A/N: Woo, this came out faster but it was also tougher. I found it hard to enter these character's minds but I think it turned out okay.

Thanks to everybody who reviewed, especially Noctus Fury (and no, Hiccup's not invading Mathantir as merely a conqueror, but as a liberator. Hang on, and you'll see why.) TheWritingFactory, Colonel Pepper, PascalDragon, KonohasBlackReaper, LadyWordSmith, SeaFoodJagger, Yumikana (this chapter should answer your question) and everybody else who took the time to put in a kind or critical word.

From the last chapter, a lot of people expressed concern about your favorite Scots from Brave. Without giving too much away, I will say this:

1) Yes, it's the DunBroch of Brave. However the events of Brave and Of State are not the same. Things...didn't quite work out.

2) This story is set several hundred years after Queen Eleanor was turned into a bear.

3) Readers will see two characters from Brave.

I'm bumping up the rating due to the events described below. Don't worry, there's only so far I'll go.

Once again, fave as you like, but please-please-please-please-please review. Reviews soothe my headaches and runner's knee.


Of State

Chapter 3

Blood

In the early dawn, Snotlout honestly isn't very impressed by Radvo. The nine docks are long and sturdy, but rough, tilted in some places, haphazardly reinforced in others. There's several boats tied to these docks, small and large, in various conditions of repair. . They lead up to a claustrophobic pile of creaky warehouses and shacks, squatting beside dirt covered trails and half-heartedly cobbled streets. This early, the pathways host a few yawning Uttlanders bending over locks, wandering towards their boats, cracking their spines and looking out…

The rowers give a fierce grunt and the longboats fairly leap forward, Snotlout braces himself against the bow and its dragonhead—the sign of a Viking vessel come to make war. There are ten of them in the first wave, with handpicked crews and the Army of Nordri's Arrows' fiercest warriors as their burden. Snotlout is among them because that is the place of the head of a warband, and he's as bold ad brawny as they come—but his first mission here isn't the stuff of sagas, and he's strangely aware of it. Stranger still, he accepts it; no one ever wrote a tale or a song about clearing an enemy's dockyards. The important stuff comes with the second wave—then it will be time to bring more glory to the Jorgensen name.

He turns his head, shouts: "Ready yourselves!" In answer blades sing and leather creaks, war's orchestra tuning for this morning's performance. Snotlout ignores his sword, reaches over his shoulder, pulls his warhammer free of its strapping and twirls it once, reintroducing the weapon to its wielding hand. His left grabs a shield bearing a Monstrous Nightmare—the only one he can bring along. High King's orders.

No dragons; they won't understand any more than Dagur or maybe Drago did. Dump your prisoners, take the city, and make our demands, but leave Hookfang on the ship.

It's an inconvenient order, but Snotlout couldn't talk him out of it. Nor, as time passed, could he really say it was a terrible idea, despite his habitual stubbornness where his desires or tasks were concerned. He'd ignored Hiccup before, of course. But that was before he was Chief. Or King. When he'd only just begun to really think of Hiccup as family, as an heir to (in Snotlout's unyielding opinion) the toughest collection of kickass Vikings ever to put on a horned helmet and dare somebody to laugh.

A final lunge, the dragonhead on the bow seeming to strain for the town itself, a thick beam wrapped in knotted hemp passes by and he seizes on with his shield-carrying arm, swinging up and landing with heavy stomps. He looks about, sees the other longships sidle along the docks, or beach against the slipways, and with a threatening chorus the Vikings return to mainland Europa.

Snotlout is the first off the docks, shoves aside a bewildered and bewhiskered Uttlander with his shield, wordlessly directs a pair of warriors into a hulking edifice with his hammer, and storms into an open fish market. Startled men and women in dirty aprons and clutching scale-riddled, slimy knives stare at him and the war party that flows around him. Bigger men and women push them, seize the knives, pick up some mackerel, and carry their blades further into the city.

He stops—unbelievably stops—and watches the people disappear down streets and into alleyways, hears the crashing of wood, shocked screams and curses, and the battle cries of the second wave as they reach the docks. Snotlout wants to grin, forces it down as he turns his head to see the men he'd ordered into the building on the docks, clutching a balding man in a white smock and leggings.

He asks: "The harbormaster?"

"Yes, sir, just where he was said to be," replies one of the men, musclebound and blonde and hoping to get some clobbering in before tea time.

The Uttlander is muscled—dockworkers, as a rule, generally are—but he hangs like a wet sock between his home's invaders. Now Snotlout notices a spreading shiner on the man's left eye and he does grin, trying to give one of the cruelest smirks he consciously can.

"Erlend," he barks, looks around. "Where's the Uttland guy?" Another order: Erlend—the first lieutenant to break on Dredgar—was to show them Radvo, then go free under parole with most of his personal possessions and an ultimatum. It was generous for an enemy, but now he had served the United Norse Kingdom and Snotlout was the last man to deny rewards to an honest worker—at least, he'd felt that way since Thorstonton.

The Uttlander in question is hustled up by his wiry minder, a Viking with less than impressive arm size but who can skewer a grape at one hundred paces. Erlend is a doleful face emerging out of an oversized and grotesquely colored woolen shirt, looking unhappily about him and cringing from the screaming and shattering glass echoing through the streets.

Snotlout doesn't have time to deal with the man's breaking heart: "Where's the auction house? The square?"

Erlend raises his hand, points in a resigned manner. "Two blocks up that way, there'll be a stage for—" he glances about himself, taking in the river of momentarily repressed violence flowing past him, "—for the prisoners. There'll be a big building, with bars and guards. That's probably where people are being kept."

"Then that's where I want to be," Snotlout says, and gestures in the direction Erlend has indicated. "Mind your steps, boys, don't slip on the blood."

And it is all about blood, he muses as he trots down the lane. They pass rows of houses and shops, all in various states of sacking. A window shatters in front of them, giving way to a scratchy-looking bag that releases a cloud of white on impact with the dirty street. From within, a braying voice vows to beat the distance. Another two buildings up, a young shieldmaiden and a male warrior lug a finely-finished table out of a house. "It's a big city," he tells her reassuringly, "we're sure to find some chairs that'll go with it."

"What about dinnerware?"

The man looks bewildered. "What's wrong with the set Mum gave us?"

She shakes her head. "No, no, that's too nice. We'll save it for special occasions. I want a set for everyday use."

"Oh," the husband brightened. "Not a bad idea. Let's go somewhere else though; I already broke all the plates over that bugger's head."

As they turn a corner a column of armored humanity brushes past (politely, of course) and charges through the square, in which there is indeed a tall platform of sanded wood, placed opposing their entry, before a large structure that in more civilized Viking settlements would be a fantastic feasting hall. Several notches and a lever indicate that among other possible utilizations it can serve as a gallows.

Behind the platform, Snotlout can see the barn-like doors yawning open, hear shouts and cries from within the blackness, sharp metallic clangs of edged Gronckle Iron meeting the petty links forged on the mainland. A particularly angry bark—"Hoy! Get back here!"—rises above the other noise and from the darkness emerges a small blubbering man, dressed in fine dull red and well-stitched boots, rings flashing on pumping, sweaty hands and a silver encrusted sheath sparking on his belt. He obviously hasn't had to run in several years, but Snotlout has to give the man credit: he's not letting that stop him.

What does stop him is a warhammer, twirled in a Viking warlord's hand and hurled with admirable accuracy as the Uttlander runs around the corner of the platform. The hammer meets the man's face with a meaty cracking sound, like from a chicken bone still attached to the meat. His hands fly out and his feet kick upwards as he collapses in the usual center of his business. The hammer spins as it falls beside him. A large, fleshy shieldmaiden with an axe stowed in her shield stomps out of the barn, looks around, sees the fallen Uttlander and Snotlout beyond him, and walks over with the face of someone who has been given a wholly unnecessary chore. She kneels by the man, slaps his face, leans her ear close to his mouth, then—looking satisfied—she wipes her hand on the expensive shirt before picking up the hammer and trotting over to Snotlout.

"Still alive, sir," she reports and presents him with the hammer, handle up.

"Shoot," he says, accepting his weapon with a nod of thanks. "That means he has to be fed. Wait, does he?" Hiccup's orders again. Certain people to be seized. Not prisoners; hostages? No, examples.

"'Fraid so, Lord," she gestures to the great building before continuing. "He was in there, making an inspection when we broke the locks. I had a man on him but he has hayfever. We were all too busy cutting chains when he sneezed, and this whorish goat's son took a chance."

"Go easy on the poor guy—no, not this guy, hayfever guy! Could happen to anyone," Snotout leans over, looks the wretch over. There's blood oozing from nose and lips and both eyes are beginning to take on an ugly color. "Good catch; even if he isn't a dealer he'll still be big around here. Erlend, do you recognize him?"

Erlend steps a little closer, tilts his head, studies the man now groaning on the ground, and shakes his head. Snotlout shrugs; they have a rich captive, who cares what his name is?

