Preface: I promised myself I wouldn't do this, I wouldn't write a crossover. They're too weird, it's too hard to combine multiple worlds while maintaining each fandom's internal logic. But then DragonSyndicate asked so politely and persistently for a Tintin and How to Train Your Dragon crossover that it got me thinking about the 'Maybes' and 'What if?s' and 'I wonders', with the following result.

Fans of Michael Flynn's Eifelheim will recognize the narrative structure at work here (and if you haven't read Eifelheim, do yourself a favor and read it. Words cannot describe how wonderful that book is.). So, without further ado, I dedicate this fanfic to DragonSyndicate and apologize right off the bat for everything you are about to read.


Prologue:

It's a rum thing, history, not what they tell you in grammar school or history books. It's a living thing, a tree that spreads its branches wide all summer long, then drops its leaves in autumn and seems to die in winter, only to come alive again in spring. And every passing year brings changes, some of them obvious, the turning points of human events, and some of them so subtle you don't even notice until the change is irreversible and you find yourself caught up in events you should have seen coming all along.

The Greeks had a view of history that was like a great story, a meta-narrative that encompassed everything and everyone in a series of fore-ordained events; I wonder if they predicted their own downfall, or if that was somehow left out of the divine plan.

The Hebrews believed that because history is circular it cancels itself out. Events of the past become the present, and the present will soon be the future. History, the great dissembler, ceases to exist. How can it exist, in fact, when the Assyrians become the Babylonians, who in turn transform into Romans, who then become Hitler's Nazis in an endless cycle of conquest and subjugation?

I have to hand it to those Hebrews: they're a plucky lot. Even when they know what's coming, they accept it, and then get down to the business of surviving.

There was a time, when I was younger, when gentile philosophers refused to believe the Hebrews and fashioned history in a waveform, the cresting peaks signifying major events, the deepening troughs periods of humdrum mundanity.

I can't agree, for the waveform is too regular and makes no account for the unexpected.

Christopher Columbus sets out to find the Far East, a new world where rivers flow with gold, silk, and spice, a paradise of trade with Europe, riches promised to the victor. He finds a new world all right, but there's no gold, no silk, no spices, and no dark-skinned eastern maidens waiting with open arms. But all the countries of Western Europe make their claim and the venture goes into the history books not as a worthy project gone wrong, but as a great new discovery, a triumph of miscalculation and human ignorance.

Four hundred years later, a cruise liner bangs into an ice-berg. There've been plenty of shipwrecks, hundreds of them, throughout history, but none like this. The Titanic goes down, two thousand people die, and the whole sorry affair goes into the books as a tragedy of miscalculation and human hubris.

Like I said, a rum thing.

All these Modernists nowadays, they would make us believe that history is linear, always in a straight line, no variance in the pattern and no distinction between events.

Nope! As if they could make anyone believe that the discovery of the Rosetta Stone is any different from World War I or the invention of the light-bulb and the telegraph wire.

But I digress; you must forgive me, it is a habit of the old to wander down long, half-forgotten trails of thought and speech.

This is my history, or at least a part of it, and it has many limbs and branches. Some of it I experienced myself, some of it was told to me by others, and some I only know through intuition and conjecture, verified by the things I have seen. It is an impossible tale, full of twists and turns, and many accidental occurrences that changed the outcome, and one I would not believe were it not mine.

But it is, and I write it now, to bring the events of those times to a close. This story will never be in the history books, confined to the recesses of myth, like alchemy and the unicorn.

But the medievals believed in the unicorn. Perhaps there is someone who will believe the tale I now tell.


Chapter 1: Venture

"Milan, Captain. It's beautiful this time of year."

"What?!" Captain Haddock spluttered, upsetting his coffee cup and splattering droplets all over the immediate vicinity.

Tintin looked up from his newspaper innocently. "Problem?" he inquired politely.

Captain Haddock frowned in answer, ineffectually dabbling at the new coffee stains on his favorite jersey. "No, lad," replied, somewhat tersely, "coffee's a bit hot, that's all." Irritably, he rang the bell. "Although, you could warn me before bringing up that topic again."

