Three to Get Ready:
All in all, Fishlegs has lived a happy life. He is a respected authority on dragons and their habits, he has a very loving relationship with his own beautiful Meatlug, the prettiest dragon in the Northern Hemisphere, and he has the satisfaction of knowing that Berk is peaceful and prosperous in part because of him. At least, that's what he tells himself every day, when thoughts of her intrude on his activities and he is forced to confront the painful truth that he is head-over-heels in love with somebody who hates him. At least, that's what she tells him.
He hasn't shared his predicament with Meatlug, of course; she's sensitive, and he's not sure if she'll handle it well. Three is a crowd, so they say, and neither of them has had to make room for a third before now.
But it's all about to change. Spring is coming, and with it a sense of urgency such as he's never felt before. The competition, always present, has increased of late, and Fishlegs is determined to not be caught waiting around.
He lifts the brand-new saddle onto Meatlug's comfortingly knobby back and starts tightening the straps. She notices something different immediately and rumbles questioningly. He strokes her encouragingly. "It's okay, girl," he says, putting on his best soothing voice. "Today's the day and we're gonna' do this together."
She licks him knee to neck, satisfied, and he steps back to survey his handiwork.
He'd asked for a new saddle, and Gobber, never one to back down for a challenge, delivered. It's a two-seater, broad and sturdy, with a tall weapons rack in the back, capable of holding up to three separate items. A gleaming set of new weapons already swings from it, an axe, mace, and broadsword ready for any possible attack. Hiccup had protested the saddle's construction, frequently pointing out that the extras were ungainly and likely to keep Meatlug on the ground, but Fishlegs's persistence and Gobber's glee had drowned out his objections. Berk is a free village, after all, and Fishlegs is free to ride his own dragon however he likes.
He climbs aboard, being careful to avoid errant swings from the axe, then leans down to scratch Meatlug, nearly toppling out in the process. He rights himself and sticks to tugging her ears affectionately. She lows in disappointment. "Aww, don't worry, girl," he replies, "we'll just have to get used to it."
He gives her a pat and she unfolds her wings, flapping them experimentally. It takes her a bit longer to get in the air than usual, but he's not unduly worried; she's been carrying him around for nearly six years and he's put on extra weight during the winter. It happens every year, but this time he's more conscious of it than before. But Meatlug valiantly overcomes her early wobbles and rises into the sky. He points in the right direction and they head off together to the other object of Fishlegs's affection.
She isn't hard to find; there's already a thin column of smoke rising in the air and the sound of Barf and Belch snarling at each other over a smoldering pile of unidentified matter.
Fishlegs rolls his eyes, knowing he has his work cut out for him, and directs Meatlug to change course. If he must make an entrance, at least it's going to be memorable.
Barf and Belch are squabbling, Ruffnut and Tuffnut are snickering, and an eager crowd is gathering when Fishlegs and Meatlug return, diving into the smoke column so Meatlug can dump her mouthful of seawater on the embers. A cloud of steam envelopes both dragon and rider and they are lost for a moment. When they burst out of the cloud and land, it is to a chorus of 'oohs' and 'aahs'. Vikings are easily impressed, though Bucket thoughtfully scratches at his bucket and asks if the kettle's boiling.
Fishlegs climbs down as gracefully as he can manage, very aware of all the eyes on him. The moment is ripe, it's now or never, so he strides up to Ruffnut with all the confidence he can muster, slings her over his shoulder and placidly returns to Meatlug's side. Ruffnut is surprised at first, but regains her composure quickly: he knows it the moment she starts kicking and punching with all her might, and growling at him to 'put her down'. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all. He plops her gently into the extra seat in his saddle, then climbs up beside her and urges Meatlug up and away.
She grouses, but obeys, and they climb into the sky, headed far away from the crowd gathered below. Barf watches from the ground, his wide lips wrinkling in a very plaintive frown. As they rise through the air, Ruffnut has stopped growling, but she still frowns at him. She frowns like a thundercloud about to break; he's scared of her frown, and not without reason. The frown doesn't bode well for what he has planned.
He shifts nervously in the saddle, and it wobbles slightly.
"Um," he stutters, not sure what to say now that the time has come. Ruffnut is still glaring daggers at him. Flustered, he falls back on his old conversational standby. "Did you know the Gronkle can carry up to three times its own body weight?"
"Oh, really?"
He ignores the sarcastic tone and presses forward. "And, because they're so adept at hovering, Gronkles are the perfect dragon from which to train for accuracy with skills like lava blasting." Meatlug obliges by spewing lava onto a pine tree below; it promptly shrivels and collapses. "Archery." He hasn't brought a bow and arrow, so he mimes shooting. Unfortunately, his arms are too short for the pull of a longbow, so it ends up looking like he's trying to hug thin air. "Or axe-throwing." He reaches behind her head to grab the axe hanging so handily within reach.
The axe comes loose easily enough, but he's clumsy with it, unused to its weight, and the axe-blade drops and accidentally severs one of the leather straps holding the weapon rack on the saddle. As if in slow motion, he watches as the rack slips, then tips, then slides right off and drops to the ground far below, where it shatters. Meatlug is clearly happy about the reduced weight, for she wiggles her tail and tries to fly higher.
Bad idea; with a pang of fear and guilt, Fishlegs suddenly remembers that the straps for the weapon rack were connected to the saddle girths and Meatlug's wiggling has loosened those as well. While he screams in abject terror and Ruffnut laughs like a maniac, the ungainly saddle swings down to bump upside down between Meatlug's stubby legs and they both plummet toward certain death on the rocks below.
"Oh Thor, oh Thor," Fishlegs screams. He's not afraid to die, but Meatlug is only fast enough to catch one of them and he's trained her well: he wants her to catch Ruffnut, though it means he won't have time to say goodbye. As these thoughts flash rapidly through his mind, he gulps and closes his eyes, prepared to embrace his end.
But it doesn't come. Instead, he comes to a jolting halt spread-eagled on Meatlug's back and she reaches her very flexible tongue up to lick him enthusiastically. From his compromised position, he watches helpless as a large, single-horned dragon with glittering red scales snatches Ruffnut out of the air and sets her down lightly on the ground, landing beside her. Fishlegs cringes inwardly; he knows the dragon, and its rider.
Mortified, he wiggles and squirms until he is once again upright, though without a saddle. He reaches down to pat Meatlug, torn between whether to give her extra granite tonight or to make her eat sandstone. "Come on, girl," he says quietly. "I guess this just wasn't our event."
They fly off together in the direction of home, Ruffnut's laughter ringing in their ears.
And don't miss the exciting conclusion . . .