"Chain him up there," he points at the platform-gallows. "That's where we'll put all of them. You're in charge of them, understand?"

"Yes, Lord," the shieldmaiden isn't entirely pleased for having caught her commander's eye: there's a city ripe for looting and she's scrounging up chains.

But Spitelout has taught his son how to use plunder. "For this, you'll get a share from each man's house," he thinks, makes the calculation. "How about two sheep or their equal?"

It works, she's beaming. The shieldmaiden salutes with her weapon, then hurries into the auction house, mouth full of orders. Its then that Snotlout notices the people in rags, sackcloth. His people. They've been wandering out of the awful building, blinking in the still new sunlight, looking around in confusion and growing excitement. Broken chains trail behind them—have to sack a smithy for tools—and they're thin, but not too thin. Muscles are still there, hands twitch as warriors pass by with swords and axes once held by these restored freemen. Instant reinforcements, but they'll need a good stew, a few cups of mead, and weapons before they can rejoin the fight. But no, that's all wrong: helmets first.

"Lord Snotlout."

Ásketill Hofferson, all quiet competence and clinking armor, no hairs out of place around that painfully familiar headband but blood has been sprayed on his shield. Snotlout's not entirely sure what he's doing here—not here as in Radvo, where he was ordered to by their liege lord, but here as in with Snotlout, instead of at the head of his own brigades. But he is where he is and Snotlout was quick to learn that war doesn't leave much time to ponder over others' strange stations.

"Ásketill, how's it going, man? Are the walls ours?" Radvo is circled by walls—not terribly tall ones, nor particularly intimidating, and it's so old and the city has had so many masters with various depths of interest in its repair that it's patched with rock, cut stone, and wooden barriers. But whatever its state, it is there and it can keep invaders out—and Radvoans in. It had to be the first thing seized on the mainland.

"They are, lord; the gates are barred from the inside, and we're looking for weaknesses right now." An annoying thing about walls, they had holes. Holes for smugglers, children with wholly unoriginal ideas of defiance, forbidden lovers, and curious members of the rodent family. Snotlout was pleased: he didn't want Uttish heroes and hearts being warmed during Radvo's occupation.

He pulls Ásketill close, hisses: "Were you seen?" And smirks in approval and relief when his deputy shakes his head. Ásketill's party are the only ones to ride dragons today.

The sun continues to climb. By now word is surely moving like the wind, invisible but still able to stir up people like a pile of dry leaves. He has an errand to run; Ásketill can handle the rest.

"I have some personal business to take care of," he tells the man. "I'll be taking this guy"—he thrusts a thumb at Erlend—"and a few others. You're in command. Put a Viking at every hole you find in that wall. Put the reinforcements where you want. And if anybody so much as throws a rock at our guys, put their head on a stick. We're not screwing around here, and the sooner they get that the better."

He looks around, would snap his fingers if they weren't wrapped around weaponry. "And get these guys some helmets."


It's all about blood.

Snotlout can count the number of times he had seen his father cry on one hand and still have enough left over to work a loom. He remembers—dimly—a time of great fever, can hear hard, chest squeezing coughs coming from his mother's sickbed. Little Snotlout had come around a corner with a pail of fresh water and found his father sitting at the back of their house, face pressed into mighty scarred and callous-hardened hands, helmet on the ground and shoulders shaking, whimpering out half-formed names. He was so shocked that he'd dropped his mother's water and Spitelout had looked up, shown a face that Snotlout was ashamed of. For a moment, they had looked at each other, son bewilderingly wondering if he had to tell on his dad for lack of vikingness and father inhaling deeply through congested nostrils. Then Spitelout had wiped at his eyes, picked up his helmet, and strode over to sweep up his son and the bucket in his great arms.

Son, this is what happens when you love someone who's hurting, he told his boy. It doesn't mean you're weak. It means you have something that makes you stronger.

But Snotlout didn't quite understand, and in his honest thoughts he's sure he never really did until well after his mother was up and hurling spears at raiding dragons again. His father had never spoken of it, and he thought they'd had an unspoken agreement that he honored.

And then one fine day he'd followed his pathetic little cousin onto the backs of their greatest enemies and watched in awe and surprising horror as Hiccup purchased a legacy with his own blood. Snotlout had been there, at the front of the crowd, watched his uncle crumple to the ground, realized suddenly that heroes existed, yes—of that he'd never had a doubt—but they were so fragile too. They didn't come much more fragile than Hiccup.

But his cousin—his hero—was still with them. Not whole, but alive. They'd taken him home, tucked him into that bed, and that night Spitelout had reached out, gripped his son's widening shoulders and said that he's blood, Snotlout. Remember that, no matter what else comes about. His father's words could often be drowned out by jealousies, by competition, by simple incomprehension of this strange little Viking (for that is what Hiccup is and Snotlout refuses to consider him anything else). But then they'd come back as a shout, when Hookfang was acting odd and Hiccup would drop whatever weird and possibly explosive project to try and figure things out, or when Snotlout had become bedridden thanks to a bad day of field-testing and Hiccup would appear with a jar of Night Fury saliva and an armful of neatly written notes and pester him for hours about Nightmare behavior.

And then Drago turned Toothless against Hiccup, and Stoick the Vast died saving his boy one last time. Snotlout remembers that blow to his heart, trying to will his face into stone, and seeing through watery eyes just how lonely Hiccup had looked, watching his father drift into the arms of his honored ancestors. How very small he still seemed now.

Spitelout had been unashamed at their return, had done little but sob into those big hands as Snotlout sat across from him at their table. And as his father wept, little by little Snotlout felt his control weaken.

For Spitelout had been a bastard, an unwanted seedling that Stoick could have well ignored but didn't. They became friends, then brothers instead. Stoick had fought by his side, saved his life a hundred times (and Spitelout had saved his a hundred more), brought him into the tribe's high councils, helped him marry a fine woman and to work a fine trade. On the day of his greatest mistake he'd sent Spitelout to lead an entire generation of Berkians out of danger. Stoick the Vast had a heart to match his frame, something Snotlout had taken for granted until that great heart ceased its beating, and when he wept with his father he finally understood.

It's a big house; maybe unreasonably big considering how everyone else seems to be living on top of each other. It has a wall around it, made of ill-fitting rocks that may actually be the remains of older houses (Snotlout is pretty sure he sees a carved eye staring at him), and held together by some rough looking stuff that looked like dried mud. Curiously, he prods it—hard and rough as sharkskin—wondering what his cousin would make of such a thing. Then he shrugs, steps back, and waves to the small but hulking group of men and women waiting patiently behind him. They're of the second wave, and each of them grips an iron stake pounded into a single stout length of tree trunk, tipped with spike-bristling iron plating. With a mighty cry they charge the thick wooden gates bearing twin emblems of the Northern Alliance. The first crash gouges the carvings, sends splinters flying. The second nearly tears the gates off their hinges, sends that hated symbol of the enemy bouncing to the ground, and invites some axes to hack at the attachment points to the wall. Shouts are rising in and out of the compound, and with an angry cheer the Vikings break into the house of Bludvist

The house itself stands two stories tall, and bends itself into a corner in the huge yard enclosed by the wall. It really seems more like two houses—two equally sized buildings, connected by a heavy bridge-like construction that forms a portal to another part of the yard. More stones—taken from quarries and the seaside, by the looks of it—make up the lower levels, while the higher are made from timbers and plaster. Gaudy pennants hang from the arch, displaying crests and emblems Snotlout has seen before. All of them engraved, encrusted, embroidered, embossed, and stamped on the sunken ships, pinched weapons, and torn persons hanging in a mental tally. At the center is the largest pennant, black and red and silver, the sword cleaving a dragon's head.

I'll burn that, he thinks. It'll be the first to go…no, no, I'll wrap it around the bastard then set it—no, first we'll—oops, time to break stuff.

Guards, retainers, clumsily armed servants; whatever they are, they hurl themselves at the intruders with admirable fury but contemptible skill. One man swings an axe that is completely unbalanced in his hands. It misses Snotlout's head entirely, bringing the surprised wielder in a lurch behind it before he's sent flying back by the warhammer in the Viking General's grip. He feels a burning in his left arm and watches a man with gray in his beard shakily retract a spear, readying for another jab. Snotlout curses his inattention, smacks the spearblade down with the hammer, and then stomps on it while he swings his hammer towards the shaft, snapping it like the bones of an arthritic chicken. Then he swings his shield into the old man's right cheek, sending blood and a couple teeth spraying across the cobblestones. He steps over the crumpled form, mutter in irritation, glances down the glaring red on his shoulder. Not bad—not necessarily good but it was debatable whether there'd even be a good scar out of it.

He looks around himself, notes still Utts on the ground and Vikings on the move, shouting and beating handles and blades against shields.

It's all about blood.

"House of Bludvist!" He's facing the house now, shouting. "I know you can hear me! We're here for the Bludvists! I am Snotlout Jorgenson, son of Spitelout Jorgenson, nephew to Stoick the Vast, chieftain and lord of the Hairy Hooligans of Berk and the Islands Surrounding!"