Tintin smiled and went back to perusing the paper. Nestor entered bearing a silver servo, which he proffered to the Captain without batting an eye at the spilled coffee. Nestor was ever so professional in that way. The Captain grumpily rifled through the mail on the servo while his butler dabbed at the mess with a spare napkin. With a grunt, the Captain flipped a large, official-looking envelope across the table. It sailed through the air and landed neatly on Tintin's empty plate. Startled, Tintin looked up, once again marveling at the Captain's aim.

"Addressed to you," the Captain muttered, gesturing vaguely at the envelope.

Tintin picked it up, looking it over carefully before slitting it open with his pocketknife. He pulled out several crisp sheets of paper, unfolded and pressed them flat on the table, and began to read.

A minute or two passed. Nestor finished cleaning up the spilled coffee and made a discreet exact. Under the table, Snowy scratched his ear noisily. At long last, Tintin finished his reading and leaned back in his chair with a very thoughtful expression on his face.

"All right, lad," the Captain said in his no-nonsense voice, "out with it."

Tintin cocked an eyebrow, but obliged. "It's from the International Archeological Society," he supplied. "They claim to have made a remarkable discovery somewhere up north, Greenland I think." He checked the letter again. "Yes, Greenland. Somewhere above Baffin Bay. And they'd like me to come up and cover the story."

"Really?" the Captain asked, munching his toast idly. "Odd that they wouldn't ask the local rag to write it up."

"They said it's important, and they want someone a little more high-profile," Tintin replied. "I really should be flattered by the request."

"Probably a hoax," the Captain grunted, "an excuse to get you out of your well-earned retirement."

Tintin rolled his eyes. "It's not retirement, Captain, it's a change of career. There's a difference."

"Whatever you say, Tintin." The Captain waved a hand. "You stick to your guns, and don't let anybody draw you into another wild goose chase. I've had enough of chasing around the globe, trying to keep you out of trouble."

Tintin smiled his thinking smile and rubbed his chin contemplatively. "On the other hand," he ventured, "we've been stuck at Marlinspike ever since that affair down in San Theodoros. Perhaps a change of scenery would do us good."

"Dashing about in the snow and chasing after a bunch of doddering old archeologists who go ga-ga over a shard of pottery? Not on your life!" The Captain slumped back in his chair, arms folded across his broad chest, confident in his authority.

"Oh, come on, Captain, nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Why is it that every time you say that, I regret it?"

Tintin smiled again, his scheming smile this time. "You know, Signora Castafiore is performing at La Scala next week," he said, tossing the newspaper to his friend, "and I'm sure she would be glad to see us there for her triumphant return to the European stage."

A look of pure terror had the Captain's eyes nearly bugging out of his head. "When do we leave?" he asked, standing quickly and nearly upsetting the coffee pot again. Snowy barked and shot out from under the table; the Captain had accidentally kicked him in his clumsy haste.

"For Milan?"

"No, lad," the Captain nearly shouted. "For Greenland."

Tintin smiled yet again, this time his winning smile. "Right now," he answered, and dashed upstairs to pack his bags.


Fifteen minutes later they were at the station, awaiting a train to the nearest port city. The Captain mumbled to himself distractedly and checked his wristwatch every few seconds. After what seemed the hundredth time, Tintin put a hand on his wrist to stop him.

"Calm down, Captain," he said, "it's just a little trip up to Greenland to look at an archeological dig, and we'll be back home before you know it."

The conductor blew his whistle at that moment, the signal to board, and Tintin and the Captain were caught up in the crowd of boarders. Tintin had tucked Snowy under his arm to prevent his wandering away or getting lost, and the little dog barked and nipped whenever a passerby came too close. The crowd surged forward, the tearful goodbyes, shouted orders, and clatter of luggage carts filling their ears with the cacophonous thrill of travel. Tintin loved this moment, the first buzz of incipient adventure under the otherwise humdrum noises of a busy train station.

They boarded quickly, making their way to a carriage as the train began to move out of the station and pick up speed. After some bumps and adjusting to the motion, in which Snowy barked again in annoyance at being jostled, they found themselves in a compartment already occupied by a very thin gentleman of indeterminate age in a long, green overcoat. A shapeless hat was pulled low over his head, hiding his face. Tintin nodded politely to this personage and sat, letting Snowy curl up on the seat beside him. The Captain sat down on the opposite bench and immediately slouched back in the seat, letting his cap slip down over his eyes.

