A/N: This is an alone piece, much in the way my other story 'Roughest Part of Life' is, though it is long and had to be separated into two parts and it's layered with all my other HTTYD stuff. It can be slipped into the ongoing time-line stemming from my seasonal series.
FYI for n00bs: It's pretty necessary to AT LEAST read chapter 4 of 'The Summer's Fervor' and Chapter 3 of 'The Turning Autumn' [in that order, both stories linked in my profile] before delving into this character with a full emotional understanding.

Thank you, enjoy!

The chill in the air, the salt in the breeze—it all was so familiar—it was home. Sure the salt and sea had surrounded him constantly but it was different near Berk—it was almost sweet. Or maybe he just convinced him of that fact after all he had been through since he last saw the rocky island.

He had been gone for four years and in that time had seen things, experienced things, and met people he would have never dreamed of. Among them were women, great leaders, and new enemies in all the new places he had explored from islands to the Western shores.

He was not the same person he had been before he had left, the life away had shaped him into a man—a fearsome killer, a champion hunter, and a talented lover.

The longship docked in the bay, the sight was for sore eyes. He immediately jumped over the side and ran up the path on the cliff face, ignoring the shouts of his crew that he had left all his packs behind. He didn't care—he had more important things to attend to because one thing hadn't changed and that was the secret fact his was still a complete mama's boy.

People in the village might have wondered who the bright-faced man was that was eagerly tearing through the beaten pathways, but he didn't stop to let them confirm it was the deadliest weapon of Berk.

He reached the spot in front of the door of the lodge he had grown up in, nearly breathless, and banged on it more than a few times. It cracked open and the familiar face of his mother peered out, her hair had begun to gray but it made her look no older. "Mom!" he shouted happily, arms wide open.

And she didn't say anything, but looked him over with a widened, nearly scrutinizing eye.

Then, she did something she rarely ever did, she began to cry with utter relief and joy—swung open the door fully and just latched onto him with an embrace like she was not going to let go ever again. He never took his mother to be so possessive.

"Mom?" He was happy to see her too but wasn't crying about it.

"I prayed to Odin you weren't dead. I asked every day for your safe return and now the day is here," she said quite ecstatic through tears, pulling away to look at him, to touch the small scars on his face that he had acquired over his travels to make sure he was real—only to squeeze her boy again knowing he really was. It must have not mattered how old he was for she coddled him like he was seven years old again. It was still as if she couldn't believe he had returned or was alive altogether.

So, she thought he had died? Did everyone else?

This thought caused him to lift her up with a tight embrace. His poor mother, worried she had lost him for good without ever seeing him again.

"Why'd you think I was dead? You know I can handle myself so what caused that drastic jump of a conclusion?"

"There was a terrible Snekkja collision on the rocks of the Bog Isles. They found the clan symbol of Berk among the wreckage. Oh it was dreadful, the Chieftress from the Bog Isles had come with news and to return all that was found in the wreckage and my heart nearly stopped when my Ivan's shield was a part of it."

Tuff paled remembering that accident for he indeed had been there—nearly two years prior. He had been thrown into the water when the longship rammed into the rocky shores of the Bog Isle and that was the only reason he had survived. The other men had perished on the rocks. He shook his head of the memory.

"But the shield was unbroken and I took it as a small hope you had survived but a long time had passed."

"It's okay though. I came back. It took me awhile but I'm here," Tuff assured her but never offered details of what he had gone through to return home.

His mother hugged him tightly once more and then an amazed look crossed her face, "You need to tell your sister you are alive and returned to us!"

"Isn't she here?" he looked past her toward the interior.

His mother gave a short laugh, "Of course not, she has her own home now—it's up the path past the market. And since you are here, I suppose I should let you know this lodge belongs to you now—I'm just a permanent houseguest."

"Oh. Cool. Okay!" Tuff shrugged and started off toward the direction his mother hand indicated. No. He stopped and returned to the docks to grab his packs and drop them back off at his lodge. He saw his father's old shield indeed was unbroken even though it had been through many trials with him on his journey. There it was though, right above the mantle where he'd always remembered it to be.

He had to admit, Berk had changed just like he did. There were more lodges that spread past the path to the water springs, the washing stream. It seemed the population had grown and there were faces he didn't recognize. And he had trouble figuring out which lodge his sister lived in but it was clear once he was accosted from behind by two heads—sniffing him up and down and the head on the left let out a high pitched squeal of glee and slammed into him so hard he fell back.