He pauses, watches the house for movement—a cracked window shutter, an opening door, a frightened eye.

"Bludvists, your father killed my uncle! Your father attacked my village! Your father murdered and enslaved our people! Your father spilled my family's blood, and now we will spill yours!"

Something creaks, but Snotlout tries to control himself, only allows his eyes to dart, his head to slowly shift in a broad glower.

"If you have any honor in your veins, you will release your people from your service! We will let them leave with their lives but nothing else! You and yours are mine, Bludvists, by Thor's help and Vali Odinson's blessing!"

He looks down at his wound again. Little change, but he should tend to it. Hiccup thinks that quick treatment makes all the difference and Snotlout can't say he's wrong, so he errs on Hiccup's cautious side.

"You have three minutes! Anybody who doesn't come out meets the same fate as you Bludvists!"

Snotlout turns back towards the Vikings, beckons a sergeant-shieldmaiden closer—Eydis, if he remembers right. He places the hammer on the ground with only a little deliberation, reaches into a pouch on his belt, produces a small bottle with a cork he pulls out with his teeth. The bottle goes into his left hand, while the right accepts a dollop of Night Fury saliva, courtesy of Toothless (who else could it have come from?) He spreads it on the wound as he mutters instructions.

"If anybody comes out, search them, take what you want, then leave 'em. Nobody comes out, they're all fair game. Except for Bludvist's son, he's mine. Take the right, I'll take the left, keep your shields ready."

The sergeant nods, turns and begins pointing, choosing men and women for the assault. Snotlout takes whoever's left; it's not like choosing teams for a game of bashball back home, no dregs, just a group of pissed and battle-hungry Vikings.

Eydis is muttering orders and her chosen string themselves out along the full length of the right wing, crouching by doors they find. The rest reassemble by their leader, shields out. Snotlout waves his group on to do the same, secures his hammer into a loop on his belt, and draws a sword of shining Gronckle Iron. Nothing can be left to chance now: they've been in town too long, the battle cries and screams should have carried. If Drago's bastards were smart—even using Drago's level of base cunning—they would have run to rally somewhere else, or barricaded themselves in. But Snotlout gambles on pride and its cultivation of stubbornness—a mix partially responsible for Berk's three century long stand against their draconic enemy (the other part was a refusal to get back on the damn boats again with Siebert the Malodorous and his eight sons with similar epithets.) If Snotlout were a Bludvist, he knows what he would do. And how much difference was there between a Bludvist and the Snotlout that hadn't ridden Hookfang?

He glances at the sun, wonders if it's been three minutes yet. Probably. Hiccup's been complaining about sun dials (too big) and hourglasses (inconvenient, likely inaccurate, and leaky) for years. To his credit, when he complains about a problem like that he tends to try to fix it. In a way it's admirable. In another way, it's a series of good life lessons for Hiccup and his neighbors.

A shrug, then he tenses his legs and throws his shoulder against the door. The other Vikings join him, send the obstacle crashing to a floor—something screams beneath the door, squirms, and swords pierce the wood at the cracks and end the squealing. They scramble up in a wide room with stairs leading to the second level and two hallways leading elsewhere, lined with more pennants and a Monstrous Nightmare's skull hanging over a low table, almost like an altar. A smooth wooden bowl sits between two enticingly shiny candlesticks. Snotlout looks in, breathes in harshly and feels his teeth grind at the pile of tiny bones and black-horned skulls mixed in with jagged egg shells.

No mercy. Fine by me.

"Bring me Bludvists," he snarls. "Young Bludvists, old Bludvists, if they're lame, carry them; if they're nursing, bring the wet-nurse too. Just bring them to me." He's shouting at the end and he isn't finished. He throws his head back and roars. "Bludvists! Come out, damn you, it's time for a reckoning!"

Warriors are storming through the hallways now, adding their own terrible rancor—they see the bowl, find more skulls, and being Vikings, their response is to hit things. Only cowards take pride in defeating the defenseless and Vikings hate cowards.

And there's a surprising amount of those here. Snotlout rips down tapestries and kicks aside rugs in search of doors, knocks over exotically painted vases, throws open cabinets to pull out linens of silk and cotton and toss them on the floor and out windows, flips dishes out of other cases to the ground. He throws open a door and finds it full of food, stacked cheeses, curtains of garlic, and several jugs lined up on the shelves, probably filled with wine. Cabinets along the walls he pulls open, thrusts his sword into bags of flours and potatoes, snatches up a loaf of some strangely dark bread and tears off a bite, contemplating. There's crashes and thuds and shattering and the house moans and seems to shriek at times under assault from swords, axes, hammers, and hands. He swallows, tosses the rest of the bread away, smashes a jug out of spite, and then continues the search.

He has to ascend to the second floor to find anybody. Another staircase stands at the other end of the house, curling upwards and decorated with shallow cravings of impaled, drowning, and butchered dragons and the cheering heroes who carried out the executions. Snotlout scars each panel he passes with his sword's edge. At the top, he reaches a hallway, looks right to see a shieldmaiden breaking down a door while another woman and man wait behind her with blades at the ready. He turns towards a door of his own, closed and unscarred. He makes short work of that.

This is a man's room, he can tell that immediately. A large, heavy bed squats upon the floor, laced with bits and pieces of dragon bones. An entire Terrible Terror's skeleton hangs from the ceiling over an armless chair with smudged pillows and a heavy table covered with dirty goblets and stained papers. A huge wardrobe stands at Snotlout's left but what it is used for he can only imagine; shirts and trousers litter the floor, and he kicks aside a pair of filthy boots as he enters.

Staring back at him from the bed is the cold grimace of Drago Bludvist. He blinks, sees the excessive waves behind the tyrant now, the scarred grip round a sword's handle, the serious air around the skewed lips and black arctic eyes. A portrait; an ugly portrait of an ugly man. Snotlout finds himself surprised, can barely match the harsh attempt at dignity here with the man he remembers: hunched, swaggering, cruel mouth sneering in the face of Hookfang's fire, a slurred, acrid, and guttering voice that almost always seemed ready to break out in that awful howling that addled and appalled dragon and human alike. Drago had been a man out of the dark stories, the ones that kept you awake just thinking and wishing Mom and Dad would let you burn more candles through the night. And here he is, apparently having sat for a portrait like he was human, just like Hiccup had done with his father…

Not Drago's room? If I had a face like that and I had to look at myself when I woke up every day, I'd kill myself after a week. Reflected glory, then. The son looking up to the father. This was Junior's room then.

Papers. He heads for the desk and its chancy offerings, reaches for a parchment speckled with foreign liquor, and then stops.

The creaking behind him continues as he turns, sword pointed and shield ready, and it continues as confusion takes over, his jaw growing slack. She is pretty, and was perhaps even prettier once. Golden curls tumble down her back to white, but patchily bruised thighs. Low cheekbones on a thin face, pink lips, with only a few long healed scars around the little ears, present a face worthy of dancing, shiny eyes. But those eyes were lame now, the shine clouded over. They were dull, staring at Snotlout without really looking at him. They were the eyes a fish gives you from the bottom of a boat. She wears a long white tunic, clasped up the front, clean and simply embroidered with red flowers and golden bees, which she is now actively trying to remove despite the restraining hands of another woman—no, girl, fifteen if a day—behind her. This child is dressed more…extensively, with a more utilitarian tunic of cheap brown leather and blue wool, with blue leggings and soft brown leather boots. Black-haired, out of black guarded eyes she is looking at the Viking general with fear, tearfully gripping the older woman's shoulders as hard as her little fingers could clutch. The blonde has finished unlatching the clasps, is now digging hard at the girl's grip, and the squirming causes the loose tunic to shift, offering an ascendingly embarrassed Snotlout glances of white flesh and blue bruises.

"Look," there's something wrong here, and he's trying to keep the scene in future letters and stories short, "I'm not into…you're very pretty, but, uh…thanks but no thanks?"

The woman stops fighting the little hands, blinks, still staring, but now Snotlout thinks he sees something stirring in her empty gaze. His discomfort grows; despite his talk he's come across two people who should be bleeding their life onto the cluttered floor by now, but he can't get over the feeling that he's probably supposed to be rescuing these two instead of cutting them.

"All right, good. Now, uh," he flounders. The sagas fail him. His father fails him. All he can think of is summoning the physician. A woman, he remembers (hopes). Maybe she (if Thor and Sif truly like him) can take over this…whatever it is.

"Now," he begins, "just put on your…uh, well, your everything, and just have a seat." He waves the sword helplessly around the room, vaguely towards the bed or the chair. "I'm just going to have some people come up and…"

The scream cuts him off, and the blonde tears herself from the other girl, throws herself at a shocked Snotlout, wrapping thin, smelly fingers around his neck and toppling them both to the floor. Stunned, he releases the sword and wraps his hand around her wrist. There's no emptiness in her eyes, directly over his own. There's a fire there, an angry one; the kind that burns forests and houses that had never done them any harm. And there's words in her screams now, which Snotlout can pluck out between the surprised gasps and the choking beneath her hands.

