In Dreams and Memory
This is not Berk.
The sea approach is similar, with the two scowling warriors, the fire in their mouths like the consuming fires of Muspelheim. One is built of a dark metal I don't recognise.
My first thought on beholding this vision is that Gobber has been busy with the repairs to it after Drago's attack.
I'm swiftly proven wrong.
I don't remember the mountain ever being volcanic, nor the dragon armoury being so large. Or fortified...
I certainly don't recall the forest on the back side of the island being burned scrub land, covered in squalid shanty towns...
Large ships, patterned after dragons slip into the docks, with the strange perspective of dreams, they seem twice the size of the docks themselves, yet still able to disgorge their cargoes perfectly well.
Slaves.
The disembarking of the cargo doesn't go well. Though chained in long lines, one girl with long black hair manages to rally her line into a fighting force that pushes the guards back. I begin to hope that this might inspire the others into fighting back as well.
Again my hopes are ill-founded.
Armoured Dragons encircle the slaves. A red Nadder with an armoured rider clad in tarnished silver cuts the girl out of the chains, then signs a curt signal to the other dragon riders.
The smoke and screams linger as the Nadder caries the rebel up to the peak of the mountain of fire that Berk has become. She is dropped roughly, her arm broken, beside the crater. The rider dismounts and starts to drag the girl towards the lip.
"You were my friend!" the rebel yells in fear and anger. It's then I recognise her.
Heather.
With a surge of sudden enlightenment, I realise that the Deadly Nadder is not red, but covered in blood. Its scales are naturally blue in colour. This gives me a terrible insight into the armoured rider's identity.
Astrid.
I wasn't aware of having an actual presence in this world, but the rider turns at this realisation, as if I had spoken.
And drops to her knee, as if forgetting the vengeful berserker girl behind her.
"Lord," she says in a grating voice that I can only loosely identify as hers.
I ignore her, reaching out to Heather. It is a moment before I realise I am doing so with a black iron gauntlet that makes talons of my fingers. She shrinks away from it.
"Hiccup... what happened to you?"
I can't answer her.
Like a passenger in my own body, I pick her up by the throat and carry her to the edge of the crater.
I know what will happen, so does she.
I want her to fight, to scream, resist in some way...
She doesn't...
I fancy I see faces in the flames as she falls.
Ryker, Viggo, Krogan and Calder...
"Lord."
I turn. Astrid has not moved as I have not bidden her to. Fishlegs has joined us. I would expect him to pass some remark on how I have just executed someone who was once the love of his life.
He doesn't.
He merely gestures with his hand behind him.
I see a light on the horizon. The perspective of the dream again lets me see leagues distant with my naked eyes.
Dagur, clad in white armour leading an armada of ships that obscures the sea beneath them.
"You were my brother, Hiccup..." he says, sadly, "Now you are my enemy..."
I point.
I don't know why I do so. The others seem to...
"As you command," my friends say, in listless, lifeless unison.
A flight of dragons takes off from the slopes below. Armoured, horribly be-weaponed, covered with blood, or all three.
I watch, outwardly impassive, but screaming inside.
"Son..."
I turn again, and there is my father. Alive and resplendent in glory as he was in his prime.
It takes time to find my voice. All the while the seas run red with blood around me.
"Dad... I... I never meant... not this..."
I want him to shout, to roar.
He doesn't.
"I know son, I know..."
His form turns grey. Panic grips me.
"Wait, come back! How do I fix this?"
"You are chief now," his voice tells me from the grey mist he has become.
Yes, this much is true. I am chief of Berk.
I did this.
All of it...
The mountain shakes, I turn again to find a great eye staring at me, and I feel claws on my shoulder.
oooo
Toothless jumped away from Hiccup's bedside, ears flattened against his head, as the young chief started awake. He made a low noise of concern.
Hiccup Haddock III looked around for a moment, the fire burning with low embers in the hearth, throwing a dim light on the room.
Reality trickled back slowly, his body covered in a cold sweat. He fancied even his missing left leg was shivering.
"I'm all right bud..." he said at last.
The Night Fury cocked his head, doubt plain in his posture.
"Just a nightmare," Hiccup elaborated. His dragon made a cawing noise and, walking forward, laid his head gently on his friend's lap.
Hiccup couldn't help smiling. Astrid had remarked once in jest that this sort of behaviour was unbecoming of the king of the dragons, or a Viking chief.
Neither of them cared about that really.
"Just a nightmare..." he muttered to himself. "It has to be..."
It will be.
oooo
Merida, Crown Princess of Clan Dunbroch, was uneasy.
First, a messenger had arrived at Dunbroch castle, claiming he had urgent tidings to bring to her father, King Fergus.
Hours later, representatives from the lairds of the clans of which her father was High King had arrived in something of a state of unrest. Given the distance from their homes to the castle, it seemed that they had heard this news themselves rather than been summoned by her father. Raised voices had kept her awake most of the previous night until she had heard her father roar at the top of his own voice.
"WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO?!"
And there the matter seemed to rest, as the sound of shuffling feet moving towards the guest rooms had been heard soon after.
A few hours' sleep later, she had been shaken awake by her mother, who had told her to make herself presentable, as she had been summoned to attend this council. Half-awake queries had produced only the answer that she would one day be queen, and needed to hear what was said.
Merida had noted the ominous tone in her mother's voice with some apprehension, and had made enquires of one the guards she encountered on her way to the council chamber.
"Nothing?"
The Guard, who answered to Gordon, merely shrugged.
"I'm sorry, princess. I'm not entrusted to guard your father's most secret councils."
"No rumours among the guards?"
Gordon shook his head, "Nothing to which I'd trust the weight of one your brothers, highness, let alone your own. Although..." he hesitated, "... Vikings were mentioned..."
Merida frowned. "Gordon, I've almost started a war in a situation like this, I want all the information I can get before I put my foot in it this time!"
Two years had passed since her pride had almost got her mother killed in the shape of a bear, but the lesson had stuck, and the young woman had no intention of repeating the mistake.
Gordon inclined his head. "Which does you credit princess, but I'm afraid you're asking the wrong man. If it is as serious as your father seems to be taking it, then I fancy he'll tell you all that he can either in council, or afterwards."
"How seriously is he taking it?"
"I've not seen him smile this morning yet..."
"Camulus..." Merida cursed under her breath. That was rare.
Councils of the four clans that called themselves; her father in a grim mood sufficient to be deprived of his habitual good humour; her mother calling her into the council chamber with only a cursory smoothing of her frizzy red hair, rather than commenting upon her choice of dress for the occasion.
This was very serious indeed.
As she took her seat at the long table next to her father, the buzz of conversation did indeed seem to include the word Viking quite a lot, as well as a word that confused her.
Why would the lairds' men be talking about Dragons?
King Fergus turned to his daughter with an indulgent smile, but there was a pain behind it that she hadn't seen for a long time.