"Hey you guys!" Tuff shoved off the neck of the right and wrapped his arms around the left head, wrestling it into a fond embrace.

The Zippleback spread it's shuddering wings happily and he played with the heads a little bit before remembering why he was standing in front of this particular lodge.

He had missed Ruffnut, after all she was his twin but the last four years he had felt like an only child. He cautiously knocked on the door—wondering how she would react.

Having your twin die and suddenly show on your doorstep might be traumatizing but he shrugged thought off—she was Ruff, she'd be disappointed or thrilled.

The door opened and he saw a mega-bearded Fishlegs.

"What? What are you doing with my sister?"

"Isn't it a little late for that?" Fishlegs asked, not humored—not even phased at Tuff's sudden resurrection, and Tuffnut wasn't even making a joke. They heard a sneeze and saw a small child—a girl shyly peek out from behind Fishlegs's boots.

"What is that?" Tuff asked incredulously.

Fishlegs frowned, "Your niece. Frostbite, say hello to your uncle Tuffnut."

She had to have been no older than two years; she pulled at her long blonde braids and looked at her toes, "Hewo Tubbnut."

"She has a stuffy nose right now," Fish gave the reason for her odd words.

Tuffnut was in shock. His sister had a child? Was that safe? She had a child with Fishlegs? Sure they had been dating when he left but he figured she'd get tired of him and move on.

"What's going on? Who's there?" he heard faintly his sister's voice ask rather adamantly and obnoxiously. It was like music to his ears.

"It's Tuffnut," Fishlegs answered neutrally. Man, Fishlegs was just not in the friendly sort of mood; he looked worn out. He scooped little Frostbite up—she was ridiculously tiny compared to her father—and she held his shoulder, "Bedtime Sweetcake, you aren't supposed to be up and about, you know that."

"But Dabby, I wanteds to see ungle Tubbnut."

"Maybe tomorrow. You need to rest. Now Blow," he presented a kerchief and held it to her nose. She closed her eyes and blew, making a honking sound.

"I feel bettuh now." She insisted and grabbed a bit of her father's blonde beard to pull his gaze down fully, "Now can I see Tuffnut?"

Tuff could feel himself smile at his niece's curious persistence to know him. Why not? He was the coolest uncle ever and he already knew it.

Fishlegs only shook his head but smiled warmly at his daughter, "Bed."

He turned inside which finally let Tuff be able enter the lodge.

Not two steps in there stood Ruffnut, arms crossed, scowl on her face just as he remembered leaving her, or maybe that was all his default memories of her.

Scowl, scowl, scowl.

She was wearing a dress, she looked different.

"You should get back to bed too," Fish ordered as he passed her but she ignored her husband and continued to stare at her brother.

She flipped a piece of pale blonde hair from her eye rather indignantly, "I knew you were alive, my twinstinct told me so."

Tuff rolled his eyes, and stepped inside "Yeah but 'twinstinct' failed to tell me you had a kid."

"Well it took you long enough."

"Missed you too, sis."

She threw her hands up with sudden ire, "You missed everything! My wedding, my daughter, not to mention three of our birthdays—" she ranted but he just stepped forward and firmly hugged her.

"Not anymore. I'm home now—for good."

Then, to his surprise he felt her squeeze him in return, "Not too hard bro."

"What?"

"Don't squeeze me too hard."

"Why?"

"I got another bun in the oven, idiot—or did you fail to notice my unusual fatness?" her pleasant demeanor snapped to annoyed instantly.

"You get to bed!" they heard Fish demand from upstairs, addressing his wife yet again.

"Bite it, I'm talking to my brother for the first time in four years!" Ruff shouted back, finally in an acknowledgement.

He was staring at her stomach, "Odin, another one?"

He let her go and kept looked down, indeed her once thin midsection was bulging out slightly.

That's what's different.

"How did you survive?"

"You don't want to hear of my dangerous thrilling endeavors at motherhood," she warned menacingly and he agreed fully.

And now he could understand why Fish was so surly—dealing with an ill daughter and a pregnant wife—Ruffnut no less—must have been like a day trip to Helheim and back. Brave, brave, Fishlegs.

Tuff's respect skyrocketed for his bro-in-law immediately even more so because Frostbite was an indication that Fishlegs had put up with this before and had survived.