"NononononoIdon'twanttodoitIwon'tdoitagainanythingelseanythingelsenonono…"

The other girl is suddenly there, crying for somebody named Linn to stop it please stop it. He's stronger than her, he has to be, and yet he can barely work his thick fingers under hers and feebly push against her grip. Then there's a banging and the pressure is off his throat.

Snotlout coughs, likes it enough to do so for almost a minute as he rolls to his side, and pushes himself off the floor. A hand comes into view, one of the shieldmaidens he'd seen earlier. He grabs callused fingers, is pulled upright, and he can finally look. The other two Vikings have the woman—Linn, he supposes—in their grasp, still shrieking, eyes bulging and almost spinning. The girl is off to the side, hands over her mouth, horror in her eyes. He looks at her, coughs again, and points out the door.

"Get her out of here," he rasps, another cough ready to choke off his words. "Don't hurt her, just…just get her out of here."

They wrestle the woman out the door, past a slowly gathering knot of curious warriors. Snotlout turns to the girl, then remembers something, marches to the door.

"And tie her shirt closed! We might be Vikings but we're classy Vikings, dammit."

Without waiting for an acknowledgment—they're good guys, the Army of Nordri's Arrows, not to worry—he turns back towards the girl. He studies her for a moment; she's pretty, about to tumble head-over-heels into beautiful, if he guesses right. Sharp nosed, but not too big, with high cheekbones and the guarded eyes that are still shiny with tears. She lowers her hands with uncertainty, and the wailing of her friend fades, and for a moment there's a lot of Vikings and silence—unusual.

And short lived: "Mind telling me what the Hel that was?"

The girl jumps a bit, but Snotlout doesn't feel very apologetic.

"Linn is…" she begins, licking her lips, glancing around her. "She is the personal slave to our lord Dalibor, son of our highest lord Drago Bludvist, scourge of dragonkind and…"

"Eel chum," Snotlout snorts, "Drago's dead, girlie."

She stops and blinks at him. Looks around at the Norse faces staring at her, waiting.

"Dead?" The question is soft, wondering, almost…confused.

"Yes," he says impatiently. It had taken a while to hammer that fact into Drago's troops when they'd showed up at Berk after their master's death, ill prepared to find a tribe of free and cranky Vikings and their vastly expanded flock ready for battle. When they'd started the long march north, both enemy and ally alike were still stupefied that Drago could actually die. Things like Drago just skulked in caves and ate passing children until they felt better. Nevertheless, he's had to repeat it more than once and like everybody who is asked a question more than once he got pretty fed up with it after the first three islands.

"Dead," she says softly again, and Snotlout steps a little closer before she continues. "Linn is Lord Dalibor's personal slave. She served him there," the girl points at the bed, "and she was to serve him at his pleasure…and that of his friends."

Thor's teeth. He was thick but he could see what that could mean. And that hair color, that name…

"Where did she come from?" His tone is cold, because he felt it.

"From the sea," the girl shrugged. "Nobody told me anything more. My place was the kitchen, nothing else."

From the sea. Sure, sure. A foreigner. A slave. Chain her to a bedpost for Drago's spawn, that's as much she could hope for. It's impossible for his anger to grow—it's so swollen already—but he adds Linn's indignity to the list of Bludvist sins.

"And you? Are you a slave too?"

"No," she says, with a touch of offense. It's the wrong way to say it, and she realizes it when his look hardens. "I am a Free Uttlander, sir, from outside the city. I came here to help my family, and the Bludvists hired me on."

A "Free" Uttlander. More likely than not. A servant girl, probably destined to take Linn's place when Dalibor tired of his bed slave; that's the way of Bludvists.

"And where's your master? Where's Dalibor?"

She spreads her hands helplessly, "Men came to the door earlier, sir, and he left with them. The steward told us to stay in the house; I didn't hear anything else until you arrived."

Snotlout rounds on the audience of Vikings. "One of you sound an alarm: tighten the seals and search every street, every house, and every asscrack. Burn stuff, take hostages, I don't care, but Dalibor Bludvist must be found. And you," he turns back to the girl, pauses. "Uh, sorry, didn't catch your name."

"Lyudmila," she says immediately.

"Okay, Lyudmila, here's what's going to happen: you've been helpful, so I am going to A: let you live, and B: let you keep your stuff."

She cringes a bit and Snotlout wonders why; he's being very generous. It's perfectly obvious to the other Vikings too, because the shieldmaiden is patting her on the head and the others are nodding in approval and muttering what a good girl she is.

"The rest," he continues, waving a hand that encompasses everything, "belongs to High King Hiccup, as payment on the Bludvists' blood debt. We'll take all of their bounty and cook dinner on their house this evening. Then all of Radvo and the rest of Uttland will start chipping in to make good with us"

Lyudmila's eyes widen, she looks around as if the flames are snapping up now, ready to bury her beneath blackened timbers and ashes.

"But…but, sir, I live here—on the grounds. Where am I supposed to go tonight? Or tomorrow?"

Snotlout sighs and places his arm around her thin shoulders. Situations like this is one of those things they warn you about in war class.

"Sorry about that—really, I am. But you have to understand," he places a hand on his chest, "Drago Bludvist picked a fight with Vikings. And when people start messing with us, we burn their houses down. It's just…I dunno, tradition. It's the way things are, and it seems to work pretty well too. Besides, look at these guys," he nods towards the bearded and armored warriors around them. "They came all this way to torch Drago's house. How can I say no to those faces?"

The Vikings beam the look of innocent eagerness that only the most hardhearted could dismiss. Lyudmila still seems to have trepidations, but she (not impolitely) leaves his side, squeezes past the soldiers, and disappears down the hallway. Snotlout doesn't stop her; even if Lyudmila the farm-come-servant girl were inclined to mischief, the house, the neighborhood, and the city are full of Viking warriors, the least of whom could snap the girl like a dry twig.

He turns to the wardrobe, starts pawing through it, but his heart isn't in it. Furs he's never felt—seen —before are flung to the floor. He hears clinking in one of them, and pulls out a few copper pieces; he's never heard of anyone for whom money meant so little that he could simply leave it in another piece of clothing and it makes him hate the Bludvists a little more.

Pocketing the coins, he orders everything of worth—splendid and mundane alike—tied up and taken back to the docks, and the dead servants brought inside. No burials, they can burn with their master's house. The dragon bones he'll bury at sea, after a priest asks the gods for strength to avenge them, of course. Living and flying with dragons encouraged a philosophical view of the beasts' lifestyle, and no Berkian is prepared to condone their mindless slaughter any more.

He looks at the papers again. "Bring Erlend here," he says to no one in particular. Even so, he shortly looks up from the table to see the Uttlander, tall and freshly bloodstained Eydis behind him.

"Dalibor's gone," he tells them.

"I'd heard," Eydis replies hoarsely. "We found his mother."

"Really?" Snotlout looks around. Only shieldmaidens.

"She wanted to fight," Eydis says tightly. "We fought."

There was a path that only went one way. Damn. Snotlout had hoped for a complete set for the party later.

"Was she hot?"

Eydis looks troubled, "A little old—just a little—but…yes. We're all very perplexed."

"What is it with these Utt women?" Snotlout asks the ceiling. Astrid he could understand; he couldn't blame her for taking up with Hiccup, she wasn't that far from being so brainy herself and his cousin ad a lot going for him. Even Ruffnut and Fishlegs made a little sense somehow. But he'd met and smelled Drago and how a guy like that could not only get a girlfriend but a wife is beyond his admittedly poor comprehension.

Eydis shakes her head, "It gets worse. He had another woman, in house no less."

"Thor's kneecap, you serious?"

"Think so. We found another room, nice bed,

Disgusting. "What the hel did they see in him?"

Eydis shrugs, "Beats me; some of the lads are going to talk a priest about it. See if anything in the Mysteries covers it."

Snotlout scoffs in amazed contempt; the sooner they can start the fires the better. He turns to Erlend, gestures to the papers.

"I can't read these; what do they say?"

Erlend reaches down, picks up a handful of papers, reads for a moment. "These are letters," he says finally. "Addressed to Drago. Looks like housekeeping for some farmland he owns down south."

"How far south?" Snotlout is supposed to keep to Radvo, but he could probably spare a raiding party.

But Erlend shakes his head and says, "Gerovnik. That's some hundreds of miles from here; very good land. All the farmers keep their deeds as close as children; I'm surprised he managed to get so much as a tree stump." He looks around the room, his face implying he was getting an idea of exactly how it happened. Then he reaches for more papers. "It seems…okay, this is Dalibor writing in his father's place, approving the sale of 'two men for field work'." He looks around the table, flipping through the sheets, until he finds what he's looking for. "Here's the original letter of intent. Names and all."

Snotlout snatches the page and examines it. Not a damn thing makes sense.