"Father, what's wrong?" she asked, directly. A quick glance at her mother, seated on her father's other side gained her only a brief wince at her bluntness, and a slight shrug that signified that she knew no more than she did.
Fergus chuckled slightly, but it was a forced sound.
"Direct as always, Merida," he replied. "Quite a lot, I'm afraid." He turned to address the room, "I would call you all to note my daughter, one day High Queen of these lands. In recognition of this, I would ask you all to answer her as you would me, and most particularly not all talk across each other angrily like you all did last night!" This last part of the statement was delivered in the flat tone of an order, with the expectation of complete obedience.
Sheepish mutterings were the general response to this, but no outward objections were forthcoming.
"Right." The king nodded, in a manner that at least approximated his usual attitude. "Since our yelling and screaming at each other got us precisely nowhere, let's try something different today. Starting at the beginning for Merida's benefit. That way, everyone knows everything they need to."
Merida was really apprehensive now, certain she was here for more than merely crowd control, and was thus completely wrong-footed when her father asked her a question.
"Do you remember the Viking chief that came seeking my aid, Merida?"
He clearly half-expected the answer to be no, that she did not. He wasn't entirely wrong.
"The big man in fur...?" she answered, to her mother's obvious surprise. "Wait a minute... didn't he say something about... good food...?"
Fergus chuckled.
"Well, you were only four, Merida..."
oooo
"Hello," said a bright, cheerful voice. "Who are you?"
The large man that the four-year-old princess was addressing was so surprised, he stopped glowering. It took him a moment to retune his mood sufficiently to speak to the child that seemed scarcely to come up to his knee.
"I... I'm Stoick the Vast," he said. Merida cocked her head, confused.
"What does Vast mean?" she asked, utterly oblivious to the apprehension of the other people in the room. Or her near-mortified mother.
"Well..." replied the man, grunting slightly as he sank to one knee to talk to her. "We Vikings give each other names according to what we look like, what we do, or how we act. I'm called the Vast, because I'm..." he paused, thinking of some age appropriate description. "...very large..." he concluded awkwardly.
King Fergus was amazed.
The Viking chief had turned up in a ship at the coast, and had asked politely, but gruffly for directions to the castle so he could speak with him. Given that there had been several Viking raids in the last few months, this had caused a stir. Fergus had only been king for a few years, and the fragile monarchy, much stabilised by Merida's birth, was beginning to shake again.
Meeting with the chief might have gone some way to stopping the raids, and had therefore seemed a very good idea at the time, but the exchange of formal greetings prior to retiring here to the hall had been stiff and formal. The two stern-faced men he had with him didn't help matters either.
Suddenly, this be-horned, fur-clad, six foot chieftain, had taken a knee before a chattering four year old, smiling through his thick beard. The blond warrior to his right was smiling as well, as his chief explained why he was called 'fearless' Finn Hofferson.
The high king watched as Hofferson glanced between him and Merida, then interjected when Merida asked about the darker haired man to the chief's left.
"We're still working on a name for Spitelout, Princess," he said, stressing the title slightly for Stoick's benefit.
Stoick glanced up at Finn, then at Fergus, as Spitelout glared at Finn over his chief's head. Fergus saw a gleam of something he couldn't quite identify in the chieftain's eyes. It dawned on him, that these men might be fathers themselves.
Fergus felt a faint stirring of hope, and lightly put a hand on his wife's shoulder as she started forward to restrain their wayward daughter from asking some question about their boots, that clearly was of utmost importance to her.
Let Merida break a little ice for us, he thought.
"You aren't hairy smelly man-acs at all!" Merida announced, with customary timing.
The resultant pause didn't have a chance to become awkward. Indeed it was only long enough for a few short gasps before both Stoick and Finn burst out laughing. Even Spitelout couldn't help snorting loudly.
"Brave lass..." said Finn quietly.
"My people know they'll get into trouble if they go around raiding," said Stoick with a smile, meeting Fergus's eyes as he spoke to Merida. "But there are still some stupid Vikings out there who do that anyway. That's one reason I came to speak to your father."
Fergus nodded slowly. Several village chiefs nominally under his authority had taken it into their heads to mount reprisal raids, usually upon the first Vikings, be they fishermen or farmers, they could find, escalating the situation dangerously. But that wasn't something you could explain easily to a four-year-old.
Elinor moved forward again, taking advantage of Merida yawning to scoop her up and tell her that it was time for bed.
"Best you do that, Lass." Stoick added, standing up again. "Good food to fuel the body, and good sleep to keep the mind healthy. Make sure you're ready to face whatever fate has in store for you."
"Okay..." the young princess mumbled, now drowsing visibly in her mother's arms.
As soon as they had left the room, Fergus and Stoick looked at each other for a long moment. Eventually the chief smiled sheepishly.
"Valka and I... we always wanted a daughter..."
Fergus chuckled. "I'd quite like a son... might be a while... Merida's such a handful..."
"My niece isn't two winters older than her," Finn interjected, "and she's just the same!"
Spitelout snorted again. "The way you spoil wee Astrid boyo, she might as well be yours!" In response, Finn merely shrugged.
"Wherever they get their courage from, you think there's any left for my son?" Stoick asked, which got a nod of the head from Spitelout.
Finn rolled his eyes in exasperation. "And you wonder why Hiccup has no confidence..." he muttered to himself.
Fergus, hearing this, changed the subject. A king knew when not to push his luck. "You mentioned good food to my daughter," he said, gesturing to a servant, who inclined his head and departed swiftly in the direction of the kitchens. "I'm minded to agree. Then maybe we can discuss stupidity, and how to put a stop to it..."
Stoick grinned. "Now that sounds like a plan."
oooo
Merida put her hand over her eyes as her father related this.
"I'd like to think I'm not so naïve now..." she said, a trifle defensively.
"If you hadn't done that, things might not have gone so well," Elinor admitted.
"The campaign Stoick and I went on after that was a huge success," Fergus went on.
"Aye, I remember that," the man representing Laird MacGuffin put in. "Standing orders when my Laird goes on a drunken rant about destroying all Vikings are to remind him of Stoick and his men. Gets him reminiscing fondly and he forgets all about his hate."
"Stoick was a good man to have at your back." Fergus added, to general agreement.
"So... he needs our aid again?" prompted Elinor, dragging the council back to the point. The room went silent once again.
"I'm afraid Stoick is beyond mortal aid my dear..." the high king said at last. A note of sadness was in his voice, and Merida realised that her father had wanted to see his old comrade again. From the number of bowed heads and muttered prayers to the gods, it seemed he wasn't alone in this.
"So his son needs help avenging him?" She asked. Trying not to sound like she was eager to charge off and do the job herself there and then.
"The son could well be the problem..." the Clan Dingwall representative put in, in a tone that suggested she hadn't quite succeeded.
The Clan Macintosh man cleared his throat. "My laird has heard from his contacts among the traders that Stoick the Vast was killed less than a month ago... by Drago Bludvist."
