Hiccup was now really starting to regret this:

He'd come to the tavern to meet up with Astrid, apparently she wanted to tell him something (not that he'd asked what, firstly you learned with Astrid to follow orders first and ask questions later, secondly any excuse to talk to Astrid was fine by him!) and she seemed worried. He'd arrived at the pub early after his evening flight with Toothless, and had told him he could go fish in the river nearby if he was hungry. Toothless had wandered off to terrorise the local pond life and left Hiccup to it. He looked at the door to the tavern, the sign read in runes "The Two Horned Helmet" which was possibly the most redundant name ever considering that the only Viking helmet that didn't have two horns he knew of was his own flight helmet. The sound of a slow fiddle wafted through the window along with the sweet smell of mead, which always reminded Hiccup of his first sip of the stuff: he'd gagged and nearly thrown it back up again, along with his breakfast. He'd been young at the time; Vikings liked to introduce their kids to that age-old Viking tradition of getting utterly legless early in life, and mead was any good Viking's weapon of choice for the job, but regardless he'd felt more than a bit daft, and that smell and the memories it brought with it put him off trying alcohol again, just to be on the safe side. Hiccup decided to go in and get two chairs before the drunkards broke them all. He opened the door to the pub and walked in slowly. He edged past the Vikings slumped over their drinks; conscious and unconscious, plus the funny ones that were somewhere in between. He decided he might as well get something from the bar while he was there. He walked over and sat down at one of the stools to wait for the barman. After a minute or so he came round the corner to the back of the shop. He was, like most Vikings rather rotund, but he had rosy cheeks and wore a permanent smile. His dark brown beard and moustache carefully combed into position and secured, somewhat less appealingly, with fish oil that gave it a glossy look. It did however have the downside of making him smell somewhat of a wet trout.

"Why, hello there Hiccup! What're you here for then? Gonna try your hand at mead again after all?"

"Er, no thanks Sven, I'll be alright."

"Hehe, don't blame you kid; the stuff doesn't suit you you know. I'll never forget the face you pulled! Anyway, what'll you be wanting then?"

"Two cups of warm yak's milk thanks."

"Hehe, you old softy!" The barman smiled and walked over to the smallest barrel marked MILK and holding a cup below it turned the tap. "So then, what're you meeting with Astrid for then?"

"Huh?" Hiccup was surprised: no one knew about the meeting except him and Astrid. "How do you know?"

"Ahh, us barmen know these things you see."

Hiccup gave him a look.

"Oh come on laddy, I may not be the sharpest sword in the armoury but there only two people that ever walk in this pub and order yak's milk: you and Astrid, and I'm pretty sure you don't intend on drinking both of 'em." It was true; Astrid had a liking for the drink similar to Hiccup, she was quite gentle really past that steely bravado and habit to hit anything that moved, not that she'd tell that to anyone. "What time's she supposed to be here?"

"21:30"

"Oh, you've got some time then, I just looked at the time-dial outside. I'll hold the milk and warm it when she gets here."

"Oh, thanks Sven." but he was distracted; the fiddler's piece had been slowing and slowing and slowing all the time Hiccup had been there. He looked over at the fiddler, swaying gently, not with the music but with mead. Typical. Sven saw him looking.

"You play don't you Hiccup?"

"Huh?"

"The fiddle, you play it don't you?"

"Hmm, once. I gave up after a while; music is something a chief' son should listen to not play, it's 'not a Viking enough hobby.'"

"Neither was dragon riding and now it's the most popular sport on the island! I've seen your sketches; you're a true artist, you'd be a natural!"

Hiccup drummed his fingers on the counter, somewhat bemused there were Vikings on the island that knew what the word 'art' meant.

"Yeah kid, you oughta try it out" said a somewhat inebriated voice next to him, Hiccup started and turned to see the fiddler standing next to him, supporting his skinny frame against the counter. His clothes were raggedy and his wrinkled flesh hung of his bones like papyrus on drying stands, his well earned wealth spent on drink rather than his bodily welfare. One hand steadied him against the counter and the other held his violin, an ornate thing that you wouldn't associate with a man in this kind of physical state. He ordered a flagon of mead and sat next to the teenager. After a moment or two he turned to Hiccup, the alcohol-induced bleariness in his eyes gone in a blink. Hiccup was a little disturbed by this and tried to take a sudden interest in his (near nonexistent) fingernail but after an awkward pause glanced back at the musician: he was still staring at his in that exact same way, apparently not having moved an inch. Hiccup, somewhat unnerved by the drunk's persistent interest in him was about to try and break the silence but at that moment the fiddler gently laying down his instrument and bow and without looking up spoke.