"Gather 'em up and look for more," he tosses the letter back with its brothers. "Make a list."


The day waxes, wanes, and Radvo shudders. Vikings are everywhere: shouting, snarling, stabbing, swinging, slicing, punching, kicking, taking. Snotlout sits in the auction square, a barrel of some odd but refreshing amber liquor beside him and a tankard of the stuff sitting on a dark table. A trail of loot piled atop carts, wagons, hefty animals, and Viking backs is shuffling past under his judicious eye. Every now and then arguments erupt over a fine bolt of silk or a scattered set of goblets, and he points to the disagreeable Vikings and has them brought over, tries to settle quarrels. Sometimes his patience fails and he just ends up taking the disputed treasure, saying that orphans can have it. That sends them off in shamed separation; it's half the reason they came at all.

Other Vikings come bearing less pretty things. Snotlout can hear the clinking of chains, the frightened whispers, and the sobbing behind him. It's the latter that irritates him most: what right do these men have to blubber after selling more stalwart Norsemen and women into demeaning servitude? He turns, and his heated stare quiets the city elders and merchants, except for a few barely stifled sniffles. They're all dressed in some manner of ruined finery, and arrived at the square much poorer then they'd started out. Red burns and creases mark where necklaces and bands were torn away, a few men arrive with bleeding hands, stumps of fingers where stubborn rings would not come off until they were given no choice in the matter. Their captors rip up good clothing and shove it at the Radvoans for bandages. Every coin offered in bribe is pocketed and the same hand then attaches a shackle or a biting length of chain. He—Snotlout—demonstrably ignores pleas with his turned back, nurses the strange drink somebody found in a pub. It's amber, foamy, tastes something like bread, and he drinks it from one of Drago's fancy mugs (not so fancy anymore, with the little Nadder's skull torn off and tossed into the flames.)

Evening creeps in, but the sky in the direction of Bludvist's house shows no sign of pure darkness. It burns well, especially for a house, and the Vikings are throwing in whichever doesn't tickle their interest. On top of the growing ash heaps of unreadable books and broken furniture are piled shovelfuls of offal, pennants, canvas from the marketplaces and boats that nobody wants, icons from the local temples; the Vikings have turned Snotlout's modest vengeance into a celebration of their resentments and sorrows.

Someone approaches, stops by his side. He looks up into the face of the shieldmaiden given charge of the wretches behind him. He produces another goblet, offers it to her. She takes it and makes her report as she finds the barrel and works the tap.

"We've found them all, or at least every one who mattered who was here this morning," she sniffs the foam contemplatively, takes a sip, and then a mouthful. "Had to encourage some of the locals to point a few out; bastards thought they could throw a few rags on and go around peasant-like. Others didn't need encouragement."

"Huh, really?" Interesting.

"Yeah; must owe the whoresons money. That's another thing too: all the important people are men here."

"Seriously?"—she nods—"Huh," he says again. More weird things about the mainland. Viking women held battle lines and homesteads with equal fierceness. All the hands that had raised swords against his troops had been male. The Utts shoved their women into closets, cellars, down privy holes, beneath rags, into barrels and refuse bins, to keep them safe.

You can't even save yourselves. He'd like to say this to the men behind him, but then he'd have to give them what Hiccup called "context" and Snotlout came here to jab, not to jaw. Besides, all the women here are cringing, shrieking little creatures who could barely lift a dagger. As far as he's concerned, they can shiver in their closets and latrines until the occupation ends. Fewer mouths to feed, and those hiding places are very amiable to locks.

Snotlout tips his head back and drains his cup, then stands. It's time to fulfill Hiccup's orders, put a boot on Uttland's back and press, take back what was taken, with interest. He turns towards the platform, eyes the captives critically. This may be more difficult than he thought; he doesn't know which ones are the richest, or most powerful, and therefore has the most value. It doesn't seem quite right to deal with the elders first, they might just die off soon enough anyway. No point in relying on method; a random choice will do. After all, his first pick isn't there, so it matters little now.

And that brings weight to his gut and heat to the back of his neck. The Jorgensons have never liked failure, on principle. It's the reason they've always taken the seasonal games almost as seriously as battle; they hang the trophies from both on the same wall (and sometimes lose track of just which has been won uprooting trees or heads.) It's half familial pride, and half preparation for the battlefield, where the stakes are higher but the skills are similar and Snotlout enjoys his personal record, the battles won on land and waves, the enemies slain, the liberated countrymen, and the honors from his liege lord and cousin. And here he is, on the enemy's soil, in what must be their greatest city, having brought the war they had started back to their homes. His people's dead and the enslaved demand an answer and he will have them. By Odin, Thor, and Vali he'll have them and return bearing new lives for his new country. But he'll always have that hole in his honor, and he'll simply have to live with it.

Will Hiccup be angry? Probably not. He'd done so much damage growing up and suffered enough angry disappointment that he can't bring himself to do the same to others…so long as they'd meant well and make their apologies, of course. Snotlout doesn't have to fear exile or ruin; he's not even sure his cousin was aware of Snotlout's suspicions, that Drago wouldn't have built so much without assuring his vision's immortality. It was only when he'd cornered Erlend himself and intensely questioned the prisoner that he'd adopted his own mission, within the greater action Hiccup had commanded.

Snotlout doesn't fear Hiccup, but he fears for him. Stoick's death shook him; Astrid's almost killed him, her funeral left him insensate for two days. He's not cold, but not so warm either. He doesn't talk of peace, makes no effort to reach out to the Northern Alliance; when one of the generals doesn't take prisoners, he makes no protest, only scribbles on his maps and demands more reports. Snotlout can appreciate it: there's been too much lost, and more gained, to end a war based on the thin promises of Drago's successors (better, in fact, for there to be none at all.) But he's never pictured Hiccup as a warlord and the whole thing kinda creeps him out. Better to have Hiccup using tables to put together strangely useful gadgets than moving pieces around a diagram of the archipelago.

Behind him, chatter begins to rise, but he drifts on the gently flowing reflective waters in his head, pays the noise little heed. He knows Hiccup wanted something besides a head from this operation, but such a gift would have offered more blessings than the mere termination of an ugly bloodline. If Dalibor has left the city—and Snotlout sighs because of course he's left the city—then he is out of their hands unless the hunter-tracker dragons are brought in, and he can't do that without completely disobeying Hiccup's orders, and he isn't prepared to do that without good cause: he's lost at least nine eyebrows doing that, and they're a bitch to grow back. But Dalibor has the Bludvist blood, and that obviously means something to the Utts. He's fled now, but he could well return in plenty of company…

There's laughter now, and he can hear the padding of leather boots coming across the stones. Disgusted, he tisks and bends towards the barrel, pours out another mugful of the stuff—what did they call it, stout—and thinks. If they bring an army he's confident of his chances: there's nobody on his rolls who isn't a veteran, and they all came equipped. His fleet controls the waters of the only good harbor for hundreds of miles. Oh yeah, and they command a flying army of massive firebreathing, acid spitting, boiled-water-spewing, old-growth tree snapping dragons. Yes, they could hold Radvo. Hel, take down enough Utts and they could make raids on rest of the stupid country, and oh, yes, he and Hookfang would snatch up that damned Dalibor right from the grasp of his own forces and take him back to Radvo or maybe even Berk. Or perhaps they would just drop him from a mile up.

But what if Dalibor doesn't oblige him? Just hides somewhere in the mountains to the south until Uttland's debts are settled and comes back yapping about vengeance against dragons and Vikings? Thor's left nut, that would mean another war, and this time they probably wouldn't be so confused and spiritless. Maybe he should just bring in the dragons; he could shave his eyebrows off beforehand, get the replacements started early.

He's trying to remember where his shaving knife is when someone taps his shoulder and says, "Hey, Boss, we got 'im."

"Yeah? Whozzat?" He starts patting his belt; maybe he'd stuck it in there this morning.

"Y'know, what's-his-face, Drago's kid."


Dalibor Bludvist is not very pretty, and Snotlout can't see how the absence of blood from nose and lip would improve things. His face is thinner than his father's, the lips thinner. But there's a meanness about the narrow black eyes eyes and mouth, ready to either ignore or chortle at the suffering of fellow men—or dragons—that is very much Drago's. His hair too is tied back in dreadlocks, collected into a ponytail that springs from his neck like a rooster's feathers. There's no beard, but there was one once, connected to a moustache if the spotty patches along his jawline are anything to go by. Dalibor's shorter than his father, but he's muscled and inherited his father's harsh rasp—sounding more like it should be coming from beneath a bridge than out of a human throat.

His dress is what really sets him apart, as in a dress, not simply a term to describe his current choice of clothing. It's white and loose, with big sleeves to hide his bulk. A red patterned apron over this cinches the dress at his waist. Over all this is a frenziedly patterned long vest that should probably hang to a woman's knees but on Dalibor it strains to reach past his waist. A rather nice and long shawl—white again with embroidered branches and apple blossoms—hangs around his neck, apparently ripped off his head and undone when he was discovered with a group of other Utts when they lingered for too long near a previously "unknown" gate in the city walls and were accosted by suspicious guards, one of whom had been a Berkian who had spent Drago's attack staring hatefully at the brute's face and wishing he hadn't left his crossbow at home.