The mention of that name forced a shocked gasp from queen Elinor. As well it might.
All present had heard of the man, and Merida had run across the name in her studies of the kingdom's history. Drago's murder of the Viking Tingwall, as they called their parliament, had played a small part in the foundation of their own kingdom by displacing the northern invaders into their lands. The Clans had rallied to her father, allowing his ascension as High King. Drago had since retreated from the wrath of both Vikings and Scots, who knew where, and hadn't been heard from in almost twenty years.
"After this," the man went on, full of self-importance in imparting knowledge to the ignorant "Drago proceeded to the isle of Berk to attack Stoick's people with his army of Dragons, outpacing his human army by several leagues."
"Arawn have mercy..." muttered the Dingwall man.
"It would seem he did." the Macintosh continued, "Drago's dragons were soundly defeated by one Hiccup Haddock III, heir of Stoick the Vast, who then claimed the dragon army for his own."
"How?" Elinor asked, shock plain in her voice.
"The trader's did not say."
"Wait a minute." the MacGuffin put in, to the Macintosh's clear annoyance. "Just to be clear, this is the same son that Stoick lamented wasn't anything like him? The weak, cowardly runt of the litter that he feared wouldn't be much use even if his smith was able to teach him a trade?"
"Stoick the Vast had but one child." the Macintosh replied icily, glaring through his blue face-paint. "But this is by no means a sudden change. The traders have reported to my Laird that one Hiccup Dragon-Rider has been a name of some note over the last five years among the islands of the north."
"I've heard tell of a Dragon-Conqueror," the MacGuffin man replied, with an edge to his voice, "But I didn't think to connect him with Stoick. I thought it was one of those Dragon Hunters we get through our ports from time to time."
"Those mongrels?" the Dingwall man exclaimed. "The ones that sell captured Dragons to rich idiots and charge a premium to hunt them down when they inevitably run out of control? If he's cutting out their trade then more power to the boy!"
"That Boy," the Macintosh said, in a dry condescending voice, "now commands one of the fastest and most powerful armies ever to walk this earth. Certainly the only one that can fly!"
King Fergus cleared his throat at this point, cutting off the unspoken response to this statement.
"Lads, we got this far last night, if you recall. And my question remains the same: what exactly would you have me do?"
There was a brief pause. Then the eager-to-please Macintosh spoke up again.
"My laird has spoken to a deserter from Drago's human army, who describes a young warrior of Berk proudly boasting to Drago himself that her lover would smash his fleet to splinters. She named Hiccup Haddock 'the greatest Dragon-Master this world has ever seen'. The young woman herself was probably only boasting of her lover's skill, as they are wont to do."
Merida glanced across at her mother, who met her gaze. Mother and daughter acknowledged each other's outrage at this offhand comment, but stayed silent as the pompous man went on.
"It speaks of supreme over-confidence on the part of these Vikings, and my laird believes that a swift and sure pre-emptive strike will brea-"
"Against Dragons?" interrupted the MacGuffin man. "How do you know these 'boasts' you've heard of aren't simple fact? No, this calls for a carefully planned siege."
"We needn't go on the offensive yet." the Dingwall representative said, carefully. "Dragons need food, so all we need to do to stave off attack is ensure their food supply is limited. If the traders that they clearly depend upon could be impressed upon to-"
"Why?"
All eyes turned to Merida, who sat back in her chair with her arms folded.
"Why?" she repeated, in a thunderous tone.
"Could you elaborate please princess?" the Macintosh asked.
"Why is he suddenly the enemy?"
"A fair question," Queen Elinor stated, casting a scornful gaze over at the three Clan representatives.
"Well..." the Dingwall man began, "He is the greatest danger to this kingdom... Besides, there always were rumours about why Stoick was the only chief to survive Drago's murder of the Tingwall..."
"You don't believe that," said Fergus, his brow furrowing.
"Indeed not your majesty," the man admitted, "But Stoick showed no ambition in regards to following this up with conquest. His son, about whom we know nothing, with a large army at his command?" He shook his head. "Besides... there haven't been any wild dragons in these lands for... a century or more?... we've forgotten how to fight them..."
"So poor Hiccup is the enemy because he had a good idea, and we're a hundred years too late to copy it," Merida summarised.
"Princess." Merida was becoming very annoyed with the Macintosh, and she let it show as he continued. "Dragons killed hundreds of us while they lived in these lands..." he petered out, seeing her expression.
"And we doubtless killed thousands of them." she replied. "Much like your Clan and mine killed each other fifty years ago in our war, and look at us now!"
Elinor winced at her daughter's indelicate statement, and she wasn't the only one to do so, but there was no denying she was right.
"You... have clearly... studied your history..." the Macintosh said tightly. "But that is not the same situation..."
"That's not the point," Merida replied. "What if he's sitting there in Berk picturing this situation – everyone sitting around trying to find ways to screw him over? Once he has proof of that in his mind, then all attacking him will do is cause the very thing we're trying to avoid."
"She's not wrong..." One of the various aides and hangers-on muttered, to reluctant agreement.
"The question still stands Merida: what would you have me do?" Fergus asked, a strange expression on his face.
Merida shrugged.
"Write him a letter?" she suggested. "Remind him of how you and his dad got on, discuss trade terms, just..." she sighed, "... just... get him to think of us as a kingdom he can respect and work with, instead of one that will shout, yell and go for their weapons just because it fears him..."
There was a pause.
"It might be worth getting a feel for the boy's thinking..." the Dingwall man said at length. "Assuming of course he replies..."
"Whether he does or not it will take weeks for a letter to get to and from Berk," the Macintosh put in. "That is a long delay to find out we need to prepare for the worst..."
"Assuming we need to," Elinor replied, glaring at him.
"Actually, I think I have an answer to that one," the MacGuffin said quietly, "There is a trader who stops by our ports regularly, answers to Stephanus, I think... Anyway, he recently acquired a small dragon that he uses to carry messages. Up to now, I thought it might be just an eccentricity of his, but if Berk has had dragons for a few years now..."
"How long would that take?" Fergus asked.
"I have no idea." the man admitted, "A few days certainly, maybe a week or two for a response... But less time than going by sea..."
"Excellent." the king replied. "Inform this trader that he shall have my gratitude if he does me the small favour of relaying a message. I'll have the letter ready for your messenger within the hour."
oooo
"That was well done, Merida." Fergus said, proudly.
"If a trifle... indelicate at times..." Elinor added.
Merida shrugged. "Got to get it through their thick heads somehow..." she said in a distracted voice.
The council had only been over a few minutes, and the lairds' men had filed out, the Macintosh still putting on airs that seemed at odds with his blue-painted face and rough plaid, oblivious or uncaring of how unpopular he was.
"You see Elinor, I told you she was ready for this." Fergus went on. "Our little girl is growing up! Now, where's that scribe? AH! There you are! How do you sneak around like that?"
"Years of practice in doing your will, your Majesty," the scribe replied, with a small smile.
