Seasons of Gray Chapter 1
I need to go flying again. It's the only thing that takes the years away.
Toothless is always happy to go flying with me, of course. He hasn't changed; he still jumps and snorts and butts me with his nose if I don't move fast enough. But he's realized that I can't move as fast as I used to, and he doesn't butt me as hard as he used to, or he'll knock me over. My good leg isn't that much better than my bad leg anymore.
Astrid watches from the window. I always ask if she wants to go with us, and she always declines. I don't think she'll ever get over losing Stormfly, and riding another dragon is just a painful reminder to her. There are days when I think she might have chosen to endure that wasting sickness herself, rather than watch her dragon go through it. But she wasn't offered that choice.
Dear, sweet, faithful Astrid. Ever since the day when she virtually proposed marriage by kissing me in front of the whole town, she's been beside me through everything. She's given me three strong sons and a lovely daughter; our firstborn, Erik, is now chief in my place. She's kept our household going during my many absences, and she was always the first thing I wanted to see when I came home. When the nightmares come and I wake up screaming, she holds me in the dark and reminds me that the Red Death has been dead for sixty years now.
The years have been kind to her; she looks as beautiful to me now as she did as a slender young teen, fighting fires and fighting dragons. I tell her so, every chance I get. She always hits me in the arm and says, "That's for lying!" It's more of a half-hearted swat now. I don't know if it's because she's no longer strong enough to make a bruise, or because she no longer wants to make one.
Slowly I strap on the old saddle and riding gear. My fingers aren't as nimble as they once were. I can still see traces of the tooling I'd worked into the leather, all those years ago, and I marvel that I could do that kind of workmanship once. Most of the pieces have been replaced several times, of course; leather wears out when it's heavily used, and few items of leatherwork in this town have seen more use over the years than Toothless' saddle. Almost none of it is original anymore, but there are still a few scraps left from that first saddle I cobbled together when no one else was looking.
I pause for a moment and look around. Berk is solid and prosperous now, thanks to my son's leadership, and home to a lot more people than when I was an underdeveloped teenager. But I recognize fewer and fewer of them. My children and their playmates are now the town's leading citizens. My own playmates are old, like me. And all the adults, who were the anchors of the town when I was growing up... they've all gone to Valhalla or the Fólkvangr field. My father, reunited at last with Mom; Gobber, my teacher and mentor, now probably hammering out swords for Odin's best; all my friends' parents; all of them, gone.
Toothless is getting impatient. I don't think he really understands about humans and aging. He hasn't aged a bit; he can be as playful with our grandchildren as he once was with me. No one knows how long Night Furies live, or how they change as they get older. Toothless has gotten about three inches longer in the past sixty years. That doesn't mean much because we don't know how old he was when I first met him. He might be a little younger than me, or he might be centuries old already.
The view from the top of this hill is magnificent, like it always was. This was my father's house, and it became mine when I took his place. By right and by tradition, it should have gone to Erik when I stepped down and he became the chief. But he refused it. "We can live anywhere, Dad, but this is the only house in town that's big enough for a dragon." He never really understood how it is with me and Toothless – he thinks of my scaly friend as a sort of pony with wings – but at least he knows how important my friend is to me. That kind of understanding, plus some Haddock stubbornness and some Hofferson determination, has made him a fine chief. I'm proud to call him my son, and I've told him so on many occasions.
"I'm almost done, bud. Just be patient for another minute." What's his hurry? It's not like we're likely to bump into anyone we know. My old friends don't race any more, anyway. Snotlout went on raids until he found a town he liked, proclaimed himself the new chief, and did surprisingly well for himself. His funeral ship sailed just last year. He'd requested that one of Hookfang's offspring light the fire.
Fishlegs never made it as a warrior, but he found his niche when we started making trade agreements with other villages (a process that was one of my own better accomplishments). He became a merchant, and quite a successful one. He's retired now, of course, but he can still cloak Ruffnut in a fine new fur coat every year.
Tuffnut never quite found his niche, either in raiding or trading. He married into a well-off family, got a hefty dowry, and spent most of it. Now he sits in a rocking chair in front of his house and tells his flock of grandchildren about his glory days, when he brought down the Red Death single-handed. He's been telling that story for so long, I think he believes it himself.
I tighten the last strap, and we're ready. I don't spring onto Toothless' back any more; it takes me a minute. My artificial leg never quite healed, and it hurts more every year. But finally, I get centered in the saddle, the metal foot locks into the stirrup, and I lean forward to brace myself against his flying leap into the sky.
We've done this thousands of times, and it never gets tired. I feel him tense up, and then he springs. The ground falls away, and all the years fall away as well. Suddenly I'm fifteen again, and I'm riding a dragon for the first time, and the rush of air in my face is something new and exciting.
People on the ground wave at us. There's no mistaking us, no matter how many dragons make their homes in Berk now; we've never found another Night Fury. Sometimes I wonder if Toothless ever feels lonely. But he's never complained, at least not in any way that I recognize.
Sometimes the younger dragon-riders come up to race me. Maybe they think it will be an easy win for them, because I'm old and slow. But they underestimate my amazing dragon every time. Toothless is still undefeated. I guess that means I'm undefeated, too. Not bad for an old man.
There are days when I feel like doing some of the crazy tricks we used to do, like unhooking my flying belt and free-falling for half a mile with Toothless right beside me. Astrid has solemnly promised to beat me to a pulp if I ever try any of those stunts again. I know she says it because she cares about me. But, come on! I might be slowing down, but Toothless is just as capable of protecting me now as he ever was. Still, I hate to worry her. I've given her enough worries already, with plenty to spare. She's given everything for me; I'll give up a little fun for her.
Today, we won't do anything fancy; we'll just fly. "Just fly"? I can still remember the days when the very idea of flying on dragons was ridiculous. Toothless and I changed all that, pretty much all by ourselves. To the kids growing up today, the idea of "just going for a ride" on a dragon seems tame. Of course, they've never "just gone for a ride" on a Night Fury.
Let's go higher, bud. Bring me those clouds. You and the clouds haven't changed.
And when I close my eyes, and feel the wind in my face, and feel you there underneath me, there are moments when I can convince myself that I haven't changed, either.