A/N: Thanks for making the return trip to my story! Whether it was the "next chapter" button or following the link in an email reminder or whatever, I appreciate your dedication. So, your reward is the next chapter. I hope you enjoy :)

And so life went on. Every household on Berk was instructed to house at least one refugee, and more where space was available. Gobber and his parents lived in a home adjacent to the forge, so extra room was scarce.

But after a little adjustment, Rack fit in easily. Gobber gave up his bed in the house and slept in front of the forge fire instead, but he didn't mind in the least as the nights grew steadily colder. Their dining table was a bit more crowded than it used to be, but Rack provided a wealth of interesting conversation. Any surrender they made to accommodate their refugee was more than made up for, in one way or another. Gobber's father was especially appreciative, because he'd had to come out of retirement to take over the forge work when Gobber lost his arm, and now Rack could take care of most of it.

Rack was a simple addition, really, when it came down to it. No family had been on the boats with him when they arrived at Berk, so there was no obligation to take another person into their home. Though for a reason unknown to Gobber, that was a sore matter for Rack. He only gave dodgy answers on the few occasions when anyone asked about his family, so no one pressed.

They fell into the sort of routine that left room for things like sleeping and eating to be crammed in only on the edges. The pair split their time between working in the forge, helping to repair the boats, and assisting with Dragon Training.

Alvilda the Fierce, the training master, kept them both busy. Despite her years, Alvilda retained every bit of her fierceness, and for that Gobber admired her. He knew, though, that within only a handful of years he would take over as the training master, so he made great efforts to be as attentive and helpful as possible. Rack followed suit, and they were put to work with everything from moving targets to giving one-on-one weapons practice during the afternoon classes in the Arena.

A new addition to the island even since Gobber went through Dragon Training only five years previous, the Arena required constant rearranging. Gobber and Rack were late into the night setting up walls and barricades for the next day's training.

On a cloudy Friday evening two weeks after Rack's arrival, class had gotten out on time–a rare occurrence, to be sure. As the students piled out the gates, Gobber and Rack had dutifully begun dismantling the wooden barricades.

"How long is boat work going on today?" Gobber mused, sliding the weapons rack toward the large storage room. "We could get a few hours in before sundown."

Rack shrugged. He hefted a few planks and braces over his shoulder and said with a grunt: "I think I heard someone say a storm was moving in. If that's the case, they'll have stopped by now, won't they?"

From the other side of the circular Arena, Alvilda stood slowly from her trunk of smaller teaching supplies. "Aye, they started storm preparations after noontime. No one will be out much after dinner. If the two of you have something you want to do tonight, you best be off to it now."

Gobber shook his head as he walked over to help with another barricade. "I'll have time to check my snares after dinner, I think. We'll just be quick about it."

"No, you won't. Check them now," Alvilda ordered. "I'll finish up here, boys. Not that much left to do anyway."

Rack paused in his work, confused. "No, we'll stay."

Gobber watched with amusement as the gray-haired training master fixed Rack with one of the fierce looks that gave her her namesake. His friend didn't know yet to never argue with Alvilda the Fierce. "You'll go and check your traps," she told them, "and be safely indoors by the time that storm comes in. There's no sense in endangering yourselves to save me an hour of work. I'm not that old yet."

Rack's mouth opened as if he might argue, but then thought better of it. He finished with the barricade he was working on and echoed Gobber's "thank you" as they clambered out.

As they trekked down the path toward the village, Rack asked: "Will she be okay, doing that on her own?"

"Okay?" Gobber scoffed. "You really haven't spent much time here. Don't worry about Alvilda; worry about anything in her way."

Rack offered a cautious "alright" by way of reply, and whistled jaunty tune as he and Gobber ducked off the trail and into the forest. They pushed through the low-hanging fir branches and thick underbrush. Clouds were already gathering around the island, preparing for a later onslaught of rain and hail, and they made the forest even darker than usual.

"How many snares do you have set?" Rack asked from over Gobber's shoulder.

"Twenty or so," replied Gobber, mapping them out in his head.

Rack took a deep, appreciative breath of the crisp air. "Alright, I'll accept this."

"What?" Gobber frowned.

"As a guided tour through the dark forest of the island of Berk! I told you I wanted one," he explained with a laugh.

Gobber rolled his eyes. "Whatever. We'll be done in time for dinner, don't you worry. I think my father is making yak and cabbage stew tonight."

Their stomachs rumbled in unison at the thought. Gobber's father, as bothersome as he could be about getting Gobber out of the house, was an amazing cook. It was one of the very few skills that Gobber had inherited from him.

