A/N: This story was originally requested by a reader for my one-shot series, Random Words of Wisdom. However, I found the subject matter so compelling it merited its own place as an independent piece. Many thanks, Yondaime Namikaze: this story is dedicated to you, and I hope I've done it justice.
Disclaimer: How to Train Your Dragon and all related characters and events belong to Cressida Cowell and DreamWorks Animation.
Day 1
The Berserker tribe boasted a proud and bloody history of war: war on dragons, war on their neighbors, and when driven to it in times of extreme domestic boredom, war on each other. Berserkers were fierce and unrelenting, their tempers as sharp as their swords and skulls as thick as their shields. For many long years, they had held their heads high as the terrors of the archipelago, a title they were loathe to relinquish.
At least, so the sages said.
But Oswald the Agreeable, drinker of tea, tender of gardens, and lord of the tribe, was supremely uncomfortable with the war-like image. He was a friendly sort, was Oswald: he signed treaties with neighboring chiefs, held the door for little old ladies, and generally made himself as pleasant as possible. He was, in short, a most exemplary chief and a most unconventional Berserker.
Under Oswald's leadership the Berserker tribe enjoyed peace, prosperity, and a measure of tranquil accord unheard of in their long and sordid history. All was well, and all were happy.
All, that is, except Dagur the Deranged (as he called himself), cracker of skulls, slayer of beasts, and heir apparent to the chief. Dagur was a traditionalist, in the worst sense of the word. Dagur liked mayhem and enjoyed his tribe's savage history: he picked fights as a little boy, started brawls as an older boy, and generally made himself as blood-thirsty and violent as possible. Dagur was, in short, a Berserker in much more than name.
Which was part of the reason why annual treaty-signings in Berk could be rather uncomfortable affairs for the two chiefs involved.
But whatever the adults felt about those momentous occasions, Dagur liked them. A three-day trip to Berk meant wonderful opportunities to torture other teens, one of Dagur's favorite hobbies. With any luck at all, this would be a very profitable visit.
As their sturdy and unpretentious little ship docked in Berk's harbor, a smile of maniacal joy broke over the Deranged's face: Hiccup and his little band of friends were waiting for him.
"Fishlegs," Dagur inquired, his voice dripping innocent interest, "what is this thing?"
The two of them were exploring the armory while the grown-ups talked about boring grown-up things like trade, crop exports, fish levels in the fjords, and whether or not the Outcasts would cause trouble again. Fishlegs fancied himself an excellent tour guide: despite his squeaky voice and lack of confidence as a fighter, his passionate love and diligent study of all things related to dragons and killing dragons made him a formidable fountain of knowledge. He'd practically leaped at the chance to give Dagur the official tour.
He enjoyed pointing out the gruesome blood-stains on the larger axes, the not insignificant bite marks on the shields, and the scorches and burn marks on just about everything. But the dragon traps were his favorite, and he was just beginning to explain how they worked.
He wandered back to where Dagur stood inspecting a large iron cage, its bars grey with dust, its door swung wide.
"Oh, that? Long ago, the Vikings on this island used cages for dragons they caught alive, keeping them for practice and training. My grandfather told me once that there was a Gronckle who stayed alive in this cage for forty years, until it died of old age. That was before they built the arena, of course. This cage hasn't been used for years."
"Old age? He probably died of boredom."
Fishlegs made to walk away, but Dagur grabbed his arm and tugged him back.
"What's that?" Dagur asked, pointing at something hidden in the shadows at the back end of the cage.
"That? Uh...it might be a pile of old dragon dung," Fishlegs answered. He didn't actually know what it was, but it was related to dragons and therefore worthy of interest.
"Or, it might be some of the Gronckle's bones, or a cool dragon-killing thing!" Dagur exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. "Let's go look!"
"Um...okay, if you really want to."
Dagur stepped over the iron bar of the door-frame and strode boldly toward the dark shapeless mass, Fishlegs following behind him.
"Ugh," Dagur huffed in frustration when they reached it, "it's just a pile of moldy old furs."
"Thank Thor for that," Fishlegs squeaked. It was dark at that end of the cage, and dragon bones or no dragon bones, dark places made him nervous. "There might have been something hiding under them. Like mice...or spiders.
"You know what I think, Fishlegs?" Dagur asked, picking up one of the furs and shaking it experimentally. A cloud of dust rose from it and Fishlegs sneezed violently.
"What?" he asked, wiping his noise with the back of a hand.
"These aren't just furs."
"They're not?" Fishlegs' eyes were watering.
"Oh no," Dagur replied, his tone serious and conspiratorial. "These are valuable resources, quite useful in making dragon bait."
"Dragon bait?" Fishlegs perked up his ears, suddenly intrigued. "What kind of dragons would it attract? And how do you make it? Is it hard?"
"Couldn't be simpler: you just wrap it around a large object - say, a barrel or an overgrown Viking - so that it looks like a wild animal, then leave it in the cage until a dragon comes to eat it. Like so." Dagur threw the fur over Fishlegs' head and bolted, slamming the cage-door and locking it behind him.
"Hey, Dagur, what are you doing? Help me get this thing off!" Fishlegs' voice came out muffled as he struggled with the mangy shroud.
Dagur turned, light from outside glinting off his helmet. "You just sit tight, Fishlegs, until the dragons come. This is lesson number one in How to Be a Berserker: keep it simple!" he shouted, then left.
Fishlegs, having finally pulled the nasty fur off his head, watched the Deranged vanish through the door of the armory, his maniacal laughter echoing in the crowded space. He sat down then, fully aware that it could be some time before Dagur returned. He scratched his head thoughtfully for a moment.
"Should've seen that one coming," he muttered philosophically, and settled in for what could be a very long wait.
Dagur swaggered through the village square, hands planted on hips and lips pursed in a very self-satisfied smirk. Day one of the official visit had already gotten off to a good start. His eyes lit up in anticipation as he spotted Hiccup leaving one of the buildings on the edge of the cliff.
"Hiccup, old friend," Dagur called, his voice and gestures conveying amiable friendliness.
Hiccup approached reluctantly and Dagur clapped a hand on his shoulder as they walked toward the Great Hall.
"You know, Hiccup," Dagur said lightly, "in the past I've visited and we've spoken on one or two occasions, but I feel that we haven't really gotten to know each other properly. I come back to Berk every year and barely remember you."
"Really?" Hiccup responded, subtly attempting to shrug the hand off, "because I would've said that you're pretty unforgettable, Dagur."
"Oh, you flatter me. But, honestly, someday I'll be chief of the Berserkers and you'll be...well, maybe we shouldn't talk about that. We could be allies someday, so for the sake of the future, let us use the present wisely. What do you like to do for fun, Hiccup?"
The other boy looked at him suspiciously, green eyes wide with veiled surprise and mistrust.
"Do you like fishing?" he finally asked.
"Fishing? I was thinking more along the lines of hunting or dragon-killing, but if fishing is what you want, Hiccup, then fishing is what we'll do." Dagur's smile overflowed with friendly sincerity.
Hiccup scratched his head, trying to think of a reasonable excuse, then gave up. "Okay then, I...guess I'll see you tomorrow."
The Deranged only smiled wider. "It would be my pleasure."