"How much do you know about violins son?"

Somewhat curious at the strange question he replied truthfully "I know everything about how they work, which proportions produce the loudest or sweetest sounds and how to build one from scratch." It wasn't supposed to be a boast but Hiccup couldn't help feeling slightly pleased with himself about his ever-useful engineering skills; even after all these years, and after barely studying the instrument's properties during his musical learning period, he had calculated and memorised all of these facts. He couldn't help feeling a bit chuffed at himself.

The old man gave an aged smile, alcohol dried lips cracking under the jovial strain, "I mean about their soul."

Now thoroughly confused and starting to believe that the man had had more drink than he'd anticipated Hiccup was about to speak but the fiddler continued.

"Every instrument has a soul, in fact almost everything in this world has a soul of a description, but unlike living things like you and me their soul changes partly with the owner; a violin will sound completely different in the hands of one professional fiddler to another, not because of different technique or playing styles neccesarily but something more."

Hiccup now knew what the guy was getting at but still couldn't full understand, "Why are you asking me this?"

The old man smiled sadly and nodded "The same reason you just asked me that question rather than kicking me off the stool for thinking me utterly intoxicated Hiccup: you are no ordinary Viking."

"Yeah, I kinda noticed that I've always been a bit of a special snowflake by Viking standards"

The musician smirked "That's not quite what I meant. Hiccup, there is a reason you are the only Viking in history who ever thought to make peace with the dragons: you were chosen to do so. Now the gods have chosen you again."

Hiccup stood up, unnerved. He wasn't the only one.

Everyone in the bar was slowly lifting themselves up out of their seats, an air of unease blanketing the usually cheerful bar like a dark fog bank. It wasn't because of the conversation though; they couldn't have possibly heard the exchange, they were too drunk and far away for that, they were standing up because of the noise; an ominous rumbling far away in the distance, but getting closer and closer. Then: footsteps. Running. Thud thud thud thud thud. Then the pub door flew open as if Thor himself had decided to come for a drink, the old hinges rattled and threatened to break under the exertion of holding up the frame of the assailed entrance. In the opening she stood, blond bangs flying in her face and beads of sweat visibly trailing down her face. She panted, nigh on hyperventilated in the doorway, her eyes like a deer gazing down the blade of the hunter.

I had never seen her look so scared.

The stranger was the only one not standing, he swivelled his chair to face the front doorway, gazing outside into the distance. A small smile crept onto his frail lips. "So this is how it ends then. Well at least it will be quick."

Hiccup, baffled, stared into the straggly grey hair of the stranger and asked the obvious question: "What do you mean?"

That's when it happened.

The window to the right of the door exploded, glass shrapnel flying everywhere. Every viking in the room took cover under the chairs and tables except for Astrid, Hiccup, and the mysterious fiddler. Time defied itself and the earth turned slower and in the corner of his eye Hiccup observed the culprit: a single crossbow bolt, its barbed tip glinting in the candlelight as the deadly instrument barrel rolled. Time slowly began to remember itself and the bolt gained motion, accelerated, until it was just a hazy blur, the wooden colours of its shaft disappearing into the surroundings, as it continued on its flight of death. Then everything stopped, all noise ceased except the sound of a single grunt from the musician. The old man remained motionless awhile but then, slowly, like a tall tree being felled, he collapsed, limp, to the cold stone floor. A single crossbow bolt shaft protruding from a fresh wound in his chest, the deep red colour of death pulsating out of his body as if alive in perfect unison with the crippled heart the weapon had mercilessly pierced.

The sight of the event appeared to fiercely shake Astrid from her stupor. Her eyes set on me as if it were to me alone she was speaking, a fierce angry fire ablaze in a scared child's eyes. The most beautiful girl on Berk whispered the ugliest word that could have been possibly uttered at that moment, the single murmuring echoing around the room and seemingly over the whole island as every sound that had been present resumed. Above the cacophony of sound that one word became the loudest sound in the entire archipelago:

"Outcasts."