They reached the first snare in the line, which turned up empty. They moved on quickly, the wind seeming to pick up speed with each step. The tops of the trees swirled in a near-frenzy, but at the forest floor it was still oddly quiet.

"I have to come up with the final test for Dragon Training this year," said Gobber, looking back at Rack. "There's still more than a month between now and the final, but–it has to be good, you know?"

Rack nodded his understanding. "Have you got any ideas?"

"Not a one. D'you think you'll still be around then?" Gobber knelt by another trap, noting that something had upset it but escaped. He reset the snare, but with difficulty. Everything was harder with one hand, and only the sheer force of his stubbornness made some things manageable.

When there wasn't an answer, Gobber turned full around to look at Rack. He was staring off into the forest, eyes unfocused.

"Rack?"

His friend blinked and shook his head. "Um–I don't know. I hope so."

Gobber used the trunk of a tree to help him stand up. "You really don't want to go home, do you?"

Rack bit his lip and inhaled deeply through his nose, as he always did when someone reminded him of home or his family. The first gusts of wind pushed through the trees, nudging the pair along. But they stood still.

"I won't be going home," Rack began, and the whole forest seemed to echo the deliberate way he took his next breath. "At least not to my tribe, anyway."

His shoulders drooped and he looked away, the weight of his confession making him weak. Gobber didn't speak for fear that anything he said would stop Rack from saying more. He hardly breathed.

"This was my farewell voyage. I–" he stopped and met Gobber's gaze, searching for words. As the clouds moved in over the island, it grew even darker in the forest, and even the patches of light were dim.

The dark splotches that were Rack's lips curled into a sour grin. "I'm getting married," he said in a tone that was exactly the opposite of what would be expected from his words.

"What?" Gobber demanded, shocked that he still knew how to speak.

"I'm getting married as part of a treaty, to the future chief of the Clamour tribe. I've only met her once, but I don't... I can't... love her."

A little part of Gobber's chest seemed to crumble. He wasn't entirely sure why, but this news–the finality of it–almost overwhelmed him as much as it seemed to Rack.

He swallowed it and asked: "Why you?"

Some of the despair seeped out of Rack's face, replaced by mild embarrassment. "They couldn't very well take my brother. He has to stay home and be chief there."

"Oh." Gobber took a moment to process that information. "Oh. You mean–you're the son of a chief?

"The second son of a chief," Rack clarified. "Which isn't really good for anything."

Gobber's mind whirred with questions, and they would have exploded from him if he didn't keep a firm hold on them. "W–where are your parents, then? I'd have expected to see them, if they're sending you away."

"The chief and his wife went in the advance party." Rack turned away and began walking again. Gobber didn't miss the impersonal way in which he referred to his parents, realizing that his bitterness ran deep. "I assume they are already on Shatter Island and awaiting the rest of the party's arrival. We were expected three days ago."

"You're glad for that, aren't you?" Though he knew the answer, the question begged to be asked.

Rack knelt by the next snare instead of replying, disentangling a dead rabbit from it and passing it to Gobber, who stowed it in his knapsack for lack of a better place.

"Yes."

It was said so quickly and quietly that Gobber wondered if it was a trick of the ever-increasing wind. "But I know it only delays the inevitable. And–Gobber–I fear that with each day I spend here, I will dread having to leave even more."

In the darkness, the expression on Rack's face was entirely unreadable, but Gobber had a good idea of what it might look like. Just the way he held himself in that moment screamed complete desperation. He wanted anything but his own future.

His shoulders drooped even more, his breaths were hurried and his words were tight. The shadows swallowed him whole, hiding even the usual light in his blue eyes.

Gobber sidled a few steps forward and wrapped his arms around the taller man. He felt Rack's body tense before he gave in and embraced Gobber in turn. He leaned his head down on to Gobber's shoulder, which might have been awkward if not so necessary at the time.

"I'm sorry," he said, because there was nothing else to say.

"I don't even know why it bothers me so much," Rack yelled into the fabric of Gobber's tunic. He felt the wetness of tears on his shoulder. "Arranged marriages are nothing new to my tribe! I knew this would happen, but now that it's so close I can't bear the idea of it!"

Gobber patted Rack's back with his stump, and grimaced as a sudden thought occurred to him. "Has something... changed recently? Is there someone who made you want to stay?"

"No," Racked breathed, confusion reading in his tone. "Oh, you mean–no, no, it hasn't."

He pulled away then, quickly, and adjusted the bottom of his tunic.