Now there's three spearheads at his neck, here at the top of the stage—no, gallows—and his big hands are fettered behind his back. He kneels down, his eyes facing the planks, surrounded by Viking warriors and doomed Utt elders, illuminated by a hundred torches and lanterns fetched from the fleet standing offshore. Snotlout paces before them all, staring out at the crowd assembled at spearpoint, meeting doleful and frightened gazes. Babies are gripped harder, children's eyes are covered to avoid evil, and husbands putting on a show stare back. I have a show of my own.

"We didn't want to come here," he begins, stops in the middle of the gallows, beside Dalibor Bludvist, purses his lips. "Well, maybe Hiccup did," he admits, "but he wants to go anywhere so that doesn't count. But the point is that we were happy where we were, with what we had. If you guys had sailed up wanting to shoot the breeze we would've broken out the good ale and had a party, but no. Didn't happen, because of his father." He jabs a finger at Dalibor, who shifts a little, looks to the side.

"We had no quarrel with him—or you," he shoots that finger at the crowd. "He just waltzed right into a meeting of our chieftains, demanded a crown, and killed them because they didn't know him from Askr. Then he started pillaging, murdering, and enslaving our people."

A faceless hero shouts: "He went to save you, you ungrateful swine!"

"We didn't need saving, asshole!" He looks at the herding warriors along the sides. "Somebody punch that guy.

"We didn't need saving," he continues as guards wade into the humanity before him, "Vikings don't need others to fight our battles for us, unlike some people. He came to loot, to conquer, and he decided to start with us. It cost him his life and now here we are." He waves a hand at the city, filled with looting, laughing, killing Vikings with swords in one hand and torches in the other. "Remember this: Drago attacked our people, Drago enslaved our countrymen, and Drago started the war that's come here. Don't blame us for it, blame him. And maybe them too," he gestures towards the feeble handful of Utts on the gallows. Some of them are trying to hide behind each other; it'd be funny and sad if Snotlout had any sense of humor with these men…or sympathy.

"We know," he says, coming to the subject, "that our people—taken as slaves—had to come through Radvo. We don't know where they are, but that's not going to matter because you are going to bring them back to us."

There's a few titters that are choked off; the heckler had only found two of his teeth so far.

"They will be brought back," Snotlout suddenly hisses, in a burst of temper, and some in the crowd's front ranks step back into those behind them. "This isn't just about Radvo, it's about all of Uttland. Everybody outside of your walls, every village or tribe or whatever you pissants have, is guilty and back home, you wrong somebody and you pay for it, in coin or blood, so that's what we're going to do here."

He stabs a finger out suddenly, moves it to take in all of the frightened mass before him. "Some of you will be chosen to go out with this message: every Norseman, woman, and child taken in slavery is to be returned here to Radvo, to be taken home. Their captors will give them money or goods as payment for their time here: twenty gold skeats, two hundred silver skeats, or whatever the ex-prisoner can carry from the household."

Confusion at these last pronouncements. Skeats and pennies are the common coinage of the Archipelago, issued by the tribes big and sophisticated enough to have a mint (usually a newbie blacksmith's apprentice hunched in backrooms over tiny fires, soft metals, and stamping tools.) These people don't know what he's talking about, but Snotlout doesn't care. Let Erlend explain it, that's his job, so Snotlout can do his own.

"But if a captive is dead—pray to your wussy little gods that we don't find too many of those—then that debt is fifty gold skeats, five hundred silver skeats, and half their livestock! And if they don't have that kind of cash, then their villages will make it up! And if they don't, if our claims aren't met, then this city dies in a month."

Gasps, a scream, frightened whimpers, a clinking of chain as Dalibor lifts his head.

"Uttlanders," he cries, and Snotout turns. His face feels like it's been pressed into a torch. "Shut up," he hisses. Hush is already spreading like fog.

"Uttlanders," Dalibor says—with a simply unacceptable defiance in his tone. "You heard what he said, don't let—" Snotlout's boot interrupts him, knocks him over on his side, and that same boot drills into his kidneys.

"Sonofawhorebastard," Snotlout snarls, puts his other foot into the man's chest, "Godsdamned swine, you think you—damn your blood and your father!" He grabs Dalibor's neckline, hauls him up by his cowardice and drives a fist into the Bludvist's cheek. "No right," another blow splits his knuckles and Dalibor's lips, "you have no right to talk like that, you hear me? No right! None of you do! Not after what you did, you—you—" stole Hookfang. Killed Stoick. Killed Astrid and gods knew how many Vikings and practically killed Hiccup too.

You took too much, I'm taking it right back. Snotlout flings the man back on the dirty planks, hands trembling and bloody. Dalibor inhales as through a bag of marbles, turns his head and gags up a tooth, hacking spit and blood upon the gallows…and freezes, a bruised eye widening as it sees the people surrounding the scene on this unhappy stage. Snotlout follows the gaze and finds Lyudmilla, almost hidden behind a huge aproned man muttering to a neighbor. The girl's eyes are on her former master and a hand is pressed against her lips, the pose of frightened and worried womenfolk, but those little pools of black won't turn away. They're watchful, waiting. For what, Snotlout has no idea.

For freedom?

Sure, he'll go with that.

He holds out a hand itchy with scabbing sores, waves the fingers towards one of the scowling brawny attendants, who scowls a little less as he pulls from his back a heavy ax—finely made, of stout oak wrapped in goat leather and topped with brilliant Gronckle Iron, with the metal's namesake pressed into the twin blades—and presses this into Snotlout's waiting grasp. He takes it gladly in both hands, feels the stern wood beneath his fingers, and knows the debt is almost settled. He moves, steps over the prone body of Dalibor, son of Drago Bludvist, sends the watching Vikings and prisoners back, almost to the empty air around the gallows. It's a good ax, strong in handle and sharp as an angry child's words.

Snotlout looks up, takes in all of burning, beat-upon Radvo and its fearful people before him. He doesn't know their history, but imagines that if they had ever felt safe from him and his before, they never would again.

"Those who are chosen," he tells the Utts, and Uttland, "will carry a token of our sincerity."

The ax is twisted upright, and raised. Snotlout closes his eyes and sees Uncle Stoick dying a Viking's death, feels warm scales beneath his palms and arms, smells the warm cleanliness of the pines round a wedding's clearing, tastes the first black mead of a shield-brother, hears the cracking of a burning ship.

They're heavy, these memories: they bring the ax down.


Fabian Meling, it is said around Arendelle City, has the finest home and office furniture for the rougher sex at his shop—Meling's Fine Furniture and Adornments for Gentlemen—on Queen Idunn's Vei. Within it are a wide variety of heavy pieces roughly carved out of Arendellan Pine, imported oak, and selected bits of animal anatomy. Here, one can find upholstered chairs for the smoking room with warranties against cigar burns and spontaneous human combustion (at the insistence of the strangest lawyer in the world), tables thick enough for animal butchery while elegant enough for the Sun Day luncheon with the High Priest, racks for several weeks' worth of morning and evening newspapers, and massive desks large enough to pull smaller ones into orbit. Across the street is Meling's Fine Furniture and Adornments for Ladies, owned by Thora Meling, which carries soft chaise lounges and benches, tiny chairs shaped by bent metal with big cushions sold with equally tiny tables for the garden, golden birdcages, and vanities so small and elegant they could be easily carried by the daintiest miniature horse.

Princess Anna pushes the door to Fabian's store open, causing the attached bell to tinkle charmingly. It tinkles again as it shuts…and again as she opens it. After a brief experiment in which she tries to work her sister's Royal Anthem out of the bell, she abandons the door and skips past a collection of rugged chairs, sofas, and a pair of men wearing tailed jackets who are secretly relieved that they no longer have to make each other think that they know anything at all about the markets in Holtsdam. Behind Anna waddles a chimerical collection of snow, coal, branches, and a crooked but clean carrot, a patch of inclement weather in tow. His heads rotates in a decidedly inhuman fashion so that his large eyes can take in these new wonders.

She's a vision of the now waning summer, her hair tied in trailing braids, pale green and yellow in her dress and shirt, shiny little boots tapping a happy cadence on Meling's floor. The two gentlemen watch her turn like a ballerina and land in a large red overstuffed chair, then bounce on it.

"Olaf?" she sings out. "What do you think of this one?"

The snowman waddles over, sounding like a school path in December. He tilts his head at the cushion, which reaches his comestible snout, and launches himself at it, scrabbling with his skinny at the fabric until he manages to heft roughly half of himself upon the seat beside Anna. He rights himself, turns around, and then watches his lower third embark on a journey of discovery that involves bumping into the shop's wares and a clerk that just emerged from behind a display of headboards. The tiny blizzard discharges another cloud, which drifts over to the wandering legs.