Fishlegs descended the stairs from where he had let off Frostbite "Can we get you a mug of ale or something?"

"Actually I was headed toward the tavern, you should join me you look like you could use a drink," Tuff thumbed the direction behind him.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ruff bit in question.

"It means you should probably go sleep for the rest of your term because you're really damn grumpy, and what's with the mood swings?" Tuff blurted despite Fishlegs's wide-eyed, cutting motion for Tuff to stop talking behind her.

"Get out of my house!" Ruff shouted and her husband bravely intervened to her attempt to attack her twin. Probably not a good action for her or the unborn baby.

"I'm pretty sure it's Fish's house and he doesn't mind me, do ya Fish?"

"Goodbye Tuffnut," Fishlegs insisted as Ruff tried swinging at Tuff. She would have made it too if not for Fishlegs's arm barricade.

"But you should really join me!" Tuff called backing out of the doorway. "We can catch up!"

They were now brothers after all now, weren't they?

Fishlegs only absentmindedly nodded as he dealt with Ruff's slough of curses. The door shut on him. If one thing had stayed the same while he was away, it was Ruff. One baby out, one baby in and she still was the most unpleasant sister he'd ever known.

That night he and Snotlout hit the tavern hard and merry after Tuff shocked the living daylights out of his best friend at being alive. The only way to celebrate was to go to the tavern. They even got Fishlegs to join in though Fish warned he could only stay a bit for Ruff needed him and so did his daughter.

They sang songs and challenged one another to drinking contests. Men asked him about what he'd seen while away and he was vague, not really wishing to delve back into those memories quite yet. He wanted to bask in the aura of home! Surrounded by friends, and people he was familiar with, scents, and tastes he had known all his life that he had missed while gone.

Fishlegs left in the middle of it all, seeming to incessantly worry about the state of his girls. Apparently Fish didn't understand that both of them had Thorston blood—they would be fine. They just needed sleep. Let a Thorston woman sleep and she'd be worlds better when she woke up—at least to Tuffnut's knowledge regarding his past experiences with his mother and sister.

Snotlout wasn't hurrying home, and he had a wife, a daughter and a newborn son—albeit none, pregnant, ill or crazy.

What did Tuff have? Nothing like that, though it seemed pretty comfortable. No, all he had was a handful of adventures, chilling memories, some scars, and deliciously satiating nights.

Tuff threw back a swig of the stout in his tankard and called for more. A few bar wenches were about and Tuff wouldn't mind taking one home for some entertainment. They were all young, pretty Viking lasses who flirted with the men across the bar and refilled their mugs. His barmaid was a catch—a blonde with a lofty bosom. He wouldn't mind a roll in the hay with the likes of her. There was also a red-head tending to the middle of the bar—she laughed loudly at any compliments thrown her way. She might have been an easy conquest, though Tuff did prefer a slight sass in his women as it seemed more of challenge to dazzle them and it made the end result so much more enjoyable.

There was a dark haired barmaid on the far end who had not served them all night but was rather busy keeping the orders of those men over there filled. She was thinner, but her tunic was low cut and sleeveless, leaving her top assets a taunt for the imagination of men. He saw her do a trick and cross pour two ale mugs at once, which caused her patrons to shout and holler in drunken amusement and also warranted her some lusty offers or so Tuff could barely make out. She looked like a girl he'd laid with his time in the continent—well from the back anyway.

His vision might have been fuzzy around the edges. He had his share of babes over his journey but yet, none of them suited him so he merely enjoyed their intimate company—nothing more. He had hoped he could bring one back and he had looked but had found none that were lasting. On the outside he had crude thoughts, and might have said a few ungentlemanly-like things to them but once together he would always treat them like the ladies they were.

Maybe he was just feeling the urge to take a woman to bed and it didn't matter who at this point. Whatever it took to not feel so alone because even after everything that had happened he was still just that, soon to be sitting by himself on a night at the tavern.

And it was starting.

Snotlout slapped Tuff's shoulder, and gave him an intoxicated hug "I'm back off to m' lodge. See you t'morrow. Welcome back!"

"See you tomorrow," Tuff mumbled, wiping his hand over his face. They had forgotten to high-five to keep their masculinity in tact. But no one noticed, they were all just as merry if not more with ale in their bellies.

So now what?