As her father led the man to a quiet room in which to dictate his letter, Elinor touched her daughter on the shoulder.
"The councils aren't all like that," she said quietly. "The lairds themselves are more sensible, when they can be persuaded not to brawl in the straw like puppies!"
"That's not what bothers me..." Merida replied. "I just feel sorry for poor Hiccup..."
"Is that why you were so quick to defend him?"
"Well..." Merida sighed. "I feel like I know what he's going through... just wanting to be himself but suddenly having to be responsible for so much by virtue of his birth... strained relationship with his father because they don't understand each other..." she smiled ruefully at her mother. "Sound familiar?"
"It does, now you mention it..." Elinor admitted, putting her arm around her daughter. They shared a moment of companionable silence.
"I want to meet him." Merida said at last. "If and when father meets him, I want to be there. If he's the greatest threat to this kingdom, I want to see his face. Besides, if he and Stoick never had the family argument we had a couple of years back, maybe I can help... Imagine me as I was then in command of an army..."
"Camulus, I'd sooner not..." Elinor muttered.
"Me neither..." Merida hugged her mother. "I'm just grateful I didn't lose you like he lost his father..."
"You are growing up." Elinor smiled, returning the hug.
oooo
Astrid watched the four riders approach from the grass by the mead hall. Her braided blonde hair flapped in the strong sea breeze.
Two Monstrous Nightmares, one Hotburple.
And of course, one Night Fury.
Stormfly came alert beside her at Toothless' hail, the blue Nadder returning the greeting in kind.
To both Viking and dragon's surprise, Toothless did not land with the others by the Dragon Armoury, instead peeling off to wheel upwards around the peak of Berk.
She sighed, knowing what that meant.
Hiccup wasn't happy, and wanted to drown his frustrations out in freefall for a while.
Getting to her feet, she wandered in the direction of the Armoury to find out what had him in such a mood.
Much as she loved him, there were times...
Gobber's yell to the armoured Thunderclaw he shared the armoury with caught her attention. Apparently one of the Scuttleclaws Bonesnarl had 'adopted' was standing somewhere dangerous. He didn't seem in much better temper.
Crossing the square to the armoury, she noted Snotlout and Gustav unloading their Dragons, muscles working in a frenzy of activity that spoke of massive anger. They seemed to be almost finished already...
How was that possible? They were only just back!
Unless...
"Okay Snotlout, don't tell me," she said, "The supplies were as expensive as we thought, and Hiccup's not happy about it."
"We've been taxed to death!" snapped Gustav, before Snotlout could respond. "Wouldn't give us anything for less than three times what it was worth!"
"Yeah, what he said." Snotlout grumbled, fellow feeling muting his usual annoyance at being interrupted.
Astrid folded her arms and gave them a Look.
Backed by her new title as Berk's General (or Thane as the old tongue had it), these Looks, always formidable, could now be truly frightening. Gustav hesitated, but Snotlout had had years more practice in dealing with these things and wasn't so easily cowed.
"Don't look at me like that Astrid! Ask Gobber!"
"Ask me what?" The one handed smith asked, hobbling over on his peg-leg.
"300% mark up." summarised Astrid in a flat voice.
"Yep, 'fraid so..." Gobber sighed.
There was a short pause while Astrid tried to process what she'd just heard.
"Wait... What?!"
"Nothing we could do lass..." Gobber replied. "Dengir was not in a mood to haggle..."
oooo
"That's three times what it's worth!" Gobber exclaimed. The trader shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing I can do," he said, for the third time.
"Even with all the Gronkle Iron we brought?!"
"Your goods are not the problem."
"Then what is?" Gobber asked, exasperated.
"Dengir..." Hiccup put in. "Your people don't seem so happy..."
The trader chief looked around at the people in the village. Angry glances were directed at the group of humans and dragons. Hiccup saw Snotlout try to attract attention, only for the woman he was addressing increase her pace rather than engage with him at all. He turned back to Dengir in time to see the man shrug his shoulders again.
"Denny..." Gobber put in. "I get the feeling we aren't particularly popular round these parts."
The trader chief blinked, seeming genuinely surprised. "You expected to be?"
"Well not as unpopular as this..."
"Wait, is this about Drago?" Hiccup asked.
"HAH!" One nearby man snapped, abruptly advertising the fact he had been eavesdropping.
"Lars!" Dengir returned sharply, finally showing some animation. The man held his chief's gaze for a short while, then left, with a sour glare at Toothless, at Hiccup's heels as always. The Night Fury raised his ears and cocked his head in query, as several other men, more than one with hands on weapons stopped what they were doing and left the immediate area.
They didn't go far, gathering at a building's corner out of earshot, looking watchful.
Hiccup and Gobber looked at each other. This wasn't normal.
The trader chief watched his people for a while, then spoke in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard.
"What do you want me to say? My people have always been uneasy about dragons. They were prepared to tolerate a few teenagers with their pets, but that isn't the case any more, is it? Then with all the problems we've had with Krogan's Dragon Fliers, and then Drago's army..."
Hiccup couldn't help wincing at this. Drago had brought his Dragon Army on ahead of his human one, with the result that the latter's advance scouts had brought word back of the defeat of the Bewilderbeast, and most of the army had fragmented into warbands that had wandered the seas raiding at will. Most had retreated away, but some were still out there.
Hiccup couldn't help but feel responsible for the chaos this had created...
And what was worse, Dengir's expression said that he knew that, and he let the sentence hang.
"I get enough abuse just for allowing you to be here," the trader went on, "I'll have a riot on my hands if I give you anything more."
"Dengir, we've been coming to this island as long as I've been Gobber's apprentice. You know us better than that," he said, hoping this was true.
Dengir turned to Hiccup, unable to quite meet his gaze.
"The six year-old that could barely lift a buckler, the eleven year-old old that was so proud of having skinny enough arms to retrieve Oswin's amulet from the waterwheel, and the one-legged teenager that finally seemed in control of his own life, these people I knew..."
His face hardened. "The lad who's betrothed taunted Drago into these waters, the man who commands an army capable of incinerating our island on a whim, the chief that has a reputation for throwing defeated enemies into volcanoes?" he shook his head. "These men I'm not so sure about..."
As Gobber spluttered incoherently, Hiccup felt something die inside him.
"I'm not like Drago," he said, in a whisper that somehow silenced the smith.
For the first time, Dengir smiled, even managing a semblance of warmth.
"I believe you," he said, at least sounding like he meant it "But a great many others aren't so convinced." He turned to leave. "My sister among them..." he muttered, as if to himself.
"The terms stand. There are no others." he added over his shoulder, slightly louder than was necessary for the two Berkians. Expressions of grim satisfaction settled on the watching men's faces.
Gobber, however, wasn't in the mood to let Dengir get off that easily.
"If your wee nephew could see – "
Dengir span round. "I don't have a nephew!" he hissed. "Not any more..."
