The dreams always came to him-and the dreams, he knew, were memories, for they were the littlest things which his mind still tried to reconcile with itself.
But when he awoke he never could remember them, for-
"Haddock?"
The dreams were scattering now.
"The sun's been up for a half hour now!" Stormfly's voice cut into his sleep and he grimaced. He cracked one eye open. Sunlight filtered through the windows, irritatingly bright even through the dimming layer of dust that coated the glass.
He yawned, stretched, and spread his wings to catch some of the morning's warmth. With a shake he stood.
He stared down at his feet out of habit. His scales turned rapidly back to their natural gold, but a dark violet still faded around the ends of his toes. The color unsettled him.
"Haddock!"
"I'll be right out!"
Haddock nudged the door with his nose. It creaked as he pushed it open.
It wasn't often that the forest was not wreathed in fog at this hour of the morning; today the air was clear and the sky blue where it was visible between the thick canopy of pine needles. Light played in shifting shapes against the bare rocky cliffs.
Stormfly sat, eyes squinted at him, upon a fallen log. About the edges of her wings and face there was an orange tinge of irritation. It vanished at Haddock's apologetic shrug.
"We've got work to do today," she scolded with a quick gesture toward her right, "Get washed up."
Haddock huffed. Stormfly's expression shifted to one of quiet exasperation and he acquiesced.
The pond was tucked behind their little home; the water was pure and fish could be seen darting back and forth beneath its surface. Haddock leapt in with a loud splash.
"I's cold!" he gasped, spluttering. Stormfly chuckled.
She slid into the pond elegantly, paddling slowly toward him. He flinched back as her rough tongue raked across his forehead, wiping away whatever dust had clung to the grooves in his scales. His ears flicked back and he stuck out his tongue.
"You're quite the fuss today, aren't you?" Stormfly jested, nudging his shoulder with a paw. "...Did you sleep well?" Her tone fell to something more serious as she spoke.
"Yes," Haddock deadpanned. "Woke up with violet scales, but no, I completely slept well."
Stormfly's scales flickered with concern.
"Nightmares are a tricky thing," she said. She licked the top of his head again, one last clean. "They don't matter now, in your waking hours."
He nodded. Stormfly led him back to shore; they both shook the water from their wings.
He let her lead the way as they flew out of the crater and into the open sky, toward the pointed silhouettes of houses clustered against the far shore.
The village of Berk had changed in these five years, or so they'd said. The story had been told to him time and time again. Dragons had once been hated. The chief's son had brought them together. It was a tale told at great banquets, the teller's voice heavy with reverence and all others listening in enraptured silence.
It was barely evident that the era of hatred had taken place. Dragons were omnipresent, walking with their human companions or perching on feeding troughs, winging through the sky alone or with riders on their backs.
They alighted near a home close to the peak. It was a simple dwelling, not much larger than their small shelter, with a wood-carved dragon's head at its front. Stormfly rapped the door with the tip of one wing. She was answered almost immediately, by a woman dressed in modest furs whose hair was tied in a single long braid down her back. She regarded them, her gaze briefly landing on Haddock before flicking back to Stormfly. Her lips curved into a little smile.
"Finally," Astrid said. "I thought you'd never get here."
"It was bathing day," Stormfly explained with a toothed grin. "You can't miss bathing day if you want your scales to shine."
Astrid laughed and shrugged.
"You're the expert on scale upkeep, it seems." She beckoned them inside.
Her home was considerably cleaner than theirs. Weapons hung on racks on the walls; a fire roared in a pit in the center, a pot of something simmering above it. Baskets were piled on a table near the corner.
"Has Camicazi spoken to you? I mean," Astrid tapped her forehead.
"Not since the last time we saw her." Stormfly shook her head. "She's becoming more and more quiet, I worry for her."
Astrid poured something into a mug, from a stoneware jar sitting on the firepit's edge, and took a sip of it.
"She has powers we can't really understand," she said. "And I'm sure they weigh on her."
"...They weigh on you, also, but you haven't chosen to spend your days in isolation."
"True, true." Astrid took another sip of her drink and sat in a cushioned chair. Stormfly lay beside the fire; Haddock sat beside her, curling his tail around his legs.
"How is the village faring?" Stormfly asked. Astrid shrugged, setting her mug on the chair's arm.
"Decently enough. We've been building a new wing of houses-for the Bog-burglars, you know. It's hard to get rid of a timberjack infestation." She was silent for a moment. "Potatoes, too. We've been growing them, storing them. We have quite the crop going."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"And," she continued, "There's the annual festival approaching. Coordinating that is quite the feat, and it is the fifth one we've had, and everyone's always so excited about its approach it's…."
"Difficult?" Stormfly asked.
"...Yes. "
"Will you be dancing?"
"Storytelling," Astrid said with a grin that almost seemed genuine. She seemed to remember something, then, and stood abruptly and half-ran to the table. She patted one of the baskets. "Which reminds me, when you take these to Cami could you extend an invitation?"