Perhaps it was a good idea for him to go home too. He hated to admit it to himself but ale was one of his many demons.

He slammed his mug on the counter-top and paid his serving wench the amount owed for a night of cheer. He decided to pass on her and try his luck with the dark haired one. He ambled over to the other side to get better acquainted with her. It was hard to shove through the patrons who were already trying to get her attention.

"You know I've been watching you all evening and there aren't stars in Valhalla that shine as bright as you," he leaned on his elbow and fed her a line he learned in the Iceland. Girls loved that one.

She turned to reply but as soon as she faced him she right out dropped the mug of ale she had refilled.

He figured she must have liked what she saw so much she couldn't handle it, but that was until she frowned and struck him across the face. He nearly fell, he didn't expect it—what did he do wrong?The other ones must have spoken cruder things to her. His pick up line was classy!

"You're dead!"

"What?" he blinked, trying to will his vision to clear. So now she was threatening death upon him? She didn't respond but only looked to be scowling and holding back sudden tears, like he had hurt her feelings. Was this the effect he had on the women of Berk? Odin, No wonder he left in the first place.

He barely dodged another riled swing from across the bar but tripped off-balance from his sluggish reaction and hit his head against the edge of it.

It was lights out.

His head really hurt, dizzy, disoriented—both from the hit and the mass amount of ale in him. When he woke he barely knew he wasn't still on the longship, or in his lodge, nor his bed. There was a pretty bad taste in his mouth too. It was dark but for a candle lit near the bedside. Or no, what he laid on was not a bed, just a fabric stuffed with hay or leaves, causing him discomfort but only slightly better than the cold ground.

"Good. You're awake. Now you can explain yourself."

"Explain myself?" he mumbled, unsettled and looked at what he made to be the mad bar wench on her knees and looking him over at eye-level. That violent, yet enchanting piece of bar wench that had tried knocking him out. Did she? Is that why his head hurt? He couldn't remember. And now he was in her bed—no—mattress? He was so confused.

"Yes! When did you get back?" She nearly shrieked.

"Uh—how long was I out?"

"You have been unconscious for three hours and I'm growing weary of watching over you to make sure you aren't poisoned, now are you dull or just too drunk? When did you arrive back in Berk?"

How does she know I had even come home?

He looked her over, suspecting she might have been a mystic,"Uh…this afternoon?"

She narrowed her eyes, weighing his answer as truth or lie. She must have believed him, not that it was any of her business.

"And what are these scars from?" she demanded, running a finger across some scar tissue on his chest. His skin prickled with a subtle arousal.

That was when he realized he didn't have his shirt on, "I fought something called a bear…where's my shirt?"

"I threw it in the wash pile because you got sick all over it you drunken fool."

Oh, that was what he tasted.

"How did I get here?"

Where was here? A dingy looking area that couldn't even be called a lodge—a single room of a shack. The cool autumn air could be felt seeping through the cracks in the walls. They needed to be patched.

She left his side with a huff and began to remove a bucket of water off the fire pit, "I was going to beat you up for being a jerk but then you fell and hit your head and then you woke up but I couldn't tell if you were all there and then you got sick over yourself so I had Cringe lug you over to my place since your mother would probably just chide you or make fun of you in the state you're in—I know you never liked being teased, just like I don't. What?" she stopped her rambling explanation and asked because she noticed he was staring at her.

He was staring at her—trying to figure the mad girl out. She spoke as if she knew him but her face didn't ring a bell when he looked at her—all he saw was a very pretty girl he wouldn't mind getting to know better that night. He was halfway there in her bed, no—mattress—and without his shirt, he noted with roguish intent.

However, there was something familiar in the rambling manner she talked—he pondered to what in memory he could place it to, still looking around the room for clues. He took notice of a Viking helmet hanging off the corner of a wooden stake leaning against the far wall. He knew that helmet well, and realized no other could possess it—bringing her identity crashing to his mind.

He could not believe it.

"H—H—Harkin!"

"Yes, Harkin or did your four years abroad wash out your memory?" the lass snapped but with a hint of disappointment, and then a quieter, "You forgot about me."

"No, I could never forget Harkin but you, lady, are not Harkin."

Seriously. Harkin had been the scruffiest little tomboy in the village—this figure before him did not even have any of the familiar traces of the Harkin he had known.