"Pretty nice," Olaf finally says, patting the cushion beneath him. "Even without a butt it's nice and comfy. Really nice and smart of them to think of the buttless when they make these."

"Yeah, it feels right, but I don't know about the color," Anna says thoughtfully and bounces up, dress flowing like a silk flag. She marches over to snatch up Olaf's buttocks, giving the clerk a smile that would burn fog away, and reunites the two halves of the snowman and the shred of mystical weather. The clerk flees somewhere past the office desks.

"What's wrong with the color?" Olaf heaves himself across the seat, dropping onto his buttocks and becoming complete once more.

"Dunno," Anna shrugs as she looks around, braids flying, "but Kristoff and red don't seem to work for me."

"This is red?" Olaf says in awe, spinning his head around to examine the chair again. The princess ignores that—she has a job to do—and immediately begins bouncing on a low-backed leather creation framed in by exquisite carvings. After a moment of fully absorbing this newest wonder, Olaf's head completes a circle and he waddles over, where Anna sweeps him up and puts him to aiding her bounces.

Fabian Meling comes hurrying over, clerk in tow. He's a small but stout man, dressed neatly and cleanly, with a gold chain hanging from a green vest. Another, bigger man follows, dressed for a workshop save an apron and bearing crumbs on his chest. They all stop to take in the sight of a royal princess of Arendelle and her little (pet, friend, escort?) snowman caroming on chairs, and Meling puts his hands together to advance cautiously while the other fellow turns and mutters something about the other guys having to see this.

Master Meling is no stranger to his nation's royal family—for years he and his wife have held royal warrants, building cribs, beds, and chairs for King Agdar V, Queen Idunn, and the little princesses. But the royal family these days understandably leans towards more feminine styles, and he honestly had never expected to see anyone above the rank of chamberlain in his establishment, but now…

"Your Royal Highness," he says; a safe beginning. Her attention lands on him like a flower pot and produces a similar effect. He bows, also safe. "Fabian Meling, Miss. Your visit is a great honor to us." As if to punctuate that, the clerk finally remembers to bow as well.

When they look up again, Her Royal Highness and Olaf have moved to another chair and begun their routine again. Anna remembers enough of her manners to say, "It's a really nice store!"

"Thank you, Miss," Meling replies, staring at the snowman as he—it? No, "he" is safer, with that voice—bounces on hand-worked leather. He glances at his chairs, the rugs that mark the aisles, and the polished wood floor beneath; not a drop of water to be seen and he reflects that this Queen—his third monarch—has no shortage of surprises. "Appearances are a part of this business, but we try to always match ours with quality in our goods."

"Good, good!" Anna and Olaf—fast becoming pros—move to another chair. Begin bouncing. Workmen are coming out of the back, stop at a respectful distance, and stare—an act with flexible levels of respectability, depending on context.

Meling waits, uncertain. He glances at the windows of the shop: no crowds, just Arendellans passing in complete ignorance of what was going on inside. His wife is nowhere to be seen, a lamentable fact, but there's also no escort, which means the Princess is wandering around town on her own again. No one to protect her—which twists Meling's gut, as a father and a Queen's man—but also no one to check her impulses.

"May we help you in any way, Miss?"

"I'm. Looking. For. A. Chair!" She makes a final bounce and jumps up, looking for yet another chair.

"A chair," he repeats as she walks past him to an overstuffed blue candidate. Obviousness stuns. He turns, tries to suppress his salesman's habits—the ground is all wet sand here—speaks to the young princess. "A chair for yourself, Miss? Forgive me, but you may not find our stock to your liking,"—a shocking admission for any shopowner but an honest one—"but I'm certain my wife can provide something to Your Highness's taste. She is just across the street and if you like—"

"Oh, no, no," Anna shakes her head. "Not for me, it's for Kristoff!"

Ah.

Princess Anna is beaming, that special look that makes the observer feel as if they have just eaten something buttery. "He's been looking at houses and I'm helping him," she blinked and pursed her lips. "Well, I have been helping him. Elsa said he can take one of the crown's houses, which are all really nice, but he's so picky. Like, there's this one place that had a really awesome basement with lots of room for stuff, I mean you'd take a big basement, wouldn't you?"

"I would," said one of the workmen, suddenly under studious gaze. "What? I got a pool table."

"Right," Anna continues. "So he says 'I don't have that much stuff to put in a basement',"—her impression of Kristoff Bjorgman is horrible, but then her voice was never built for that—"as if that isn't just half of what you can do with a basement. So then we go to this cute little cottage by a creek which is adorable but the stable is missing a few planks and tiles and obviously Sven can't live there, but then he says no townhouses because he and Sven can't be parted. Which is okay, but then he says he doesn't want to live next to Blomfeld Stables because all the horses there hate Sven because of something he calls the 'Rocking Chair Incident.' Then he says he can't talk about it because he and the stable owner promised to take it to their graves."

This is all a little beyond Master Meling, who manages to say, "It's always a difficult process, Highness." Then Anna starts up again.

"He won't take anything by the Agrabahan consulate because they're always after him for deals on ice. He won't take rooms in the marketplaces because it feels like the fish are always looking at him. And he won't even step into anything designed by Franz Garry; says he's a 'pompous blowhard who's only praised because the architecture critics don't have to actually live in his houses.'"

"Everyone has their prejudices, Miss, especially where housing is concerned," Meling is tactful; he leaves out his own homicidal rage towards one of Europa's most exciting architects. "I take it Master Bjorgman has found his new lodgings?"

Anna nods, still beaming, "It's his first house—well, maybe not his first first 'cause he told me that his family—" she pauses, eyes widening, smile becoming brittle, "—had a house! So he's not not in his first house but..." she blinks. "I had a point somewhere, right?"

Meling grabs at this like a rope over a crevasse, "Is Master Bjorgman in need of furnishings, Princess Anna?"

"Yes," Anna's stabs at the air with a dainty finger. "He so is!"

"In that case, Your Royal Highness, we're at your service. Klaus," he turns to his clerk, "Klaus, bring out our samples collection for Princess Anna to review, and everyone else back to the workshop, you're still on the clock. We build everything to order, Miss," he tells her, "All to your specifications. Now, what sort of chair does Master Bjorgman require?"

Anna looks at Olaf, who grins, which is less than helpful. Oaf grins at gravel. "…a big one?" Her hands come together, fingers dancing like a flipped beetle. "He's a big guy. That's why I was bouncing on the chairs."

Meling—politely, always politely—eyes her like a kindergartner that wandered into an astronomical mathematics class at the Institute for the Unutterably Gifted.

Anna rolls her eyes like a teacher at said IUG, "I don't weigh as much as he does? So I figured I could get an idea of his comfort zone if I just added up all the weight of my sitting down several times," she pauses and adds sheepishly, "Also, it's really fun."

"It sure is!" Olaf—having abandoned the chairs after Anna started talking—expresses his opinion in mid-rise on a bed teeming with antlers and horns, disparate body parts showing air between them as he heads upward.

"I see," Meling says (safe, safe.) Klaus approaches, struggling with a heavy collection of fabrics and leather pieces bound into a single thick book, which Meling takes with no acknowledgement to gravity and opens with a licked finger. "Well, no need to go to such lengths, Highness, if Master Bjorgman will simply come here we can take measurements and build accordingly. It won't even take five minutes."

"Really," Anna asks, pinching a corner of the book to pull it over for her own examination, "for everything?"

Meling pauses in the middle of turning a page. "Everything, Highness?" Careful tones; can't get too excited. Unseemly.

"Yeah, he needs everything," Anna says, looking thoughtfully at a bolt of red with embroidered gold vines. "Kristoff's been living in tents and inns, all he's got is a knapsack and a sled…and Sven but you can't sleep on a reindeer. I've tried."

"So we are—g" Meling is on the verge of a large commission that is interrupted by the hurried boots of a young, gangly workman emerging from the back, eyes wide but taking in only Princess Anna. The store owner frowns and is about to say something when the young man stops ten feet away and removes a kerchief, tied around his head to absorb the sweat, holding it in both hands as nervously as if he were in court.

"Begging your pardon, Your Highness, Master Meling," he dips his chin down deeply to Anna, less so to Meling, "but you should know, Princess: Bern just came in, says the Queen's banners just came around the bend of the highway."

The sun rises in Anna's face, "Elsa's back!" Then her brow furrows. "Wait…Elsa's back?"


Elsa's back.

Anna's apologies are long faded behind her as she dances between merchants, diners, and shoppers, all clustering along the street, preparing for that instinctive crowd 'round a pretty exciting thing. Olaf huffs behind her—not so much out of straining lungs but because it seems the thing to do—triggering brief screeches when his powder meets flesh. Anna raises her eyes to the highway sloping down from a breach in the mountainsides. Yes, there's the lancers with their pennants in front, atop their coursers. Immediately behind is the Queen's standard-bearer, Arendelle's golden crocus against purple and green swaying from the footsteps of the horse. Then two more of the Queen's mounted guard, preceding the black and gilded coach with the royal arms painted on the doors.