Both men stared at each other, their symmetrical expressions of regret making the moment awkward.
"I'm sorry..." Hiccup put in quietly.
"It's not your fault..." Dengir muttered dismissively, turning away again. "Conclude your business and go... please..." He left, quickly, leaving the Berkians and Dragons to stare after him.
Or at the ground, in Hiccup's case...
oooo
"Oh..." Astrid said. What other words were there?
"So basically, the Northern Markets are pretty much off-limits." Snotlout groused.
"Bit of an exaggeration..." Gobber corrected, "Dengir's too savvy to just forbid us to go there. But if he discourages us that way and we stop going until things have calmed down..."
"You are an eternal optimist, Gobber!" Snotlout replied, still in a bad mood. "Johann was the only trader that came with any kind of regularity as was, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you – "
"Snotlout!" Astrid hissed, indicating the square, where Hiccup had just performed a pretty good landing with his flight suit, much to the delight of a couple of nearby children. He pointedly didn't remove his helmet until he was well past them, which boded poorly for his mood. The newly landed Toothless padded quietly after him. Snotlout went quiet. Making Hiccup angrier than he was already wouldn't help.
"You heard?" the young chief asked, as Astrid embraced him without a word. His girlfriend clutched him tightly in response.
"Dengir's just under pressure right now," Gobber said quietly, as a Scuttleclaw bounced up to Toothless and Stormfly, standing just outside the armoury.
"So am I..." Hiccup sighed. He took a breath, then straightened up with an effort.
"Okay," he said, gently pushing Astrid away from him and picking up a piece of scrap metal the length of his forearm. "It is what it is for now, so how are we going to make it work? Astrid?"
"Food is alright for now." Astrid reported. "If it gets more expensive, we'll be eating into our stockpiles though..."
"Can't see anyone being stupid enough to give us an actual reason to bring down the draconic retribution they're so afraid of..." Hiccup said. "We should be okay for now, but we need to find some new trading partners if we want to be sure... Gobber?"
The smith shrugged. "Charcoal isn't a problem, never has been or will be as long as trees grow on Berk. The problem is metal. Unless we find a new supply of ore at some point, we'll be down to melting down what we have already."
"Diminishing returns..." Hiccup summarised, turning the rusted metal rod in his hand. A Scuttleclaw followed the slow rotating motion curiously.
"Aye. What's more the Outcasts and Berserkers have their own problems and need metal as badly as we do. Any chance of approaching the Defenders of the Wing?"
Astrid shook her head.
"Last time I was out at Caldera Cay, Mala told me their mines were beginning to be worked out, so they're having the same trouble at the moment."
"Great..." Hiccup gestured with his scrap metal pointer at Snotlout and Gustav. "Ideas?"
Snotlout shrugged. "There might be a little bit more to come out of the battlefield..." he admitted. "There was some stuff we couldn't salvage before, bits of dragon traps, et cetera."
"They were too big to get in the ships though." Gobber pointed out.
"Armourwing!" said Gustav suddenly. Everyone looked at him.
"They can cut it up for us, take the off-cuts as payment for their own armour!" he explained.
Snotlout snorted. "Good luck explaining thatconcept to the one we met..."
"Not a bad idea though..." Hiccup said, twirling the rod again in thought. "Question is, can we spare the riders to deal with that, and keep up patrols at the same time? There are still warbands out there..."
"I can get the auxiliary up to speed again." Gustav said eagerly. He liked being Captain of Berk's auxiliary team of dragon riders.
Astrid, Snotlout and Gobber exchanged glances.
"Okay Gustav," Hiccup said, seeing this. "You go and arrange a practice drill or two for them tomorrow morning." Gustav saluted with sufficient force to send his helmet spinning around on his head, and dashed out, almost tripping over the Scuttleclaw Stormfly was playing with in his eagerness.
"All right, let's hear it." Hiccup said, as soon as he'd gone. "No wait, let me guess..." he used his piece of metal to point at Astrid. "We don't have the riders or ships to do what we're doing already." He pointed at Snotlout. "Why do we care about the – how did you put it? – 'ungrateful hordes' of the archipelago who over-charge and undermine us anyway?" Gobber got pointed at now. "I don't have to carry the weight of Midgard on my shoulders just because I feel guilty about Drago."
The young chief looked around at his friends.
"Is that about it?" he asked mildly.
Snotlout folded his arms. "Well if you know what we've been saying for weeks that well, why don't you listen?"
"Hiccup..." Gobber said quietly. "All this does you credit, it really does. But..." he trailed off, not sure what to say.
"You don't have to take in every refugee in the archipelago," Astrid put in gently "or vanish off over the horizon to help every time we get a Terror mail just because-"
"Stop there, Astrid," Hiccup interrupted. "Why do you think I'm doing this, exactly?"
"It's like when you were trying to one-up Viggo." Snotlout grumbled, before Astrid could reply. "At least you haven't overworked the dragons this time..."
Hiccup groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Snotlout, your 'ungrateful hordes' are the ones we're dependant on for food and supplies. Remember how Viggo's Submaripper messed Berk up? Alienate the people around us and we'll end up like that again. Rightly or wrongly, we're blamed for the bad stuff they're going through right now." He half-turned to Astrid as he said this. "So we need to be seen out there doing some good. And Gobber?" Hiccup turned to face the man to whom he had once been apprenticed.
"Yes, I feel guilty about everything that happened with Drago, but I'm trying to think of Berk's future here. And that means we can't isolate ourselves from the world out there, because we're a part of it too."
There was a pause as this speech was digested. Then Gobber smiled wanly.
"You know, we knew your dad usually had a plan. You at least tell us what that plan is, even if we can't follow your reasoning..."
"Hiccup!"
All eyes turned to the armoury entrance, as Fishlegs picked his way past the crowd of Scuttleclaws that Bonesnarl was trying with limited success to stop bothering Stormfly and Toothless.
"Terror mail from Trader Stephanus."
"What does it say?" Hiccup asked. Putting down the scrap metal rod at last.
"His note says that he was asked to pass this on by one... Fergus of Dunbroch," the young man said, handing Hiccup a tightly wound scroll sealed with wax.
"Now there's a name I've not heard for a while..." Gobber muttered.
"Who's he?" Snotlout asked.
"High King of the four great clans of Northern Scotland..."
There was a pause as all eyes contemplated the wax seal, showing a stylised Bear with a spear struck though it.
"Royal Mail..." Fishlegs mumbled.
"Why is a King writing to us?" Astrid asked.
"Wait... Isn't that an old friend from dad's campaign when I was, I don't know, six?" Hiccup speculated. Gobber nodded.
Hiccup drew his dagger and cut away the seal. All present fell quiet again as he read the letter. When he reached the end of it, Hiccup looked up at them with the beginnings of a smile.