"Little girls grow up. Just because you leave doesn't mean time stands still at the place you left or to that girl you abandoned sitting alone on the dock in the fog."

He winced at the bite in her tone of speaking 'abandon', remembering— "It was for the best."

"You can't tell me what is 'best' for me! You're not my father," she slammed the bucket of hot water to the ground next to the bed and a bit splashed onto him and burned him. She was actually scowling. Did she hate him? No, she couldn't have or else she would have let him sleep it off in the tavern just like the tavern keeper's daughter had many years ago. He hated passing out at the tavern.

"Rinse your mouth," she demanded, ladling the water and holding it to him. He drank it but it burned badly, he managed to swish it around and spit it into a bowl she held out. He wiped his face, still feeling a little uneven from the alcohol.

He took in her look, still unbelieving. Harkin. Little Harkin? She was now a tavern girl—who was subjected to drunken males chasing her skirts. This realization angered him.

"I don't have to be your father to tell you that working nights as a tavern wench isn't respectable. You're of warrior class, you're better than that. Don't you have a fella or someone to keep you out of that kind of mischief?"

Although if she did have a guy, they probably would not like the idea of an older man half-naked in her bed, er—mattress while she ailed him.

She snorted, "Please, you can't even talk about respectable— you were even hitting on me. I can take care of myself."

There was nothing but adamant determination her words.

She wrung the hot water from the rag and set it on his head with a disheartened sigh, "No man seriously wants a girl without assets, Tuff. My mother passed away two winters ago from sickness, my father is a dead warrior. I'm not worth their courting and so I do what I can to survive and if working long evenings serving ale will pay, I will do it."

"What happened to your father's lodge?"

"It passed to my mother but then passed in rights to a distant male relative—we're in the outback shed He was kind enough to let me take shelter here."

That didn't seem 'kind' in the least.

She stood and curiously looked out her window to see what was making noises, also dumping out the bowl's contents while she was up over there. The noises were probably a gaggle of Terrors in the slop hold. But he nearly jumped at the sudden emerald scaled Nadderhead peeking a weary eye through the pain.

"I'm fine," she insisted to the dragon. It eyed Tuff lying there and let out a sharp, satisfied sniff, moving on.

"So you finally got yourself a dragon?"

She only nodded and offered no more explanation.

He was vastly saddened to hear of her mother dying. Who had taken care of her after that? How did she cope?

What have I done? Tuff chided himself, his self-worth knocked down a notch at remembering her to ask him not to leave those four years ago. Would it be different if he had stayed? He stared, taking in Harkin's slim form as she stood by the window. It was nearly impossible to believe she at one point was the eager, adventurous, scrawny thirteen year old he had come to care for. Did she still hunt? Did she pass training all right? A bunch of questions settled on him but he couldn't think of which to ask first.

What was she now? A hopeless, determined—

She swung back around with a light shrug, and in that movement some moonlight hit her dark hair, casting a rather surreal look about her.

...beautiful seventeen-year-old.

Was that what she was? A grown lass that suddenly was tugging on his conscience in a much different way than she had when she was younger?

He sat up and rubbed at his head, he was still too intoxicated to be having such thoughts.

She was at his side in a stride, putting pressure on his arm, "Don't overexert yourself—"

She was lightly chiding but he didn't hear her words, just studied the way her lips moved. Her bottom lip was plusher that her top. He felt her hand on his forehead, the skin was soft but tough in other spots, she had put in some work as she grew no doubt after had been thrown into the hard life. Her hair fell into and obscured one of her eyes, even like it had when she was thirteen and that's what finally convinced him it was actually her.

He could see it now that she was closer, the resemblance of the girl he remembered. Her eyes were the same turquoise color as they caught the light of the candle. She had dark freckles, but only a few, that spotted around her cheekbones under her eyes. She looked so concentrated and he just stared at every detail her face had to offer, searching, as more and more he saw the Harkin he had known in her expression. Her brows knotted and she blinked, asking him something he still didn't bother hearing. He reached out and brushed the hair from her eye, noting she had thick eyelashes.

She really was very pretty.

She suddenly tensed at his touch and he pulled away, suddenly ashamed for thinking of her in such a way. She wasn't just a pretty girl—he knew her, at least he thought he did. Then again, how would he know anymore—he'd been gone for four years. She could have been anything or anyone by now—but he still liked to believe she was his little, overeager shadow in the forest.

