You and I- we came from different worlds, we did.
You, who had never really KNOWN your father- not on a deeper note, at least.
Me, who had never even laid eyes on my father; not since I was little, anyway. Not since I was but three years old when I saw him wading through the snow from our doorway. I remember running, tearing away from my mother, blonde hair swinging around me in long tangled beams of gold.
Never said much, he did. Just swung me over his shoulder, grinning. Grinning, like I was the funniest thing he'd ever laid eyes on.
Just kept smiling down at me, his eyeteeth glinting in the darkness.
He touched my nose, gently, with one cold finger, as if he were afraid I'd break into a million pieces- in awe.
He let me go, then, and I watched as he turned tail and walked away. My own mother had to hold me back, thrashing and hollering like mad.
I never saw him again.
My home was another world from yours- different from Berk in the craziest sense possible.
Bog-Burglar islands weren't, by ANY stretch of the imagination, comfortable.
You couldn't get cozy in a place that was always either frozen over, or catching on fire.
(We weren't known for our fire-breathing tendencies as much as our dragons were…)
But the islands had a kind of demanding beauty about them, one that only I seemed to notice.
I fell in love with that difficult piece of land, I did.
I loved the wild cliff-face that dropped off into the ocean. Those cliff-faces proved particularly useful for watching sunrises; for watching the sky melt from the blackness into a winking melody of pinks and oranges and, finally, a glorious triumph of blue. Since I was a mere three years old, around the time my father had left, these places became my only refuge. I would sneak out in the early hours of the morning, wiggle out of the windows, if I could, just to watch the scene of nature that drew me like a moth to a flame.
The land was just as stubborn as the people that thrived there. The ground was rocky in some places, and rich in others. The grass grew in clumps and patches, with exception of the occasional field.
It wasn't much, but it was mine. In the most literal sense possible, it was MINE.
The Bog-Burglar islands were the ONLY home I ever knew; nestled comfortably between Villainy, a leap away from hysteria, and a bound away Silence.
This was where I took my first shaking steps, where I ran through the marshes, where I stood on the cliff-face, searching for adventure.
You see, there are a few things the Bog-Burglar islands are short of-
Men, bare chins, and silence.
But never, EVER, adventure.
And that, was the area I thrived in- much to the chagrin of my mother.
Adventure was always calling, beckoning me to the ends of the isles, pumping through my veins like battle drums- just as much a part of me as my ears, or fingers, or toes.
Needless to say, I was always, ALWAYS, in trouble of some sorts.
Whether it were from tying Gunnhilde's braids in a knot during the Thor's day Thursday festivities, using the stable dragons to nick sweets from the vendors, or (as you know) breaking into roman fortresses.
But, we'll get into that later.
My mother, she always found me. It took her a while, it really did- but she always found me…
Sooner, or later.
I had gotten used to the waiting, though.
It's hard NOT to get used to waiting whenever you were in need of rescue. (Which I rarely EVER did, thank you very much.) It's hard not to get used to the stares- to the loneliness that eats at you, duller now, after years of smothering its flames.
Because everywhere I went, I got stares.
Even in my own home, or running barefoot through the marketplace, cackling like mad from seeing your Aunt Aldis's hair catch fire while she were roasting her own fish; you happen to acquire strange looks, after that- everyone would.
No-one could figure me out.
Here I was, this exceptionally small girl VIKING; whom, like most every other Vikings, got into trouble.
The catch grew more apparent with each and every year of shenanigans- I was the sort of girl Viking that couldn't STAY out of trouble, you see.
The whole village knew, by my tender age of five, that I was a force to be reckoned with.
They held their valuables down every time I ran hither through the square, and learned to duck out of the way- especially when I was followed by the chief of our tribe; My own mother.
Some days, I couldn't tell whether they loved me or hated me.
I was the ONLY heir to the tribe. I was exceptionally good at Viking-like activities, I was stubborn, I was adventurous, and I was lively to no ends. They went wild at every training exhibition, cheering my name-
"CAMI-CAZI! CAMI-CAZI! CAMI-CAZI!"
I remember the glow, the proud warmth that spread through me like fire with every word of praise.
I knew I was loved.
However, in a sense, I wasn't.
Who could love the girl that burgled everything in sight?
Who could feel loved when your own people ducked for cover whenever they saw you ripping through the streets?
"Love is a fickle thing," my mother had often told me, while giving her axe a good sharpening.
"The love of a people is even fickler," she had boomed.
"You will be adored one moment, ALWAYS, if you're very clever about it, and detested the next."
So, I learned to be loved.
I still got into trouble just as frequently as before. But now, I had learned to cloak myself in secrecy. I learned to be sneaky, to quench my thirst of danger on other islands.
The village people stopped ducking their heads, instead hollering hello over their stands.
I was loved.
Your world was different- Berk.
My mother often said the name, spitting it out of her mouth like a curse.
Your home was just as similar, land-wise, to mine.
But your people were behind- so behind it was almost humorous. I, for one, have seen my mother chuckling like a seal over the fire and shouts that you could see just barely from the furthermost tips of our beaches, like a small orange speck in the horizon.
"They're fighting again!" My mother would cackle, tears streaming from her blues eyes as she gasped for breath, "They're fighting the DRAGONS!"
You see, WE had already learned to train the beasts. It had been in our tribe, the pride of our homeland, for generations.
Our forefathers aimed to quench the beasts like water over a flame, except we had yet to learn that dragons AREN'T too keen on listening.
We gained SOME control, of course, but we were losing our grip fast around that time, not that any-one would ever admit it out loud.
Even though we had held domain over the creatures for as long as anyone could remember, they were starting to rebel. Their fires licked up our crops more and more often, the death toll rose to staggering numbers.
No-one could admit that we were starting to lose the age-old battle.
But, as you probably know, word travels at the speed of molasses from these parts. On our island, rumors lick up the pace fast. But, seeing as your island WAS an entire ocean away, word never really got out.
Except for ONE.
One story flew from the words of our elders, a PROPHESY- and every ear was desperate to hear.
A hero would come, they had rasped, from Berk.
Well, things didn't seem too chippy after that. The thought of one of those weak-spindled Vikings from BERK, of all places, really dampened spirits for a bit.
Because, you and I came from different worlds, we really did.
While you were revoked, ridiculed, a stranger in your own home- I was embraced.
You weren't strong, or ferocious, or violent.
You liked words; some rubbed OFF on me, I'm ashamed to admit.
No-one could figure you out.
I was ten, when the prophesy was told.
I had no idea that it would change the path of my life forever. And I did not, in the LEAST, expect to meet the very boy that the elders had praised.
I remember myself well at that age. My hair had grown uncontrollable- it laughed in the face of braids everywhere, and was the thickest blonde mane any-one had ever seen for a VERY long time. My face was soft yet angular, clever, eyes as blue as my mother's twinkled merrily behind my thick curtains of shining hair, pale eyebrows hanging arched above, ash-blond eyelashes framing them in thick veils.
I was still exceptionally small, though.
I wasn't concerned at all about the troubles everyone knew about.
My heart was a balloon, refusing to be deflated. I was planning to achieve the unimaginable-
I was going to break into a Roman fortress.