"Assemble the council." he ordered. "I may just have a solution or two here..."
oooo
Battles were described in books as happening in lines, with helpful arrows showing where everyone went. And by extension, where you had to go if you were fighting a battle yourself. Fergus knew for a fact this seldom worked against Vikings, or indeed if you fought beside them.
That said, Stoick and his two shiploads of warriors knew their business, and it wasn't as if this warband they'd run to ground at last were well trained soldiers anyway.
Keeping his archers on the high ground and allowing their opponents to charge them, encountering a Berkian ambush on the way, had been the standard tactic over the last two weeks or so of skirmishes. But that fact seemed to be coming back to haunt them, as the warband had surprised them by approaching from a different direction than expected.
That they had done so by sheer luck rather than skill was little consolation...
An axe swung out of nowhere and connected with a Berkian shield nearby, and Fergus was suddenly grateful for the sullen presence of Spitelout Jorgensen amongst his bodyguard. In doing so however, the Berkian had left himself exposed on his left side, and another warrior was quick to take advantage.
Or would have been, if the High King's sword hadn't met his own. The force of the parry sent the luckless man sprawling backwards into his fellows, causing some confusion amongst them. Fergus turned back to Spitelout, seeing the man belabouring his opponent with his shield having lost the use of his weapon arm to a mace blow.
Abruptly the melee opened up, with several cries of pain and disbelief. More than one warrior stopped and stared as a log as thick as a man tumbled through the warband's ranks.
"For Odin and Berk!"
Stoick the Vast drew his hammer at last and charged into the fray, showing no sign of the exertion it must have been to throw the log. Fergus saw him exchange a few blows with a Warband warrior almost as large as he was before his attention was called back to his own environs by a yelp of surprise.
A roaring slab of muscle that had to be called a man because an elephant wouldn't be waving a mace, let alone two of them, was standing over two of his bodyguard, neither of whom were getting up any time soon. Even as Fergus brought his own weapon up, the two spiked balls descended again with murderous intent.
Spitelout was suddenly there, smashing his shield against the man's face and arms, anywhere he could reach, chanting his own name with every strike. This Fergus understood to be a Viking courtesy, in that the soul departing for the afterlife knew precisely who had sent it there.
The mocking inflection Spitelout put into it didn't sound very courteous however, and the blow that struck his shield and sent him spinning away like a kicked dog made it clear that it was certainly not appreciated...
Nor did it serve its intended goal of allowing Fergus to disengage, as the melee had closed up behind him again.
Back on target, the man rose like a mountainside before the king, both maces raised above his head...
And a hammer flew in from the wings to strike him in the face, causing him to drop both weapons behind him.
Too good a man to run through an unarmed and dazed warrior, Fergus caught the hammer before it hit the ground, and knocked the man to the floor with it. He raised it again in response to a movement on his left, which was swiftly arrested, as he realised it was Stoick at his side.
"We're surrounded." Finn Hofferson reported, sounding no more than mildly amused at the idea.
"Good!" said Stoick and Fergus together, before barking with brief laughter as the king handed the chief his weapon again.
"That's their chief!" cried a man in Dingwall plaid, pointing at a man with more than the usual amount of horns on his helm.
Stoick and Fergus exchanged glances, noting each other's feral grins. Then with a symmetrical wordless roar, they charged directly at the unfortunate man.
Fortunately for him his bodyguard was reasonably efficient, and dealt with their weapons easily enough. Unfortunately, the fists of a king and a chieftain in his face wasn't much of a picnic either, although he would at least live to regret the mistakes that led him to that point.
Such mistakes were discussed at length by the victors over a broached cask of the loser's mead. Apparently he had split with his own chief in a difference of opinion that had left a lot of people dead. Just the sort of thing Stoick's fellow Vikings wanted to see cleaned up. And if Fergus got some of the credit for doing so, so much the better for his reputation.
"Glad we ran him to ground when we did." Stoick admitted. "Winter's closing in. We couldn't have kept up the pursuit much longer or we'd have been stuck here over Snoggletog."
"We call it Yule," Fergus put in, topping up Spitelout's tankard for him as he was still nursing a sprained wrist. "But you'd have been welcome all the same."
Stoick shook his head. "We'd have had to leave. The Dragon attacks get less frequent, but they're nastier in the winter months. No way I'd leave Berk to face that on their own..."
"Worse than the couple of Dragons we've seen off in the last few of weeks?"
Spitelout snorted. "Those two Nadders? They're small fry! It's the exotic ones like the Zipplebacks you need to watch out for! Two heads!"
"Or the Flightmare..." Finn muttered, gazing into his ale. "That one's bothered Berk for too long..."
"I heard one of them can set itself on fire..." the Dingwall laird said quietly. "A... Nightmare... Fury or something..." The Berkians went silent.
"You're thinking of a Monstrous Nightmare." Stoick said at last. "No-one can beat a Night Fury, no matter how much my son thinks he can..."
Stoick and Finn's eyes met, but whatever their disagreement over the chief's son, they agreed this wasn't the place for it.
"Well, if you need any spare hands," Fergus said at last, sticking out a hand. "Send for me, and I'll see what I can do."
Stocik shook the proffered hand. "In either event, Fergus if you do find yourself in these waters again, I'd be glad to show you Viking hospitality."
oooo
"He said that?" Hiccup asked. "Exactly that?"
Spitelout flinched at the eager tone in the young chief's voice. The entire Berk council was assembled to hear him tell the tale, plus those Dragon Riders present on Berk at that point. Most of them knew to dread that tone.
He had an Idea!
"Uh... Why is that so important?" Fishlegs asked.
"If dad said that, then maybe we can do one better than exchanging letters..."
"Invite him here?" Astrid queried, in an incredulous tone.
"Bit sudden perhaps..." Gobber put in.
"And a bad idea anyway." Sven said.
"How so?" Hiccup asked, sounding a little exasperated.
"The archipelago has been claimed by kings and Jarls since Berk was founded." the once elective mute explained. "If he's been this quick to make contact, then he might be trying to make a claim of his own."
"Doesn't sound like him very much..." Spitelout said. "He took one look at Stoick and scoffed at the rumours he'd cut some kind of deal with Drago over the murder of the Tingwall."
"Last I heard..." Valka began, then stopped as she tried to get her thoughts in order. Being out of circulation in the wilds for twenty years tends to induce a hesitance in public speaking.
"I never really understood the mechanics of it..." she said at last, "But before Drago attacked, the Jarl was attempting to get the kingdoms to recognise these islands as a realm apart, under his control and that of the Tingwall..."
"Which they wouldn't." Gobber put in. "Or at least they were dragging their feet over it..."
"I know... but... If King Fergus dealt with Stoick as an equal, or even as he would one of his own lords..."
"That implies a recognition of the idea that Berk at least is a realm apart under the rule of its chief," Hiccup finished, sounding mildly triumphant.
"Not sure it's quite that simple..." Gobber said, but in the tone of a man aware he was losing the argument.
"Either way, it is in our interests to deal with this quickly..." Astrid added.