She didn't say anything in reply to his touch. She didn't even question it or rebuke him; instead she stood and reached behind her and undid the back laces of her long tunic.

"Harkin, what are you doing?" he asked dubiously.

"I've waited up for most of the night to make sure you didn't die—I'm tired, I'm going to bed," she replied, throwing in a yawn for good measure.

He looked around them, "Uh, Harkin—I'm in your bed."

Mattress.

"I know."

An stirring of want tightened slightly within him at the indications of sharing a—mattress with a female. She was a beautiful girl and she must have wanted him in some way to collect him and keep him there. Her long loosened tunic was baggy and easily dropped past her knees, suddenly rendering her all skin but for the wrapped under-material that gave her a slight modesty. She had definitely filled out as she grew older. She had a long torso connected to substantial curves despite her lithe body. She lifted the blanket that laid over him and slipped in, right into his side.

Tempting or not, he willed not to feel that way. He didn't feel that way but his body couldn't ignore the indications of her movements. He was a hunter by nature, and she was acting as a fresh blood trail—making him hunger for the prey it led to. The alcohol did not help his resistance either.

Their skin touched and he felt her leg brush over his and wrap around it slightly. Then to even more of his surprise, she pressed against him and her lips hovered so close to his—"I know this seems rather, forward but I've never ki—"

Her lips—were—so close.

He had to take the bait.

He grabbed her mouth in his hungrily, tasting the full lips and tongue of the girl. His teeth lightly bit her lower lip, lingering on the cushy surface. Did she know how completely seductive she was being? She certainly did not hate him.

"Why are you doing this to me Harkin?" He groaned, his hands itching to untie her wraps and take her then.

"Because I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember," she whispered against his jaw, breathless and fervent.

And she might as well have been talking about something disgusting because his lust for the female quickly ebbed.

"What?"

"I love you," She murmured, sleepily, her eyes were struggling to stay open. She hadn't been just saying it to say it—she was tired. She laid her head onto his chest and then it came even quieter, "I've always loved you. I'm glad you're alive."

Her hair was in her eyes again, but she didn't bother with it—she had fallen asleep and it was just as well she should. Luckily she had halted the beast below with the L-word and he was thankful despite the uncomfortable wilting of desire.

How could she have been in love with him for that long? Did thirteen-year-olds know what love was to hold it for many years? He paused, with a wave of dizziness, from everything—at twenty-two years, did he even know what love was?

Girls had made love to him, he to them, but none had ever loved him. They liked him, they liked his body and he liked theirs but didn't love them either—only returned their interests; those tarts in the continent. He obviously was not prepared to handle love, if such a thing existed.

He certainly cared for Harkin—enough to feel like he should shield her from the advances of crude men. However, remembering that thought of wanting to take her, how close he was to actually doing it—how was he any different? He would have taken a bar wench home if not for Harkin and would already have been bedding her. How could he protect Harkin from himself? Those four years away had jaded him to women and their intentions, which in turn had jaded his own.

The truth was he was good enough for any women, anyone—all except the girl laying on him.

But, it was kind of nice just sitting there and listening to her soft breathing and the feel of the side of her face buried into his sternum. She looked so innocent and he refused to think of her as anything else. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers through a long piece of brunette hair, and that felt kind of nice too. He leaned forward and gathered her up to pull her closer without waking her. There, it was warmer that way for both of them and now her face was buried in his collarbone. That felt even nicer.

It felt nice to be loved—that's what it was, right? Having a woman admire him not in order to satisfy themselves with his masculinity, having a woman to sleep with, lay on him for comfort, but not with the intention to be intimate—it was a new concept. It was a nice concept—perhaps the one he'd initially wanted to fulfill before he had left his home.

He studied her, noticing a slight frown was kept in her expression as she slept. What had happened to Harkin while he was away? He still wondered with an itching worry but he just couldn't think anymore, he let his head drop into the pillow and roll to the side so his cheek pressed against the top of her head. That was nicest of all the feelings so far.

It had to have all been a dream. Harkin wasn't grown up, Ruff wasn't a mother, Berk was still that safe haven he knew so well. So he shut his eyes and slept in order to wake up back on the longboat, despite knowing that all the wonderful feelings were brought on because a girl he once knew had told him that she loved him. It just seemed too good to be true.

Art News: There is a drawing of older Harkin in my DA gallery for those interested in seeing that.