"Sorry!" I shout as I push through the crowd of running Vikings. After reloading the bola launcher, most of the tribe had been set on loading down the sheep so that gave me a perfect opportunity and I'm not one to pass fate up like this. Most of them just yell at me to get back inside seeing as my right arm is hanging limply by my side. I ignore them, muttering a 'Be right back!' to the ones who sound a little suspicious.
I hear something screech and get blown to bits and I know that the Dragon is near. I scrunch my face up in concentration as I set up the launcher, putting all of my focus into praying that this works. I need it to; when I said that no one must know, I really meant no one must know. And that included Dragons. I don't care if said species has never even been seen before, much less killed, I won't let a cursed Night Fury endanger everything that I have sacrificed to keep my place as a Viking. And for that reason, I need the Night Fury dead.
I can't afford to marvel in the fact that I faced one and came out alive, nor that I actually know what one looks like, if I tell anyone, first of all, who would believe me, and second, how would I explain being that deep in the woods? That Dragon saw the scales on my arms, he knows. I don't care if it's a Dragon, he still knows and I simply cannot allow any sort of threat to live in this world. If I have to eradicate a Dragon no Viking has ever killed before, the very offspring of lightning and death itself, I will.
And I swear to the gods, I see a vague outline of a boy with wings sailing through the night sky, soaring through the stars.
The air around me suddenly turns stagnant and the high pitched shriek echoes around. Not one moment passes after the explosion when I aim at what I think- what I hope- is the Night Fury and the force of the launch tosses me back. I grimace when my arm hits the ground but it's not among the things that are of importance to me.
Of the biggest is the shocking realization of oh my gods, I hit it! as a Dragon lets out a piercing scream I have not heard from any other species and a dark silhouette goes jetting down into the horizon, speeding towards the trees of Raven's Point. I- I did it. I hit it, it's down somewhere, probably unconscious. All I have to do is find it before anyone else does and take matters into my own hands. No big deal, it's just another Dragon.
… Then why is there a strange bile in the back of my throat that I can't quite diminish? What is it about this situation that feels just wrong and awful? Why is that Dragon's scream sending shivers down my spine, why is it arising goosebumps on the back of my neck, and most of all, why is it haunting me?
I convince myself that it's nothing, it's just the cry of a Dragon. They are nothing, they are not worthy of such mundane emotions like happiness, love, and, strangely not excluded, pain. They don't feel anything in general. It wasn't wrong, it was just a Dragon. Get it out your mind, Astrid. Why are you so bothered by this?
I really don't have an answer to that thought. Maybe it's because the Dragon just sounded in actual pain, like it was feeling something, maybe because it actually is wrong to bring down an invincible creature… But it might have had something to do with the fact that the Night Fury's scream sounded very nearly human.
Hello! Thank you so much for reading my start, I sincerely hope it was entertaining! Anyways, my updating schedule will be a bit vague, unfortunately, but I will try to update every week. Thursdays will work for now, does that sound okay? I might be able to upload on a weekend but my school life is a very busy one so apologies sooner rather than later.
Thanks again, and please let me know what you think; review, follow, favorite, whatever. See you next Thursday!
*Okay, so, this is the first chapter to be rewritten, so, just a heads up, the next chapter is going to sound very amateur to all the new readers. I'm currently working on upgrading the quality of the writing and it's the same content, hopefully just better style. Also, I update every Wednesday, not Thursday, this one excluded because I'm in the process of rewriting.