Chapter One - Cold
"So when you're cold
From the inside out
And don't know what to do,
Remember love and friendship,
And warmth will come to you."
Stephen Cosgrove
Jackson Overland was only thirteen years old when he met Hiccup Haddock.
It had been an exceptionally cold afternoon; the soft snow had overwhelmed the surrounding undergrowth. In the middle of that frigid environment, Jack had thought to be lost forever: it had been hours since he had last seen any friendly faces, and the pathway in front of him certainly didn't look like the one used to lead him home.
The frost had touched his little hands, making them inflated and red. His teeth were gritting against his will and even a breath of cold air was an unbearable torture. He was loudly calling his sister, who was also the last person he'd seen before getting lost.
"Emma! Emma! Where are you?!" He exclaimed with raspy voice, all the while waving his bony arms with vehemence and desperation.
The silence was driving him crazy.
'Where is my family that cares for me, that leans on me, that interferes with my stuff, that never leaves me alone? Why aren't they here to help me find the way back? Mum, what should I do? I… I don't know.'
Suddenly he succumbed to despair, limping to the ground; the sun was going down, making way for the moon, and the boy was still alone in the middle of nowhere.
Regaining lucidity he tried to light a fireplace, using the teachings of his dad, who'd once showed him how to give life to the flames with the help of two flints.
Unfortunately, he obtained nothing except for a faint hint of smoke; he sat still on the stump of a fallen tree, curling himself up just to keep whatever heat had remained.
The little boy was awfully hungry - all his thoughts and worries were obfuscated by a gnawing void which was giving him exhaustion. Plus the cold was impeding him to relax the muscles, stinging him like a sharp blade. He could feel his energies abandoning him in a flashy way.
What did his grandfather say about the cold?
'The cold isn't always a good thing, Jack: sometimes it is so sharp that it can take your breath away. It's able to hammer in the head like a drum roll and never go out. Believe me, I know it all too well.'
Jack didn't know what death was, nor what there was after. When somebody of the village died, during the funeral the boy was surprised while observing the body of the deceased: they seemed to be dozing off, full of a timeless slumber. He wondered what they could feel: fear, dismay or impotence? When his mother said that, supposedly, the defunct was in a better place, Jack turned to look at him again with question air. How could he be in a better place, if he was right there in front of him sleeping?
Now he thought the death was reaching him.
The snow would have been his tomb; it would have preserved his tiny body so that he would have been properly whole and leave-taking once his corpse was found. Reflecting on this, his eyelids imperceptibly closed, and his breath got shorter while his heartbeat was decelerating.
The coldness, just like his grandpa said, was hammering in his head. The cramps, caused by the extremely low temperature, didn't leave him and the hunger pain announced the arrival of the horsemen of the Apocalypse.
When Jack finally lost his consciousness, a young boy appeared over him. He was slightly taller than the freezing child, and was wearing a green shirt and a sleeveless fur coat. His face was pale, contrasted by the freckles and the green eyes, that were dissipating into the whiteness of the glacial snow. He was standing a few feet away from Jack, looking at him.
Eventually, he drew out a blanket from his leather bag and covered the poor unconscious boy; in a short time he animated a fire and accosted him in the vicinity of it. He didn't say a word.
In that comings and goings, Jack was gradually coming round and when he finally looked at his saviour, he seemed to be even more confused than before.
"A-are you ok?" the stranger stumbled awkwardly. He had a little scar under the lower lip.
Jack remained silent, feeling some relief because of the warm flames; finally he hinted a feeble 'thanks' while getting his hands towards the bonfire.
The two young boys kept quiet, sitting next to the fireplace. Maybe they were embarrassed, or maybe it was just the tiredness caused by the ambience's oddness. They were enjoying the fire, whose flames were lighting their contracted faces.
The dark sky welcomed the light and perspicuous stars, and the two silently admired them in their splendour. Unexpectedly bows and bright rays of light painted the firmament – it was the Aurora Borealis, lighting the night sky with the green and blue colours.
The boy in the fur coat was the first to talk: "Are you lost?" he asked, absorbed by the contemplation of that idyllic phenomenon.
