Welcome to my story! I want to mention a couple things right away. 1) I have no ownership of the How To Train Your Dragon franchise or Disney's Brave (2012) and I make no money from this fanwork.

2) This story is not for the faint of heart. Bear in mind this warning before you get in too deep to want to quit. However, if I haven't scared you away, then by all means, enjoy!

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Hiccup, Chief of Berk, leaned back in his chair and stretched. His eyes were fairly swimming from studying the books of law as he did every night. The Viking Laws were exhaustive and dry reading, but he trudged through them, night after night. He owed it to Berk, after all, to at least try to be as good a chief as his father had been. All day, he managed and coordinated and resolved problems. It was exhausting, and downright dull. When Astrid was home, the evenings were at least pleasant, because he could rest his eyes on her every once in a while as she mended gear on the other side of their firepit. It was very domestic, and nice. She wasn't on Berk presently. She'd had a dream on their wedding night that when she was pregnant for the first time, she needed to find a ~something~ that was essential to their child's well-being. He'd thought that he ought to go with her to find it, but she refused to have him along.

"It's bad enough that you've treated me like some sweet breakable princess since the day I said my period was late. I'm a warrior, Hiccup. This is what I do. Don't worry about me, or about our babe. We'll be fine. Trust me." And with that, she'd kissed his cheek, and stepped on to her skuta*

A log cracked and shifted in the fire, sending a cloud of sparks up and breaking him from his reverie. It was going to rain, he decided, massaging his leg. He glanced at the book, then his aching stump, and banked the fire so he could go to bed.

In the room that he and Astrid shared, on their marriage bed, he sat to take off his prosthetic. She'd been gone three weeks and therefore hadn't seen his newest version. He smiled a little. This one was very nice, if he did say so himself. It almost looked like a foot. Almost worked like one too. He'd gotten tired of the metal rusting from exposure, and after a fellow Viking chief had tripped him at the Thing and loudly said, "Not even a whole man, barely even half of one," he was done.

He had tried putting a shoe over the one he had, and that had not worked well. So he set out to redesign the whole thing. Now, after about 20 versions, it was nothing less than a masterpiece. It was shaped like his other foot, and covered in light oiled doeskin that laced up the front to allow him access the mechanisms inside as well as tighten the strap around his stump to keep it in place. What were truly exceptional about it were the hinges: two in the foot to allow it an almost normal range of motion, controlled with tension springs so they didn't flop around. A pivot joint in the ankle allowed even more motion, and the ultimate feature? The tension varied based on how his leg pressed against the stump. Just like how a normal calf muscle and tendon did. He was pretty sure he was done growing now; he wouldn't have to make a new one until this one wore out. He was glad that he was taller than all the other Vikings, even though he was still skinny. Lying back, he mused that the chiefing job was bad for him in another way. He never got a chance to get out and fly, or climb, or run, and barely any time to work in the forge even if Gobber would have let him now that he was chief. People kept bringing him food. He was starting to fit into the category of "could stand to miss a few meals". Well, not as bad as most of the Vikings, but it was noticeable to him. He yawned and pinched the candle flame.

Crickets chirped, Toothless snored softly from the ridge perch. Hiccup drowsily said a prayer to Freya for his absent wife and babe, and fell asleep.

The next morning the sun rose beautifully over Berk, two hours after Hiccup had started his day. Toothless still needed attention, after all. He'd scratched his dragon's loose scales off with a wire brush, and set the tail fin to allow Toothless solo flight so he could fish his own breakfast fresh from the sea. He'd done the other chores for the chickens, two sheep, two goats, and the pregnant heifer that had been part of Astrid's bride price, which she had named Gertrude. He cooked his own porridge and cleaned his house, putting things in order before beginning his customary walk around the village. This walk usually took all day, because the villagers would waylay him for every little thing. An hour into the walk, after mollifying Bjargey about her chickens, advising Ketil about his broken oarlock, and extracting himself from the jolly (and loquacious) conversationalist Bolli, yet another villager joined him.

Snotlout was by far the villager Hiccup dreaded interacting with the most. Not because Snot was a sore loser about the chiefdom, because he wasn't, not even a little. It couldn't be their rivalry, because that was all in Hiccup's head, obviously. Snot had been nothing but gracious and worshipful of Hiccup. Snotlout had grown out of his awkward illogical phase once he'd no longer needed to try to impress the ladies. He'd married a woman named Halla, who was younger than them. She was a tiny woman, but fierce. She was also very sweet and sensible - good for Snotlout. She'd just birthed their first child, a daughter they called Bretta. Hiccup couldn't really put his finger on the reason why Snotlout made him feel awkward, but in the back of his mind, a disembodied hand gestured to their history, all of it. He quashed that thought.