They checked the rest of the traps quietly and with haste, collecting three more rabbits and a squirrel, and had only just ducked under the awning of the forge when the rain began to fall like a volley of arrows. It announced its arrival with a great burst of lightning and a crash of thunder, loud enough to shake the ground.

Gobber watched it momentarily, allowing Rack to take the meat in the house. They'd skin it later, after dinner.

When Rack came back out into the forge, whistling tunelessly, Gobber was standing in the same place. He'd fully unwrapped his stump and tossed the bandages into the fresh fire a few feet away. He looked up from the wound as Rack approached. The whistling stopped.

"Thank you," Rack said quietly. He snagged a stack of clean cloth bandages and a bowl of salve from where Gobber kept them by the tools.

"Don't worry about it," came Gobber's newly automatic response as he held out his hand. "Um...for what, again?"

"I hadn't told anyone about all of–you know, about everything. It's good to have it off my chest." He gripped the supplies, and peered over at the ugly but healing sight that was Gobber's arm. He felt strangely exposed with another person looking at his stump. "Is that still sore?"

Gobber prodded at it a bit. It wasn't such an angry mess anymore; the swelling had gone down, and the edges seemed to have sealed together. Looking at it, though, he still couldn't grasp the idea that it was his own arm, and that it ended before it should have.

He looked away, out into the rain again. "Not as bad as a few days ago."

To Gobber's surprise, Rack dipped his hand in the bowl and scooped out a liberal dose of the salve. He raised his eyebrows and gestured for Gobber to extend his arm. He did so, reluctantly, and winced at the feeling of another's touch on his tender skin.

Rack stopped spreading the salve. "Am I–"

"No. It's just weird."

"Oh."

He finished in silence and had begun to wrap the wound when a thought occurred to Gobber. "Why have you not been involved in... in anything? Since you came here, I mean. Shouldn't you go to the council meetings or something, like your tribe representatives do?"

Rack paused to look up at Gobber, and a cross between a devious grin and a grimace fell over his face. The light from the fire and occasional strokes of lightning danced over his features. "I made a deal with them just before we came ashore. If I could be released from my station and identity for the duration of our stay on Berk, I would in turn provide my unconditional cooperation and faith in my marriage–indefinitely. My–ah–reluctance isn't exactly a secret, so they agreed."

Gobber blinked. "Some deal."

"Aye, you could say that."

Rack tied the bandage and let Gobber take his arm back. He'd done a marvelous job, much better than Gobber could have managed with only one clumsy hand. Gobber leaned against the wall by the fire. "Is Rack even your name, then?"

"What?" Rack wiped his hands on his vest. "Oh. Yes. Well–mostly."

Gobber threw up his arms in exasperation. "Mostly?"

His friend's peal of laughter filled the forge, and his shoulders shook with the intensity of it. "It's a nickname, Gobber. No need to take up arms."

"What's it short for, then?" countered Gobber, fixing Rack with a withering glare. It certainly wasn't that amusing.

"I'll tell you," Rack stalled, "but you have to promise not to laugh. Not even a little."

Gobber blinked at him and plastered an innocent look on his face. "Not even a little."

A look of great pain crossed Rack's features, and as he squeezed his eyes shut he muttered: "Miracle."

Gobber frowned. "Come again?"

"My name is short for 'Miracle'."

He considered that for a moment. And as a smile tickled the corners of his mouth, Rack's expression changed to one of utter betrayal. "I knew it. I really knew it. Here I thought that–"

"It's a nice name, really," Gobber interrupted. "I've heard worse, for certain, but I'm sure yours at least has a story behind it. A bloke a few years older than me's named Goatfeet–now that's an awful name."

Rack's mouth worked for a little while before he could make words come out of it. "Uh–yeah, it is. And thanks–"

"Don't worry about it," he interrupted again, taking great pleasure in the mix of irritation and amusement the phrase brought his friend. "I just need to hear the story."

Rack leaned against the wall next to Gobber. "It's simple, really. I should have died as an infant–I was so sick, I'm told, that on the rare occasions I slept, I looked dead. Pale as morning fog, colder than winter itself–all that sort of blether. It was only by a miracle that I survived. I got the name because my parents are awfully sentimental people. Or, at least, they were back then."

Storm clouds as thick as the ones above Berk passed over Rack's eyes at having been reminded of his past. Gobber pressed his hand to Rack's forearm to steady him in the present and said: "Let's go have some dinner. I'm sure it's ready by now."

A/N: Thanks for reading, and please review to tell me what you think!