They journeyed in silence for several hours, until the train slowed and blew a long call on its horn, indicating the proximity of their destination. With a screech of overtaxed brakes on the rails, they gradually came to a stop, and the thin gentleman hopped up and exited the compartment without so much as a nod or a goodbye.

"Odd customer, that one," the Captain remarked when he had gone.

Tintin eyed the doorframe, as if it would tell him something about their silent fellow traveler. "Wonder who he was," he finally said, before standing and tucking Snowy under his arm again. The dog had fallen asleep on the ride and wasn't too pleased at being awoken. Bags in hand, they stopped onto the platform.

A sign above the door into the station read 'Bruges-Zeebrugge: Home of Belgium's Largest Fisheries', as if the distinction was a desirable one. They ignored it and strode through in search of the port master's office.

It wasn't long before they found it, located in a grungy building a few minutes' walk away from the station. They procured tickets for two berths on the Marie-Claire, a French-crewed trawler setting sail for Greenland the next day. With their travel plans finalized, they spent the night in a small hotel, prepared to rise early the next morning.

Tintin lay on his bed, sleep still eluding him. The picture of their traveling companion danced before his eyes, taunting him. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, though whether it was his figure or the air of purposeful ambiguity he couldn't tell. With a sigh, Tintin rolled over, letting the sound of the squeaky overhead fan lull him to sleep.


Tintin rose early the next morning, determined to exercise Snowy before disembarking. The morning air was damp and foggy, as if the cosmos had decided to place a veil between the world and everything in it. Brothers appeared as strangers, and friends obscure as foes in the shrouding mist. Twice Tintin had to call Snowy back to prevent losing the little dog. Apparently, Snowy knew something was up, for he was in a rare mood, jumping and barking and nipping at Tintin's coat hem. Snowy was intelligent and well-behaved, most of the time, but even he had trouble reigning in his excitement.

They walked along the docks, Tintin trying to peer through the fog and read the names of the ships in port. The Marie-Claire they saw first, her decks already busy with final preparations before setting sail. The others had names in several different languages, many of them Finnish or Norwegian in origin. Tintin loved exploring seaports, even in poor weather, even when his explorations resulted in kidnappings. Or not. There had been a few worrisome incidents, all of them contributing to his recent change of occupation. It was odd, he reflected; he was barely out of his teens and he'd made a successful career as a reporter, only to have it all backfire into the media circus that was San Theodoros and force him to back away from journalism for an indefinite period to focus on something else.

Tintin's attention was wrenched back to the present by Snowy's persistent yipping. They'd reached the end of the dock and the sun was cresting above the horizon, already striving to burn away the fog. There was a bench in front of them, one of those tourist things set there for people who had time to sit and watch. A man sat on the bench, a man that Tintin recognized. It was the thin stranger from the train. He was without his hat, and his unruly auburn hair waved in the light breeze off the harbor.

Tintin sat down, letting Snowy sniff and wander at his feet. "Hello," he said cheerfully.

The stranger looked up quickly, as if startled. He was younger than Tintin had first thought, probably about thirty, with wide green eyes above smooth-shaven cheeks. "You're Tintin, aren't you?" he said. "The reporter."

It was Tintin's turn to be startled, though he should have been used to it. "Ex-reporter," he said quickly, then skillfully deflected further questions. "You were in our compartment on the train yesterday."

"Yes," the other replied simply. "That can happen sometimes: two people, headed in the same direction, meet each other on a bus, a train. A boat, even." There was a brief pause. "Where are you headed?" he asked suddenly.

Tintin shifted uncomfortably, but felt he had no reason to lie. "Greenland."

"Ah, the country so disingenuously named you wonder if its first settlers weren't blind or delusional. Or both. What business takes you to Greenland?"

"I could ask you the same," Tintin replied, more sharply than was perhaps polite.

The other raised his eyebrows, but answered pleasantly enough. "I go to Greenland in search of a story. There are legends, in my family, passed down through generations, that have to do with Greenland." He rubbed his hands together, long fingers twitching restlessly. "Who knows? I may find the truth there."

"So you've heard of the International Archeological Society's find?"

