A roaring, torturous wail was the first sound I heard. Echoes traveling throughout the hall, down the stairway, and into my ears. It sounded as though someone had plunged their fleshy, hairy arm into my mother's throat and yanked on her tounge, using enough force to rip it out of her mouth. But that wasn't what was happening, not at all. No, no, my mother would be extremely relieved if that would happen to her instead. The pain she was feeling was much worse than that.

Another scream, this time much louder. I couldn't help but cringe each time she howled. After all, it isn't easy listening to your mother suffer through so much agony. I wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but my father said to stay put.

"What's happening to mommy?" I had asked, "Is she okay?" I knew she wasn't okay, that much was obvious. But there was a small voice in the back of my mind telling me, maybe she is okay. Of course, the voice was wrong.

He smiled at me, his unkempt jet-black beard wrinkling as he pursed his lips. It was the kind of smile a parent uses when they want you to calm down. He knelt down on his left knee, lowering down to my 'level'. I never liked it when people did that, it was as if they thought themselves better than I, which I always thought wasn't true. My father cupped his enormous hand on my shoulder and told me not to worry. That she would be fine.

Then he disappeared up the stairs, leaving me alone. Well, that's not true. I wasn't alone, I had my uncle with me for company. But he wasn't exactly good company, at least in my opinion.

Uncle Gobber is the kind of person that can keep you laughing. But that's pretty much all he's good for. Yes, he did have other uses, ones that were useful to vikings other than myself. Primarily, he worked the smithy of the village, forging weapons of all kinds. Axes and swords, maces and daggers, bows and arrows, spears and hammers, he had them all. (My personal favorite is the hammer.)

He's also a brother and a friend. Brother of my mother, Ingrid Valtev, and friend to Stoick Haddock, chieftain of the Hairy Hooligans, otherwise known as my tribe. Gobber and Stoick have known each other since before they can remember. Though my mother is well acquainted with Stoick, being Gobber's sister, she didn't really appreciate him much. She actually prefered to spend time with Stoick's late wife, whose name I'd prefer not to mention. May she rest in peace.

Gobber wobbled over to a wooden bench and plopped down, nearly crushing the bench from how heavy he is. The two of us remained where we were the entire time, him on the bench and me huddled in a corner, the atmosphere still and awkwardly silent. I watched as my uncle fiddled with his metal tooth with his good hand, his only hand for that matter, and I knew he was as uncomfortable as I was.

Besides the afformentioned missing hand, which presently had a short hook attached to it, he also no longer had his right leg which was replaced by a wooden peg. Both limbs had been torn off by a dragon of some sort.

Oh, did I fail to mention that my home, the Isle of Berk, is practically infested by dragons. Us vikings despise the whole lot of them. From the bird-like Deadly Nadders to the pug-ugly Gronckles, the two-headed Hideous Zipplebacks to the hot-headed Monstrous Nightmares, we hate them all. And it's not because vikings are mean and cruel and bloodthirsty, with a specific taste for war. Well, we do love to fight, but that's not the point. We fight them because we have to. Otherwise those theiving reptiles would steel all of our food and we'd be left for dead.

But, for some reason, my mother didn't hate them. Infact she adored them. I never understood her infatuation with dragons. After all, they're just devils who take and take, heartless and inhuman. Nevertheless, I had to respect my mother, so I regarded her love for dragons with kind, carefully selected words. Such like, they're nice or I think that one's pretty. You get the gist.

All of a sudden, a strident cry boomed from upstairs. My eyes widened in fear; that one was not like the others. On impulse, I bolted from my cozy little corner towards the stairs. Just as my right foot was about to make contact with the first step, I was jerked back by the collar of my neatly woven blue-gray shirt. Angry deep-sea blue eyes glared into my uncle's own baby blue ones.

He gave me a chiding look, daring me to defy my father's orders. I folded my arms arms in an upset manner and pouted, just like any other four-year old would do. I wanted to see my mother! I wanted to be sure she was okay! Why didn't anybody understand that?

Before I could explode from all that aggravation, my father appeared at the top of the stairway. He only said two words, but they were the best words I'd heard all night: "She's here."

I hurried up the stairs, more excited than my father or my uncle. More excited than anyone could have ever been.

Once I reached the doorway of my mother's bedroom, I heard a new sound. A high-pitched whine, followed by a soft coo, which was a much better noise than my mother's painful screams. And then I saw it.

Cradled in my mother's arms was an infant wrapped in a cream colored blanket. A bit of spittle dribbled out of the baby's mouth as she gurgled in delight. I gasped in wonder; she was truly a heavenly sight, the gods must have blessed her. Little ash-brown hairs sprouted from her bald head and as her eyes fluttered open, I could spot purly beautiful choclate brown irises. Speaking of her eyes, they were wide open now, observing the surrounding room, and they shone brightly like a star twinkling against a coal black night sky.

My mother grinned at her newborn, causing my uncle, father, and myself to smile as well. She had that kind of effect on people, and everything else about her was charming, too. From her reddish-brown locks to her azure eyes, she was absolutly stunning. And my favorite of all her amazing qualities was her voice. She had a rich scottish accent like everyone else on island, but unlike the others, her voice was soft and soothing. Everynight I fell asleep to her beautiful voice, resting in her arms.

My mother asked me, "Do ya like 'er?" Like her? I loved her! It had only been just a minute and I had already fallen in love. It was like someone had slapped me in the face then gave me all my heart's desires. It was a dream come true. But I'm not a sappy kind of person, so I simply nodded.

"She's so calm and..." I trailed off, pondering on just the perfect word to describe her. I reached my hand out to her, fingers outstreched, and she pressed her pudgy little hand against my palm. Her skin was smooth and tender, and it felt blissful against my own rough, callused hand. I was surprised by her actions, though. Most newborn vikings would've tried to injure me in some way. Like that Jorgenson boy born a week ago. Snotlout his name was. Tried to yank my finger off the second he grabbed hold of it. "Serene."

"Then that's what I'll name her. Serena." I couldn't help but smile. It fit her perfectly, though not a very viking-like name. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was her. On that night, I swore on my life I'd protect her. I would keep her safe.

Welcome to Berk, little sister.