Two for the Show:
"This is gonna' be the best Snoggletog ever!"
"Those are dangerous words, Tuff," Ruffnut snorts, almost choking on her morning porridge. She really would prefer mutton, but it's been a lean winter and the villagers are conserving the sheep until the last necessity.
"I mean it," he replies. "And you thought only Astrid had good ideas." He is beaming by this time, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.
Ruffnut rolls her eyes, determined not to get caught up in his excitement. But if she gulps down the last few bites a little more quickly than usual and neglects to wash her hands as she follows Tuffnut out the door, there is nobody to notice. Not even Snotlout is that observant, and he's been sticking to her like honey lately.
Tuffnut tiptoes down the hill, leaving very small prints in the fresh snow. He is grinning like an idiot, and every so often he stuffs a fist in his mouth to stifle an evil chortle. The morning is brisk and cold, but the new-risen sun sparkles on the sea with glints of gold and silver, winter's gift to the people of Berk.
"Where are we going?" Ruffnut whispers, catching up and grabbing Tuffnut's elbow.
"Remember when you asked me to get Snotlout off your back?" he asks.
"Yeah, like three months ago," she replies sarcastically.
"Well, I've got an idea," he chuckles, and then Ruffnut notices the fish he's carrying in his hand. It's a large salmon, freshly caught, a treasure difficult to procure in the depths of winter.
This peaks her curiosity, so she pokes him none too gently in the ribs. He yelps slightly, but manages to hold on to the fish. It's a good thing too; Barf and Belch have followed them down the hill and are now eagerly sniffing at the smooth, shiny snack.
"Come on! What's your idea?" she demands, stopping him in his tracks.
He turns toward her and grins evilly, a pleasant change from his usual slack-jawed, mutton-headed stare. Then, tucking the salmon under his arm, he leans in to whisper in her ear. Her face lights up gleefully, like it does whenever something explodes. With a toss of her head and a new spring in her step, she takes the lead, flouncing down the snow-clad slope as if it's a garden of rosebuds and she the Queen of Sheba. Not that Ruffnut has heard of Sheba; if she ever does, she'll probably think it's a winter sport. Tuffnut slinks behind her, slowing down as she speeds up to put part one of their plan into action.
They reach a house on the outskirts of the village, a structure slightly larger than most and decorated with an ornately carved dragon head over the doorway. With a nod and a wink in her brother's direction, Ruffnut knocks politely on the front door.
It opens with the loud creak of protesting leather hinges, to reveal Spitelout. He glowers at her under a helmet that is only slightly askew. Ruffnut smiles even wider, steadfastly resisting the urge to giggle. Berkians are at their very best when suddenly awoken in the early morning hours. Swiftly regaining her composure, she curtseys ever so politely. "Good morning, Mr. Spitelout, sir," she says, her voice demurely low and soothing, "is Snotlout up?"
Spitelout wrinkles his nose, looking her up and down; what his son sees in the Thorston girl is a mystery to him, but boys will be boys, and he wouldn't mind a few healthy grandchildren before he dies of old age and boredom. He yells something unintelligible over his shoulder.
From the recesses of the house's interior, Ruffnut can hear a sharp clattering and several grunts of mingled surprise and pain. Spitelout backs away, replaced by his son, who, until quite recently, was still snoring contentedly. His short bearskin cape is inside out and his belt only half secured around his middle. Half asleep and confronted by the object of his affection at what most Vikings would call an unholy hour, he has to keep himself from drooling. Ruffnut bats her eyelashes at him and saunters away toward the village center.
He follows, eventually catching up and putting an arm around her. She rolls her eyes toward the sky and he interprets the expression as a gesture of encouragement. Ruffnut has made no attempt to remove his hand, so he deems it safe to try conversation.
"So, princess," he ventures, "any plans for the Snoggletog celebration tonight?"
Ruffnut actually smiles at him. It's her schemer's smirk, the one that Tuffnut knows quite well, but Snotlout hasn't seen it recently and wouldn't recognize it even if he had. "Well, I was thinking of celebrating it with a special someone."
"Oh, yeah?" he returns, eyes widening in kindled hope.
She flashes her teeth at him and he licks his lips nervously. They've reached the village square by this time, standing still and facing each other in the early morning light. Ruffnut is pretty, when she tries to be, and it doesn't take much to impress Snotlout Jorgenson.
He dithers for a few seconds, not quite believing the turn this conversation has taken, then gallantly kneels in the snow even though his knees will be wet through. He opens his mouth to speak, then abruptly shuts it again. This is neither the time nor the place, he's not prepared, his father hasn't even spoken to hers, but it's Snoggletog, she's in a rare mood, and he might never get this chance again.
"Ruffnut," he begins, hesitantly, "could you possibly . . . I mean, would you—"
"Meet you at the Great Hall tonight?" she interrupts, laughing lightly. "Don't be late."
Well. This isn't at all how he pictured it, but it could be much worse. He recognizes the dismissal and stands, snapping his gaping mouth shut and marching away toward the Great Hall with his head held high and a large, slimy salmon stuck in the back of his belt.
It doesn't take long before a flock of dragons gathers behind, each one eyeing both the salmon and its fellows warily. They're caught up in that limbo of evaluation and challenge, measuring possible gains against probable losses, before the inevitable pounce. Snotlout saunters on, buoyed by his recent success at wooing and innocently unaware of the storm brewing in his immediate vicinity, for dragons cannot resist a fish.
A Terror breaks the calm first, wriggling forward in blur of speed, intent on the prize, but he's swiftly nudged away by Barf and Belch, both of them fighting to get there first. Then Hookfang pounces, using tail and talons and his advantage in size to crowd everybody else out. But dragons don't give up easily, especially when the object is food. All three dragons scuffle and scratch, attracting still more dragons until they're all tangled up in a knot of legs, tails, necks, and screaming, roaring, flame-spitting heads, with Snotlout at the bottom of the pile.
Ruffnut and Tuffnut watch from a safe distance, tears streaming down their cheeks as their peals of laughter echo off the surrounding houses. It's the laughter more than the shrieks of the dragons that rouses the rest of the village, and a crowd gathers to watch the dragons scuffle.
When Hiccup arrives on Toothless's back, the fish has mysteriously disappeared but the dragons are still fighting. Snotlout has somehow extricated himself from the thrashing heap and is now nursing a gash in his wide leather belt and a severe wound to his precious dignity.
Ruffnut cuffs Tuffnut on the ear; he responds by kicking her in the shins.
"You were right," she admits, rubbing the newly acquired bruises. "It is gonna' be the best Snoggletog ever!"
"And now Snotlout's off your back," Tuffnut replies.
"And there's something off his back," she responds.
With which expressions of familial affection, the twins knock their helmets together and head toward the docks together, happily plotting their next diabolical move.
Stay tuned for Chapter 3 . . .
