Opposites
By Sinead
Author's Note: This was my first time writing in this universe . . . and after at least two years, I'm just going to upload it here for kicks and giggles. I haven't abandoned my Transformers story, but there's been a crap-ton of things happening in life that I haven't had much time to write. So here's some of my old crap. I just ask that there are no flames, please. Part of this was just to explore a plotbunny that bounded off to somewhere else.
Chapter One
This . . . is Berk.
Toothless was just like the other Vikings. He was the every-Viking. Tough and imposing like his father, manly, with hair as dark as his late and lamented mother. He was the type of young man that fit in with the crowd. His only competition was Astrid, but that was somewhat understandable, considering her background. She wanted to be the best dragon-fighter that their village had. The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, were incompetent and prone to fighting amongst each other before getting anything done, Fishlegs was, well, fish-leggy and Snotlout wasn't much brighter than a dim candle, for all that he was a loyal friend.
He was handsome without being overly stocky, he wasn't overly talkative, he didn't show his emotions, and he was smart. All four traits were for him, but there was one blatant trait that nobody could overlook that stood against him and his chances to becoming a true leader of Berk. His only way to overcome that rather large and overwhelming obstacle was to kill a dragon on his own power. Rubbing at his eyes while sitting on watch with his father, he stared out over the moonlit ocean.
"So. You dinnae want to learn how to fight dragons."
"Not yet."
"An' why is tha'?"
"I like 'prenticing to Gobber. Besides." He shrugged and looked at his feet. "He's teaching me some good stuff."
"Tooth, ye hafta gi' me somethin' more'n tha' to convince me tha' ye shouldna be in dragon trainin'." Stoik the Vast smiled halfway at his only son. Smiles wouldn't make a son soft. Hugging and showing overt amounts of affection would make a son soft. They were Vikings! Vikings don't show any emotion except extreme happiness at killing a dragon, extreme anger at not killing a dragon when you meant to, extreme toughness when . . . Hold. Toughness wasn't an emotion. Should it be an emotion? Hm.
Giving his father a look, he held up his left foot mutely. It was his obstacle. Clubbed, clearly smaller than his right foot, and a hazard to his balance, especially while swinging an axe. This was his one reason why he was being considered a failure. Chance of birth and the Accident.
"Ah, son, but the lack of a limb doesna slow a warrior down. Ye still have th' foot, after all."
This wasn't going to get him anywhere. "Da, I don't want to learn how to kill dragons."
"Oh? An' what are ye gonna do wi' them elsewise?"
"I just want to learn how to smith."
"Toothless, yer my son. Ye have to kill dragons so that ye can lead when I'm old'n'grey. What d'ye think that I did when me own father tol' me to fight dragons?"
"You fought dragons." Shaking his head, Toothless stood and grabbed the walking staff he brought with him everywhere so that he would be able to keep his balance. "I'm going home, Dad."
"Aye."
Not ones for farewells, they parted ways silently. Stoik returned to watching the skies, not knowing that his son didn't watch the ground as he walked away.
Toothless, too, watched the skies.
.o.
Making his way as fast as he could towards Raven Point, cursing his foot with words his father would box his ears for if he heard them, Toothless remembered the incident not three hours prior. He could throw a bolas like the best warrior in town, but when someone else throws it, tripping up a Natter, which tumbled its way into a catapult, which sends off an experimental super-bolas meant to trap dragons the size of a Monstrous Nightmare . . .
Well, let's just say that it hit something that nobody had seen, and everyone had heard the distinctive whistling of a Night Fury as it was targeting, firebombing, and destroying one of the catapult towers two or three times over. Fortunately, everyone else thought that the Night Fury had left, since the battle was as good as done by that point.
Toothless, however, had been watching the skies, and saw that darker-than-midnight form plummeting.
Pausing for breath, the young man looked up the trail ahead of him. And frowned. That tree hadn't been split and fallen last time he had come out this way. Limping closer, he looked in the direction opposite the fall, seeing branches and smaller trees also sporting damage. When he turned to look the other way, his mouth dropped in shock as he saw the fresh-dug furrow in the loam, going downhill. Skidding and sliding in the soft earth, his left foot caught on a rock (more like a small boulder), and he went tumbling the final ten feet to land upon his stomach right in front of a very hungry, very angry Night Fury.
He found out that no, your mouth doesn't actually go dry in situations like these. No, he didn't wet or soil himself, and no, he wasn't shaking. Okay, he wasn't shaking that badly. But he didn't scream, and he didn't move.
The dragon did.
It made a strange sound, something between a growl and a squeak. Toothless could see the way that the Night Fury had struggled against the bonds of the bolas, then had given up. Patches of the blue-black skin were rubbed raw, close to bleeding. While he knew that most dragons had a bony nature, this one . . . was he underfed? Was he a runt? Was that why he had been caught so easily? Maybe this was one of his first raids . . .
Why was he thinking about a dragon's welfare when he could just kill it and think about it later?
Moving slowly, seeing the great mossy-green eyes watching his every motion, Toothless drew his belt-knife. "I-I'm going to kill you, dragon . . . I am!" He raised his arm, looking to drive it down into the midnight chest, feeling his muscles shake. Firming his resolve and his grip on the hilt, he bit his lip. "I'll bring your heart back to my father, proof that I'm worth being the next leader of Berk! I'll prove it to everyone! I'll have my own hearth, my own home!"