"What is "This" exactly?" Snotlout put in. "What has our kingly friend actually said?"
"It's more what he hasn't said that's interesting..." Hiccup explained. "He's made a point of reminding me how he and Dad got on, made a few remarks about trade, enquired after Spitelout and Finn Hofferson's health..." he glanced at Astrid.
"The timing isn't an accident," Astrid said, not commenting on her late uncle being mentioned. "Even though he's just sent us diplomatic small talk, he's heard about Drago's defeat, and wants to make sure we don't get similar ideas to him."
"A chief protects his own," Hiccup replied. "So must a King." He slapped down the letter on the table. "We need to convince him that we aren't a threat, and if we can convince him that we can offer favourable trade terms for our goods..."
"Then we have another trading partner outside the Archipelago!" Fishlegs exclaimed.
"Exactly. And they're a kingdom. More stable supplies, more goods, larger markets." Hiccup looked up. "And if a kingdom that size starts taking us seriously, Berk's reputation gets a boost as well."
"Our rep is down in Yggdrasil's roots right now..." Snotlout admitted, but without much enthusiasm.
"Naturally people think of a dragon and they think of the Nidhogg eating the bones of the dead down there..." His father said, nodding sagely.
"Or Jormungandr..."
"Or Drago's Bewilderbeast," Hiccup said, dragging them back to the point. "Which is why our going to Fergus will make people nervous." He turned to Spitelout. "Did he know of the Viking Laws of Hospitality?"
Spitelout thought for a second. "Not to the letter, but he was aware of them..."
"Then he knows that if we invite him he's under our protection," Hiccup said, choosing to ignore Spitelout's apprehensive tone. He well recalled the man's opinion of contact with the outside world...
"You've made up your mind already," Gobber said. Hiccup sighed and met his eyes.
"Look, you're nervous, I get that. We're a remote island, playing host to a King. What's not to be nervous about? But think of the benefits if we do make a good impression! If we can do that, it'll put Berk on the map."
There was silence for a moment.
"I'll say this much boyo." Spitelout said eventually. "If you had to pick one king to reach out to, Fergus is probably the one to approach..."
"How do you speak to a king anyway?" Fishlegs asked.
"That's... gonna take some thinking..." Hiccup admitted. "But let's face it, we're Vikings. He won't expect us to be perfect."
This at least was met with general assent. But not, ironically, from Berk's general.
oooo
"Hiccup, can we talk?" Astrid asked, as most of the others left.
Hiccup looked up from the note he was making, drafting his reply to Fergus already.
"Okay, I'm guessing it isn't something personal since Snotlout's with you..."
Astrid half-turned, not having realised Snotlout was behind her, arms folded with mild impatience.
"Think I know what Astrid's going to say anyway." he said, "Any objections if I say it first?"
Hiccup sighed and folded his arms himself. "Let's hear it..."
"No-one thinks this is a good idea!" Snotlout exclaimed, "They're just going along with it because you're chief!"
"I think we can overcome the problems they mentioned," Hiccup replied calmly. "Security and so forth shouldn't be too much of a- What?"
Snotlout had groaned and put his face in his hands.
"Maybe you're right, maybe we can do this, maybe we can make the good impression you want, but it would inspire a lot more confidence if you weren't acting like the time – "
"I was trying to one-up Viggo." Hiccup finished, sounding more than a little annoyed. "Small point you may not have considered here, Snotlout, is that that wasn't what I was doing!"
"Then what were you doing, 'Dragon-Master'?"
Astrid winced. She had called Hiccup that in her abortive attempt to intimidate Drago, and as a result, Hiccup associated that title with him, and by extension his Father's death. She was unnerved when Hiccup did not surge from his chair, but rose slowly, his face thunderous. Even Snotlout seemed suddenly uncertain.
"Don't call me that." he said, in a flat, tightly controlled voice. "And, in answer to your question, my attempts to selfishly 'one-up' Viggo were in fact trying to make sure that we could stop him before things got too much worse. Yes I admit, I got it wrong when I overworked our Dragons, but..." he stopped and sighed. "Look, if I'd got it right to the point where that whole episode with the Grimora never happened, then maybe Viggo wouldn't have had the resources to chain up a Submarripper in the Straits of Baldur to starve Berk out! Tell me that wouldn't have been worth the dragons being cranky for a while?"
Snotlout blinked. "Well if you wanted to do that, I remember suggesting at the time that we gathered up all the Catastrophic Quakens we could find and smashed Viggo's Island to gravel."
"Snotlout! How would giving the Dragon-Hunters the perfect excuse to go to any port they liked and tell everyone how vicious and vindictive we are have helped?"
"You are missing the point!"
"Probably because you're explaining it badly," Astrid put in at this point. Both men looked at her.
"You know what I'm talking about, right?" Snotlout asked, the hope plain in his voice. Astrid chewed her lip and didn't answer.
"Astrid?" Hiccup asked, surprised. Astrid couldn't look him in the eye.
"Great." said Snotlout. "Then you talk some sense into your boyfriend, 'cause he's cleeeeeeeearly not listening to me!" He marched away muttering to himself.
"Right, I'm missing something here..." Hiccup said when they were alone. Astrid shook her head.
"You just seem to be... really intense about this..." she said. "That's a little scary coming from you..."
"You think inviting King Fergus is that bad an idea?" Hiccup tried not to sound too crestfallen.
"No, no," Astrid responded, very quickly. "It's just..." she trailed off. Hiccup didn't know what to say, so he let her gather her thoughts.
"You've been so... driven since we got back from Nephthene..." she said at last. "You've changed... And I'm not the only one that's noticed..." she gestured at the door Snotlout had just stormed out of.
"Yeah... I know I have..." Hiccup sighed, looking up at a painted shield of himself and his father on the rock wall of the hall. "I've had to. Dengir's right, I'm not just a teenager with a pet Dragon any more, I can't be..."
There was a stress on the word 'can't' that disturbed Astrid for no reason she could articulate.
"I'm a chief now. Not just the leader of a troop of Dragon Riders," Hiccup went on. "No-one on Berk is exactly defenceless, but could you imagine a five-year-old like Hildegard or elderly Gothi in battle... okay, those are bad examples since I've seen how good both of them are with weapons... you get my point though."
He snorted. "The night I shot down Toothless, Dad said he had a whole village to feed, and I just got snarky about it... I get what he meant now..."
You don't even care that he was giving you no more than what was your share of food before the Red Death, Astrid thought to herself. And that under sufferance, begrudging sense of rightness that the expenditure of resources on a scrawny boy that couldn't lift a weapon was to him, never seeing that it was becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy... No other parent would think like that...
Here at least Astrid took some vindictive satisfaction in knowing that everyone in the village knew that no-one grew two feet inside of five years unless they hadn't been fed properly for the previous fifteen. Valka, she knew was quietly livid about this, but her fury was tempered by the obvious shame the people of Berk had about their chieftain's upbringing.