Stormfly stood. She turned her head toward the fire, which had started to dim to a glowing ember, and huffed a tiny ball of blue flame at it; it flared back to life. Astrid nodded silent thanks.
"She won't accept," Stormfly advised.
"It's worth a try."
Astrid took a large square of fabric from the wall and began to pile baskets into it.
"Let's see...we have fish, potatoes, vegetables, a few eggs, an ale cask…" She tallied off the supplies as she stacked them. She stepped back, nodded, and tied the edges of the fabric together with a deft knot.
"Your son can take her herbal things. It's just the one box, I'm sure he can carry it?" Astrid asked.
Stormfly nodded. Astrid took a rather large wood box and tied it into another square of fabric.
They dragged the bundles outside and said their farewells, Stormfly took the fabric in her claws and hovered, wingbeats stirring dust. Haddock hooked onto his own bundle and launched himself into the air.
They flew over the ocean, now, and it sparkled. Salt spray blew up around them and when Haddock looked back he could hardly see Berk, merely a greyish smudge on the horizon.
"Are dragons allowed at the festival?" Haddock asked. "I hear you discussing it. I've never seen you go."
"We may be a part of Berk's culture now," Stormfly explained, "But the Bog-burglars like to keep us at a safe distance. This is their day, and so we let them have it."
Haddock nodded.
"I'd like to hear Astrid's stories, though," he complained.
"I'm sure she'd like you to hear them-just not then."
He tilted his head and took a few quick flaps to catch up with his mother.
"Why does Astrid dislike me?"
Stormfly turned her head to look at him inquisitively.
"She never speaks to me," he elaborated.
"I haven't the faintest clue," Stormfly answered. "We don't think the way humans do. They're wont to harbor dislike for reasons we cannot comprehend-and vice versa."
Haddock wasn't satisfied, but he didn't press the question further. The breeze was lovely; the shut his eyes and settled into the feeling of the brisk air running past his wings, and they flew in silence for who knew how long.
"We're here," Stormfly said, and Haddock opened his eyes.
Their destination was too small to be an island, he thought, and yet it was one by whatever classification the humans used. Oftentimes they simply called it the eye-land, for it truly looked like one-with a pupil of dark forest and an iris of waving grass, staring at the heavens. As they made their slow descent Haddock could see the straight-lined rows of a small garden, and a simple house with a patched-up roof and the grimacing visage of a vorpent carved into its frame. The door stood cracked open, slightly.
They laid their bundles before the doorway, and retreated to the grass to watch from a patient distance.
Camicazi peered from behind the door. Her eyes were sunken, exhausted, but she was almost smiling as she took tired, shuffling steps to her supplies.
"You can come in, you know." Her voice was as gaunt as she was, a soft whisper as if she was afraid to speak any louder. "My house is meant for dragons. In fact...Nikk." She beckoned to someone.
A Terrible Terror poked its wide dumb eyes from the shadows of the door. It licked its eyeball. Haddock regarded it with a nod.
Haddock approached Camicazi. She smiled and patted his head; she scritched behind his ears and he purred.
And how are you, little one? Her mind's voice was stronger.
Alright, Cami. His purring grew as the scritching hit an itchy spot. Camicazi laughed breathily.
It's your hatching day coming up, isn't it?
It is.
I've heard five is a big year for dragons.
Haddock shrugged his shoulders.
Not particularly. Maybe for Terrors? Who knows?
Camicazi laughed again.
"My Nikk has had his fifth hatching day just this past month," she said aloud with a proud gesture toward her pet. Nikk was sitting, scratching an itch on its neck with a hind leg.
"Come on, Nikk," Camicazi whispered. The Terror squeaked and wrapped itself around her shoulders.
Camicazi's home was as messy as her hair. Boxes and baskets were piled in every corner; clothes were scattered over the bed; herbs hung from the ceiling and sat in bundles on the table. A basket had been repurposed as a wastebasket; eggshells and fish bones stank in it, the smell barely masked by the cloying scent of lavender. Squares of parchment and fabric and birch bark filled what empty space there was, tied to string as garlands from the rafters and stacked on shelves and tucked into books. An open inkwell sat on the table. Camicazi sat in her simply-made chair and took her pen in her hand, tapping it absent-mindedly on the table.
Stormfly took the wastebin in her teeth and vanished through the doorway, returning a moment later with the empty basket. She set it back in its place. Camicazi thanked her with a glance.
"You've been busy," Stormfly remarked with a cursory look over the papers. Camicazi nodded.
It's been worse as of late. Her lips were pursed, anxious, and ink dropped on the already-stained wood surface as she continue to tap the pen. More and more. I've cut up a dress to use as a surface. She pointed to a square of red fabric hanging toward the center of the room. I want to preserve them, no matter how they hurt me. I must say, though...they're mostly inconsequential, if hard to interpret. Barak will have a good fishing trip. Otar's wife will give birth in 2 year's time by the light of the full moon. Little things like that.
"So nothing like the dragonkey prophecy?" Stormfly asked. Her scales were beginning to show a worried purple. She shivered, and the color turned back to gold as her pupils narrowed briefly.
Camicazi shook her head.