Jack nodded, observing the acquaintance.
"Yeah, me too." The other continued; "Well, no. Let's just say I was the one to decide it."
The thirteen-year-boy raised his eyebrow: "What do you mean?"
"I mean that, sometimes, I feel the unrestrained impulse to disappear." The freckled boy explained with nervousness. "Sometimes I feel I've outgrown my own life so, when I'm at my limit, I just go away to be alone. For a while, at least."
"Aren't your parents worried about you?" Jackson was shocked with all of those rebellous words - if he had done something like that his parents would have been furious.
"Not really..." the brown-haired boy said. "I've never met my mother. My father, on the other hand, is too busy with his Chief's stuff to care."
"Chief's stuff?"
In the meantime the light of the burning was eclipsing. Its maker took some twigs and tried to revive it – having that done, he answered his interlocutor. "My dad is the Chief of Berk, a small Viking village. Have you ever heard of it?"
"Not really."
"Well, better this way. You're not missing anything."
"Does it mean you're a Viking?" Jack had heard of the Vikings before. His grandpa described them as mighty, bloodthirsty and barbarian men.
The boy looked nothing like one of those – he was extremely skinny and a little clumsy, too, but he had a significant morose expression. When he nodded in an answer to Jack's question, the younger boy gave him a surprised look.
"I know what you're thinking. I don't look like a fearless Viking."
"I imagined them a little differently." Jack admitted, embarrassed.
The other mumbled something and then sighed, gazing up at the sky. The next thing Jack heard was the skinny lad sobbing quietly.
"What is wrong with me?"
Jackson's eyes widened, he really was struck with the instability of his new acquaintance; he felt sorry for him.
With no hesitation, he touched his little shoulder, showing a reassuring smile: "There's nothing wrong with you. You've just saved my life. You should be proud of it."
"Anyone would have done it." The Viking said, sniffing up with his nose. "But thank you."
Subsequently the saviour revealed his own name. Hiccup. A bizarre name, Jack thought.
They started with a small talk about general stuff, ending up touching upon the most personal issues - especially Hiccup, who seemed to be in need of someone to let the steam off with. Even though Jack was cold and scared, he listened to him with concern.
Hiccup's father was Stoick the Vast, and he was the supreme authority of Berk: he was powerful, brave and wise. His son was the exact opposite: he was a weakling, smaller and fainter than his peers. He preferred the mind to the physical strength and he was missing of all the requirements for the perfect Viking.
Basically, he was a disaster.
He was fifteen years old and near to the adulthood. He had not yet defeated a dragon (the enemy by definition of the Vikings), and for this reason he was considered a dishonour. It didn't matter he was not showing it – the boy was suffering because of his tribe's refusal and, most of all, his dad's. He also fretted over the pain of love for Astrid Hofferson, a girl known for her indomitable rashness and boldness. Anyway, his life was a mess and it was for this reason he needed to escape from all that inadequacy that was dismaying his being.
Jack's life was quite different: he knew his parents loved and accepted him for who he was and, especially during that evening, he couldn't be more grateful. In that moment he wanted to embrace his mother so badly, who had always showed morbid worry towards him. He wanted to go home, even if he didn't mind the poor victim's companionship.
While Hiccup was letting it out Jack was listening to him with lucid and concentrated eyes, however, the Viking needed nothing but this: somebody to listen to him without criticizing, with no hypocrital phrases to say.
Their unusual friendship was born just like that: from a chatting in front of a fireplace. A conversation, with faces uncovered, in the grip of the hard winter.
Next morning Jack was found by his dad, who brought him back home with repeated warnings.
Before going back, Jackson asked Hiccup if he could see him again.
Their meetings became more frequent, until Jack discovered Hiccup's big secret: Toothless, a dragon that the Viking was secretly training, keeping him away from all of his tribe. He showed him to Jack – it was a beast with dark and scaly mantle, with two green, piercing eyes that oddly reminded him of a cat.
The secret of the Night Fury was the pin of their loyal friendship which persisted through that unusual fact's revelation, through the marginalization of poor Hiccup, through the reaching of the adulthood.
A friendship born from a simple phrase:
'There is nothing wrong with you.'