"Hiccup, my man!" Snotlout greeted loudly, slapping him on the shoulder. "How's it hanging?"

"Oh, hey, Snotlout," Hiccup said, "everything's fine, fine and normal, and all that." He winced at the ridiculousness of still being awkward at the age of twenty-two.

"So, Klanger told me his daughter the shepherdess spotted a small boat from the cliffside pastures. It looked about the size of your wife's, but was running no sail or oars that she could see."

"If Astrid, or whoever, is drifting from the cliff side of the island, the boat will run ashore on the south beach. No rocks there," Hiccup mused, wondering why Astrid would want to drift in.

"Maybe you should go meet your lovely bride and do some catching up." Snotlout winked ostentatiously.

"She won't land until after midday, at that rate of drift, you know. I can't shirk my super important duties here, anyway." Hiccup commented wryly, as Little Sven Hranason came puffing up the hill, to ask him something super important, obviously. Snotlout grinned and waited for Hiccup to deal with the kid's request (something about breeding seasons for goats).

Then he delivered the kicker. "Aunt Valka asked me to find you for something, can't quite remember what exactly it was, but she needs you," said Snotlout casually.

Hiccup turned around so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. "What? When? How long ago? Never mind, where is she?"

Snotlout snickered and pointed down the hill at Stoic's old house, where Valka lived by herself now.

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When the sun reached its zenith, Hiccup started down the hill to the beach, smiling softly as he imagined the impending reunion with his beautiful wife. Valka walked a few paces behind him, eager to see her daughter-in-law and grandchild. They called a cheery hello to villagers as they made their way down the path. Then Hiccup rounded the boulder at the entrance of the beach and his heart caught.

*Last Warning: Not for the faint of heart. I'm serious. If you read this anyway and regret it, remember I warned you.*

Hiccup stared, disbelieving and speechless, at the sight before him on the shore of Berk.

Blond hair, drenched red. Blue eyes, wide and vacant. Limbs sprawled at unnatural angles. More blood, dried brown, streaked down the twisted flesh of her once shapely legs.

His metal leg gave out beneath him and his knees hit the sand. It should have hurt, but he felt nothing. He couldn't believe… His ears rang with the noise of a thousand universes. He swallowed thickly, and the smell assaulted him. Further down the strand clouds of flies buzzed over slickly gleaming entrails.

He gagged.

The gruesome vision swam before him blurrily, and with a shock, he realized his face was wet. Crying. Of course he was. He swiped angrily at the tears. The whole village was watching, and this is what he showed them? Weakness – unacceptable – stupid tear ducts – (but, surely, if any situation called for it, this one did?) - Vikings did not cry; end of story. He blinked hard, and scowled.

Wait.

On her cheek, they'd branded her.

Steeling his stomach, trying to pretend this mutilated corpse wasn't anyone he knew or cared about (much less his bride – only days ago drinking honey mead with him), he leaned closer to inspect the mark. It had been burnt into her –no, damn it, the- face before death; quite some time before. Infection had set in. The areas surrounding the brand were red and swollen shiny, beginning to crack. The brand itself was a complex knot design of skin charred black.

With a mad sort of fury, he realized he hated the ones who had done this to her more than he'd ever hated anyone in his life. This was Astrid. She never lost, never gave up. She didn't ever stop moving, deadly and graceful. This ungracefully sprawled dead victim was impossible for him to reconcile with his fierce, vivacious wife. It was impossible.

It was really, awfully true.

What right did the gods – fate- whatever - have to smash him under its heel? He'd finally succeeded at something, tasted happiness for the first time in his life, and just like that it was taken away.

What had he done to deserve this? He worked so hard, hoped so tirelessly. Why couldn't it ever be enough?

He almost physically felt himself change. He didn't deserve this. He wouldn't take it lying down. The person he'd been - that Hiccup was gone. Suddenly, a new, wrathful stranger had taken his place. He stood to his feet, one metal and one flesh, and squared his shoulders.

He was a Viking. He was the chief. This was some strange wo- person he'd never seen before. He would bring the perpetrators of this wickedness to justice, dispassionately. He repeated these facts in his head several times to drown out the young man who had loved Astrid his whole life; the one who wanted to howl and rampage and destroy everything and then die.

"Scots did this," he said in a loud, even voice. That Celtic knotwork brand had been clear enough. "We sail in two days' time," proclaimed the Viking Chief, loudly enough for everyone to hear. He tightened his lips to a thin line and glanced down at Astrid's corpse, searing the image into his brain. "We'll make them pay," he whispered his vow to her, and then raised his voice, "We'll MAKE THEM PAY!"

"AYE!" shouted all his villagers, not quite a cheer, and not quite a snarl.

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*small boat