hey guys, this is a fic for the twelve days of doomsday celebration that's being held. Here's a fic for the final day of doomsday!
It's a tad bit depressing since it follows the events of the epilogue of book 12 so y'all can probably see where this is going.
Anyway, enjoy!
The ink doesn't run as smoothly as it used to. The hand that guides it is not as young as it used to be. The weathered hand stumbles across the page where once it used to dance. The ink trails in uneven lines, an old bumbling bird heading out on its last flight, it's feathers made of ink. The old man weaves his words slowly across the paper, an artist at work. He is careful with every curve of each letter, every blot of ink. He writes this paper as though it may be his last and deep down, he fears that it will. He knows he cannot continue, he knows his time is up but still he waits. By the silver moonlight, the old man writes his final story.
He pauses for a moment and coughs before resuming the slow dance of his left hand across the paper. Finally, the man stops and sits back from his work. He is not finished, merely looking for something more. Shakily, the man stands up from his chair and cautiously maneuvers across the room weaving in and out of the stacks of books that adorn the space. Eventually, the man stops before a red leather-bound notebook. He opens the pages and by the silver moonlight reads the words scrawled inside. The ink was faded as though it had been written several decades ago. The man read aloud the words, speaking to the silent night.
"There were dragons when I was a boy,"
Long ago there had been great grim sky dragons that nested atop cliffs, little brown dragons that hunted mice and rats, and gigantic sea dragons twenty times as big as the Big Blue Whale. But the old man had not seen these for a very, very long time. Sometimes when he bent down to the grasses he could hear the buzz of the small brown dragons living among the fauna. However, even their buzz was growing fainter. The sky dragons had not flown in a very long time, and sea dragons were all asleep in the watery depths. All except for one.
The old man took the book back to his desk and sat down once more, wincing as his old bones creaked. He took in his hand once more the quill and finished his letter.
"In my beginning is my end…
There were dragons when I was a boy,"
The beginning of the little red notebook was now written in the end of the battered brown one. The ink of the first was faded while the ink of the last was still drying. The old man smiles at the books. Their covers were battered and worn, and their ink was smudged and faded, yet the story was complete. This story, however, was not to be read for a very, very long time. It was a story for the future. A story for another time. The man hoped it was a story for a better time, he had dedicated his life to make the world of the future a better place. A better tomorrow.
Now he sat, watching, waiting. A gentle snow was falling from the clouds overhead, coating the world outside in a white blanket. A silver moon shown in the sky, it made the snow on the ground appear to shine like a carpet of diamonds. The old man folded his hands and sat at his desk as he had so many times before gazing out upon the world outside. When he was a young boy, he would sit, much like he did now, and watch dragons careen through the sky. Now the old man sat and waited for only one dragon. The village around him was silent for it was in the late hours of the final day of the year. The village was resting, waiting to awake to a new time. The old man had done so himself, so many times, but today the man watched the snowfall for the last time.
Finally, a spot of green appeared on the horizon. In all the black and white of the Earth, the green of a small dragon, the only dragon seemed to shine like an emerald on the horizon. The man watched his dragon fly for the final time. He watched the dragon's wings beat, and as the dragon came closer, the man listened to the steady hum of the wings for the last time. Now the dragon landed in front of the man staring up at him with emerald eyes. "H-Hiccup," the dragon spoke the name of the King and the old man smiled.
"Toothless," the king spoke the name of the last sea dragon and the dragon crowed. The king smiled once more, before letting it slip from his face, "it's time," he whispered. The dragon paused, and then Hiccup watched his eyes fill with tears.
"T-t-time?" the dragon asked, his voice small. Hiccup had not heard the dragon's stutter be quite so bad in a long, long time.
"I'm sorry, Toothless," Hiccup's voice was nearly as small as Toothless' and he too felt the burning sensation of tears in his eyes.
"N-n-no," cried Toothless, and for a moment it was as though Toothless was his disobedient self again. It was as though they were back on Berk in dragon training and Toothless was refusing to hunt. But of course, they were not. Toothless let out a sob, "N-no. Toothless won't. Toothless won't l-let you."
Hiccup smiled a sad, sad smile, "Time cannot be stopped, Toothless," he whispered.
"N-no," wailed the dragon, "N-not y-yet. It's n-not t-t-time yet."
But the dragon knew it was, deep down the dragon knew what he had to do. The young sea dragon helped pull the old man up from his chair and helped him to his bed across the room. The old man pulled back the sheets that adorned the bed and laid down. The dragon took his place on Hiccup's chest, and for a moment they were just a boy and his dragon. No longer was Hiccup a king, he was a boy, the heir to the Hooligan tribe, a small runty boy with a knack for sword fighting. No longer was Toothless the last sea dragon. He was a small Common or Garden with big green eyes and a disobedient personality. They were going to sleep, just like they had so many nights before on Berk.
Hiccup looked up at Toothless, one last time, "Thank you, Toothless." The old man closed his eyes as though he were simply falling asleep. The bright blue of his eyes made their final appearance. Toothless felt the man's chest rise one last time, Toothless didn't feel another breath.
There was silence for a long while, and then finally Toothless spoke. He spoke not in Dragonese, but in Norse, the gift of a Sea Dragon, "I-if it d-doesn't e-end w-well, then i-it is not t-t-the end," whispered Toothless quietly.
Then the small dragon sat atop his fallen master for the last time and watched the sunrise on a new year. For that moment, in the shine of the sun against the snow that covered the ground, they were just a boy and his dragon.