It takes a village to raise a child, as the old proverb said...
"Astrid?"
"Sorry, just thinking..."
Hiccup smiled. "About last year, at the Edge?"
"Well that too..."
Astrid's tone wasn't lost on Hiccup.
"Look, I'd give anyth- well... a lot... to go back to how it was then... But... I..." he gestured around him at Berk in general, the gesture endeavouring to encompass the whole of the world on one side, and the two of them on the other.
"You... sound so much like..."
"A chief?"
"Your Dad..."
"Well, that's kind of the same thing..." Hiccup said, with a strange feeling of deja vu. He and Astrid had had a similar conversation to this in reverse, he was sure of it. Then he remembered when that conversation had taken place, and the strange feeling of being alone in the world it had engendered...
"Look, I need to make time for-"
"It's fine," said Astrid, again, rather quickly. "You have enough to worry about right now..."
"Astrid..."
"No, Hiccup." his girlfriend said, with a rueful smile. "You're chief now. Our relationship can't get in the way of that..."
Hiccup sighed with relief. "I'm glad you understand."
"Hiccup?" Eret called from the door. "Can I have some chiefly back up here? There's a trader throwing a tantrum..."
"On my way." replied Hiccup. "Never ends..." he added to Astrid with a roll of the eyes.
Astrid watched him go. With everything that had happened in the last year or so it was no wonder he'd changed so much...
She sighed. Not so long ago Hiccup had been drifting, avoiding responsibility and infected with wanderlust. Now he had gone too far the other way...
"Maybe you should think about what's next for you and Toothless."
"You are missing the point! Chief! What an honour. I'd be excited!"
Her words. Her beliefs.
Was this her fault? Had she made him this way? She didn't know.
And it hurt that she didn't...
oooo
"'I am reminded,'" King Fergus read aloud, "'that my father once offered to show you Viking hospitality. Thus, rather than exchange notes over the next few weeks to the continued exhaustion of our flock of Terrible Terrors, I should like very much to make good this promise in the name of speeding the business between our peoples.'" The King slapped the letter on the table with a wide grin. "Can't speak for the both of you but this is better than I was expecting!"
"It is rather sudden..." Elinor said, quietly. "And there is the intrinsic problem that you've been invited to a remote island thick with Dragons..."
"Were it anyone other than a Viking we were dealing with, I might agree." Fergus replied. "But knowing what I do about their hospitality laws, I don't think it's too much of an issue. In fact it would probably be the safest place to be at the present moment."
"I've read up on those," Merida chimed in. "Loki the trickster god attended a feast after engineering the murder of Baldur, and even when he insulted all those present one by one, not least Thor and Odin, they couldn't throw him out!"
Her mother frowned, and Merida was glad it was just the three of them discussing the letter that had arrived that morning.
"I'm just not convinced that you going along is such a good idea any more, Merida," she said at last. "The king and the heir in the same place is risky enough, but when that place is full of creatures that might kill someone by snoring, however well-intentioned the local people are..."
Merida saw her father considering this, and broke in before he could decide to leave her at home.
"Well, I'll just have to resist the temptation to tickle a sleeping dragon then! Besides," she added, "Vikings habitually carry weapons, so they can hardly object to me having my bow with me."
"You shouldn't be so flippant about such things Merida." Elinor said. "This world is dangerous enough without flying, fire-breathing lizards around you."
Fergus put a hand on his wife's shoulder.
"She knows that, Elinor." he said, quietly. "And if she is to be High Queen, then we can't protect her forever, only prepare her." His eyes met Merida's, testing, evaluating, deciding...
"I think the people of Berk will take better to a young warrior like her than an old man who once fought beside their chief's father." He said at last, smiling slowly at her. "I'll make the arrangements this afternoon." His face sobered again. "But if you are coming with me to Berk, then you need to knuckle down to your studies. You can read Ogham since you've read the letter yourself, and you've read up on the traditions, that's a start, but you need to learn about the protocol Vikings have for formal situations. "
Merida winced. "This from you, Dad?"
Fergus chuckled. "I know, I know. I think young Hiccup and I will both be glad to put some formalities aside at the earliest opportunity, but we don't want to go far enough to offend someone here. Now go get to it!" he smiled to take the sting out of that last order.
When their daughter had gone, Elinor turned to her husband.
"That wassober for you." she said, her voice concerned. "What are you thinking?"
Fergus sighed, and sat back in his chair again. "I'm old, Elinor... Older than I admit... All joking aside this is my last adventure..." he grinned half-heartedly at his wife. "I'll bet you're glad to hear that!"
"I thought I would be..." Elinor replied, clasping her husband's hand. Fergus took it in both of his.
"Oh, I'll keep the throne warm for her as long as I'm allowed to," he said, firmly. "But I've spotted something in the history books. The second Monarch of a kingdom tends to have all sorts of trouble in their realm. I mean to break that pattern. Give Merida a running start if I can."
"She'll have a bigger kingdom to deal with if the clans that were scared of Drago were serious about joining us..."
"Aye, I know..." Fergus groaned. The number of missives he'd had in the last couple of months was large, and their content varied from the panic-stricken to the sycophantic to the stridently demanding. "So she'll need strong allies to help her..."
Queen Elinor looked at her husband shrewdly. "Allies that can ride Dragons maybe?"
"That's my hope..." The old king sighed again. "Love a good brawl as I do, I've seen enough of war in my life... Something in Hiccup's writing makes me feel all young and idealistic again. Besides," he said, clasping his wife's hand. "I still feel like I owe old Stoick one... if I remember rightly, Finn Hofferson always said he was too hard on the lad. I want to see the truth of that. Heh! I'm almost as excited to meet him as Merida!"
oooo
I seldom remember dreams any more...
Of those I can remember, Bears featured heavily since I was six, for obvious reasons. Those that weren't being slain were dancing to a strange tune I couldn't recall on waking.
And yet I know I'll remember this one...
Dragons are new for a start...
I see a ship, aflame, a big fur-clad man lying on the deck. My studies tell me this is how Vikings honour their dead chieftains.
Men and Dragons gather round, their heads bowed.
In the shadows out from the firelight, I see an army, armed for battle, and I notice that the encircling men within the light, Berkians I presume, have no weapons.
One by one, the Berkians rise, and, Dragons at their sides, march into the flames.
The shadowed army offers no objections, indeed it encourages them with gestures with drawn swords, and ugly jeers.
I recognise the voices of my three would-be suitors among the jeerers, and others from the four clans I know.
The Vikings of Berk seem more sad than offended by this as they march to their deaths in the fire.
And when I wake I'm profoundly disturbed by the dream as a whole, even though I can't really call it a nightmare.
But I do find myself hoping the dream isn't an omen...
OOOOO
Author's Note: Well, what do you guys think? Its intended as the start of a much larger project, mostly intended to keep me sane...
It should go without saying that I don't own any part of this.
Thanks to the wife for correcting my bad grammar.