"That's a big mouthful to say, isn't it?" the stranger retorted. "Yes, I've heard of it. And I'm interested in seeing it, whatever it is, from a historian's perspective."

Tintin thought this through for a moment, then made up his mind. He stuck a hand out to the stranger, inviting an introduction. "Well sir," he said, "you know my name, but I've yet to have the pleasure of learning yours. And if we're sailing to Greenland together, we ought to start off on the correct foot."

The other looked him up and down, once, twice, then grasped his hand firmly and shook it. "Hoffmann. Angus Hoffmann."

"Of the University of Amsterdam?" Tintin asked, certain he'd heard the name before.

"Yes, until recently."

"Pleasure to meet you," Tintin replied, then stood and called for Snowy. At that moment, a foghorn sounded from the direction of the Marie-Claire. With a wave of his hand, Tintin left, Snowy padding along in his wake, leaving their new acquaintance to shrug more tightly into his long coat and follow at a discreet distance.


"Well, I've met our introverted friend from yesterday," Tintin announced when he reached the cabin he and Haddock were to share, dropping his bags on a bunk. He and Snowy had been up on deck when the Marie-Claire set sail, and had spent a good hour afterward exploring the trawler. She was of a modest size, well-kept, with a hull of steel and a sharp prow for breaking up any potential pack-ice they might sail into. Now, with Bruges-Zeebrugge long since swallowed into the fog and the voyage ahead, Tintin felt it was time to settle in.

"And I've been speaking to the Captain of this tub," his friend replied. "Or at least trying to speak to him. French fellow, barely speaks a word of English. It's all 'Monsieur' this, and 'pour mon âme' that, and no getting a word in edge-wise." The Captain sighed a rubbed a hand over his beard. He could read French, when necessary, but English would always be his preference. "Enough to drive a strong man to drink. If only he could stomach it."

"Oh, forget about that, Captain," Tintin broke in before the Captain could drop into one of his dark moods; they usually followed talk of alcohol. "Our friend from the train yesterday; I thought I recognized him from somewhere. His name is Angus Hoffmann, and he's also headed for Greenland."

The Captain raised his eyebrows quizzically; clearly the name was ringing no bells.

"Angus Hoffmann," Tintin repeated, "the noted historian and expert on Viking culture. He made his name by serving as chief historian for a number of archeological digs, the ones that center on Viking burial grounds."

"Whatever you say, lad."

Tintin ignored the tone of this pronouncement and kept going. "He's had his reputation called into question lately though; something about some rather wild claims regarding Viking presence in really unreachable places. Maybe he's trying to keep a low-profile on this trip."

"In which case, you might like him. But, as I was saying, while trying to get 'round the Captain's incessant French, I did learn that we're sailing in to Kulusuk."

"And where's that?" Tintin asked excitedly.

"Southeastern coast. We're gonna' have a long trek across country to get to the spot."

Tintin frowned. "Why can't we just sail up into the bay itself?"

"Too dangerous," the Captain replied. "There's a massive glacier—it's practically a river of ice—that births several thousand icebergs into Baffin Bay every year. Sailing a ship up into that is just asking to be capsized by a calving iceberg." The Captain gestured dramatically with his hands and Tintin understood. "Besides, what with the ice constantly moving, there isn't a proper harbor or town in the bay, just a few small fishing villages."

Tintin nodded, then crossed his arms. "Wait a minute, Captain," he said. "How on earth do you know all this?"

The Captain looked offended. "Tintin," he said, in a reproving tone, "anybody who's ever sailed the North Atlantic knows that, and if they don't, they shouldn't be sailing. That would be like you trying to get into the Middle East right now for a story: you could do it, easily, but you know better, 'cause it's just asking for trouble."

At that moment, the ship's bell rang out and heavy footfalls pounded past in the corridor outside their door.

"Thundering typhoons, what is that racket?" the Captain shouted, opening the door and poking his head out.

Tintin leaped up and pulled on his jacket. "You said the word, Captain: asking for trouble." With that, he followed the Captain out into the corridor, Snowy waddling happily along behind.


A/N: For the disclaimer I forgot to give above, Tintin and company belong to the folks at Moulinsart, but Angus is all mine. The crossover aspect of this fic will begin in Chapter 2. Updates will be weekly to unpredictable, depending on how well this is received. Thanks for reading!