That was when Toothless made the singular mistake of making eye-contact with the Night Fury. He saw emotions in that great eye; fear, despair, but a stubborn will to not give in and to not go quietly. At seeing this sheer intelligence that warred and rivaled with his own, Toothless' will crumbled and he backed a hobbling pace backwards, looking at the poor, crippled beast as it truly was.
Crippled . . . like him.
His arms fell to his sides, and he sighed, slumping and sitting, watching the dragon watching him before he spoke, his voice sounding old, defeated, even to his own ears. "I did this." Rubbing at his face with his free hand, he repeated the phrase sadly. "I . . . did this. I hurt you."
For almost an hour, he and the dragon watched each other as he ran through various plans, feeling the sun retreat behind clouds, and the chill of a midday sea fog roll in over the land. He couldn't bring the captured beast to Berk; he'd be put into dragon training and be the prize to be killed in front of the entire village. If he let the dragon go, he may be killed, or worse. If he left the dragon, he would end up starving to death or mangling himself worse by struggling to try to escape.
First option was out because he didn't want to directly cause the dragons' death. He didn't want to think of his reasons why. Third option was out because then he'd be causing the dragon's death out of negligence. Strange, that he thought of the dragon as an intelligent being that didn't want to die. But there was no denying the way that the green eyes moved over his form was indicative of intelligence at the level of at least a very smart dog.
It was wrong to kill something intelligent.
Toothless stood suddenly, going with Plan Number Two, startling the dragon as he moved to his side and gripped the rope, putting his knife away as he ran his hand along the taut wool-and-plant-fiber twine. Moving carefully, he followed the lines that bound the Fury, making sure to make a wide berth around the curling lips and the low hiss that had started to emit from the black head. Mind working furiously, Toothless walked back around to where the dragon could see him, then continued onto the ropes, once again pulling the knife out. "Well, only one way to do this . . ."
He found the loosest rope and pulled at it, glad that his knife had been sharpened only days before. It cut through the binds like a hot blade through fat. Three more ropes were sliced, and he found himself knocked backwards onto the ground, blackness surrounding him. Black wings, black forelegs, black body and neck and . . . Thor's Beard . . . the head . . .
The dragon was going to eat him.
They were staring each other in the eye, and the black beauty's wings shook, trembled, and the great green eyes began to narrow.
Squeak-growling in what appeared to be an inward breath, the dragon completed the inhale before shrieking fury into his face. Darting away, the black form seemed to shudder through the air, not moving remotely like a graceful being. Toothless moaned and began breathing again, standing up only to find time and memory blurring. When he returned to his senses, he was on the cold ground, wincing and pulling himself back up. He must have been there for a while, because he was stiff. What had . . .
Oh.
He . . . wouldn't kill the dragon.
And then . . . he had freed the dragon.
Shaking his head, he sighed and looked over his shoulder, still hearing the angry roars and cries of the dragon, punctuated with the sharp growl-squeaks. Picking his belt-knife up, he began the long trek home, still in awe that he was nose-to-nose with a dragon, and had survived.
.o.
"Toothless! There you are! Stoik was looking for you," Snotlout ambled up, moving much like his father, who was Stoik's left-hand man as opposed to Gobber being the right. Well, the left hand didn't need brains after all; it just needed to know how to hold a shield.
Nodding his assent of that fact, Toothless asked, "What's the total damage?"
"Maybe you should have been here to help with it," Astrid snarled as she walked past him.
He didn't rise to her bait, but was getting frustrated with her continual competitive nature. Ignoring her, he returned his gaze to the not-so-bright young man before him. Who began to tick the things off on his hand. "Uh, a few casualties because people didn't dodge fire that well. Mainly burns. Knothead lost a couple fingers. Three houses flamed, some of the sheep herd is gone, we lost one bonfire-tower, and the big launcher-tower was completely demolished by the Night Fury."
"Anything else?"
"Really, Snotlout, you shouldn't be telling him what he should have been helping to rebuild. He could start with the sheep."
"That's it." Stalking over to the young woman, he spun her to face him. "I didn't ask you to hate me for what I supposedly represent to you. Take a good hard look at me and at what I can and can't do, Astrid; you'll find that you have greater abilities than I do."
"You are to lead our village!"
"And I can and will."
"You can't even run across the village!"
Glaring at her, his eyes narrowing dangerously, he hissed, "Push it one more finger-length, Astrid. Keep pushing. Your jealousy of my so-called position is blinding you to the truth that really lies at the bottom of this whole situation." Turning and limping off, shoulders set much like his father's when the man was incised, he pushed between the twins, who were staring in shock after him. "You ever see him that mad, Ruff?"
"Nuh-uh." She frowned and whispered, "And I haven't seen him limp like that since he was . . . since after that."
Astrid glared at them while Snotlout carefully edged away from her sight and into the shadows between his house and Fishleg's, hearing the angered voice of the young woman. "Fine. Be on his side."
"We're not on anyone's side," the female twin replied, showing more maturity in this moment than she had in her whole life to this point. "But you are being cruel to Toothless." Ruffnut shrugged before moving on towards their home, her brother right after her, exhausted from the rebuilding. Her voice carried over her shoulder. "It's not like he can help what he is."