Elsa's back.

Anna squeezes between two brawny, stained deliverymen, baskets of bread and carrots in their hands, murmuring about the early return of their Queen.

"—even got the banners up," says the bread man, in embarrassed disappointment.
"She'll think nobody missed her," the carrot carrier replied in the same tone. "Those palace guys really should have said something; our flag's at the cleaners."

Anna's missed her; missed her for too long to be happy and content having to miss her again, even if it was for only a month. There's a gap there—not between her and Elsa, but in their lives that only time can make up for. The deficit is too large, and Anna wants to collect her share so badly. Kristoff helps, in his way, but she can see that he understands—having lived so long without them, he'd die without the ones who call him family. Anna only really felt alive again when her sister spoke to her again.

The royal train marches into Arendelle City, residents line up along the route to stare, to talk, to wave, maybe catch a gleam of their young, admittedly peculiar, but lovely and gentle Queen. There's no flags, all packed into closets or the cleaners, but Anna can feel that undercurrent, the underlying flow of her people's feeling.

It bursts then, with a hoarsely shouted "Long live the Queen!" That cheer is taken up all along the road, the names of Elsa, Odin, and Freya added for flavor. The coach nears and Anna knows what must be done. She dashes from the crowd, making a beeline for the carriage. Olaf squawks and waddles rapidly after the Princess.

There's a guard trotting beside her sister's window, leaning towards it, and when he notices someone galloping towards the Queen's conveyance he immediately reaches for his sword…until he notices that someone is not just anyone and brings that hand up in salute, wearing a strained smile. He canters a short distance away, so that Anna can alight on the carriage's sturdy step, grab the windowsill and practically scream in her bewildered sister's face.

Elsa.

"Welcome home!"

Elsa, at times, bares a certain resemblance to the exotic, adorable, endangered but helpful creatures that the adventurers in Anna's favorite serials sometimes encounter in ruined but magnificent grottos. It can be seen now in her sharp breath and her wide eyes, her jump at Anna's exclamation.

"Anna!" she finally blurts out. It's a gasp of relief and a greeting at once, and Elsa presents a small smile with every promise of growth…until Anna begins trying to heave herself through the window. "What are—no, Anna, stop that!" Elsa grabs hold of the strap above her head, stands up in the shaking coach, stumbles over to her sister.

"I'm just trying to get in," Anna pouts, as she lifts a knee.

"Not through the window, not in a skirt," Elsa hisses back, holding up a slender hand. No further. "Use the door," she says, and Anna lowers her leg, pulls her body back through the window, and looks down. Pulls the latch.

"Not now," Elsa wails as the door swings open and Anna swings with it, clutching the sill more dearly now. Olaf yelps and jigs below, his arms sticking straight up and offering their doubtful assistance (Olaf's arms are not known for load-bearing qualities.) Anna's legs flail a little in the air, but eventually she kicks out and makes contact with the step beneath the open door. Thus anchored, she squirms around the door, reaches for the edges of the opening, finds instead her sister's milky hand and is pulled within to the cheers and laughter of the watching crowds. The snowman grabs the step and pulls himself up, and Elsa's hands find him too, sweep him into a tight hug. Out of nowhere a cold blast slams the door shut.

Anna pushes aside papers, sits with a flourish and grins at her sister—really looks at her. Elsa's as white as the moon, almost glowing, and her eyes are somewhat unattractively bulging now, staring at something beyond Anna's knees. From her tight grip around Olaf's middle she's wearing one of her tailored dresses, rather than something conjured. A sop to worried seamstresses that their work was neither wanting nor unwanted. And they do their best for Elsa, who Anna suspects can pull off Royal Majesty in clogs and oilskins.

"Anna," it's that stressed-out-big-sister-legal-guardian tone and Anna immediately takes on a look of abashment. Elsa's eyes are big and looking now at her, a tic trembling in her right eye. "Why does everything have to be so…heroic with you? We're fine, lieutenant," she tells the guardsman's face in the window, "Get on your way." He pulls away, goes trotting off.

Anna watches him—he's leaving the caravan. "Where's he going?"

"The Storting," Elsa says dully, twitching her face upwards to avoid Olaf's carrot as he turns to officially greet her. She gives him a fragile smile, says in a brighter tone: "Hello, Olaf."

"Elsa!" Olaf's arms reverse their polarity, "fingers" and "elbows" bending where a human's couldn't and wrapping around her belly. "Welcome back! Did you bring me anything?"

Anna giggles and Elsa shoots her a look, a corner of her lip threatening to crawl up her cheek.

"I take it," she says, relaxing her grip on Olaf just a little, "you've been filling his head with expectations?"

"I just told him about all the stuff we get from the other provinces," Anna shrugs. "He's the one who decided you were on a long shopping trip. It made more sense to him then you having to go out and shake babies and kiss hands."

"We need to talk before you go out again," Elsa says dryly, but she looks almost ready to giggle. A vast improvement over how Anna found her.

Gods of hearth and home, Anna had missed her. The castle without Elsa was surprisingly very much like a castle with Elsa—locked in her rooms, speaking only to tell Anna to leave. First every day, then every week, every holiday, every birthday…

"I'm glad you're back," Anna tells her very truthfully.

"Thank you," and Elsa's smile shrinks a tad.

"Me too," Olaf says, almost poking out his maker's eye when he looks up. "I've been wondering when you'd be back."

"Every day," Anna adds.

"Kristoff can get pretty huffy," Olaf tells Elsa.

"That's true, especially when he's asked the same question twelve times in a row," Anna supplies.

Elsa gently sets their snowman on the cushion beside her, runs pale fingers through his cloud. Her smile continues to fade, she's thinking, and Anna knows they have a problem. She's not sure how big a problem they have, though. Elsa is as brilliant as beautiful, but she has also spent over a decade sitting in rooms where there was little else to do but figure out ways everything can go down the crapper. Little things can get to her, such as when she discovered that some functionary had misspelled the name of the Third Secretary for the Elbonian Embassy on his place setting at the diplomatic banquet following her coronation. Shredded treaties and war were only averted by the Third Secretary's sense of humor…and lifelong illiteracy.

Elsa can't help it; heirs are generally pressured to be perfect, but few live under the impression that imperfection means death.

This has to be handled delicately: Elsa conserves ideas of Anna's fragility—such habits are not easily discarded—and she'll try to keep this bottled and stoppered. Only speak to the ministers and advisers but not to her sister, her best friend. Not the person who saved her life and crown. Yes, subtlety and cunning are called for. Her tutors have worked for many years to prepare her for situations such as this.

"So what's wrong?" asks Anna. Her tutors are a frustrated group.

Elsa raises her face again, worries a lip. Then she turns and gives her shy smile to the crowd, giving a graceful wave.

"Elsa?"

"Smile and wave, Anna," Elsa says, her teeth barely moving. "I don't want people to worry."

Anna obeys, beams out at the people, and waves her hand like she's just seen a beloved friend step off a ship and look around. Olaf pulls an arm off so that both limbs are working in the confined space.

"I'm sorry," Elsa says through her smile. "I really am. Have there been any strange ships lately?"

As strange as that question? "Strange how?"

"Oh, you know," Elsa shrugs as she waves a little more forcefully, "You know: strange bows, strange sterns, strange names, strange sails, strange sailors."

"Kai told me once that all sailors are strange; that's why they have to be sailors," Anna says. "But, no, nothing weirder than usual. Elsa, what happened—?"

Something awful happened, Anna, and I've been scared and when I'm scared people are frightened—" her smile tightens, "—for more reasons than one. We've spent the last week riding for home and making uproars everywhere; I knew we might beat the news here but I wish it hadn't. It's selfish, but Kai said once that when you spread the problem around you can find more solutions."

Elsa is contorting with her speech, trying to bend away from actually talking. It's an old tactic, used whenever they'd accidentally bump into each other in a hallway or the library during those lonely thirteen years. But those years were over. She'd promised.

"What problem?"

Elsa glances over, surprised at the angry disappointment in that question, and Anna can see it now: that blemish, that cloud of fear glooming her sister's brilliant sapphire eyes. Goosebumps rise on Anna's arms and she shivers.

Elsa notices, cringes. "Sorry, sorry," she says, pulls back on her influence. Warmth returns from its brief recess as she continues, "I'm sorry, I just…I don't know how to a fight a war, Anna."


You have to be careful with Elsa.

Well, perhaps it's not really a matter of "have" because such a word implies that you might do something contrary to being careful with Elsa out of curiosity and spite. Anna can't really see that happening (there's Hans, of course but every rule has an exception and in any case there's lots of things wrong with Hans). A better phrase might be, you are careful with Elsa. There is no real choice in the matter. Anna handles Elsa at times like one would handle a wet shivering puppy: with warm hands and soft words, and an underlying suspicion (and firm agreement) that ideas of dropping said puppy or using it for target practice will result in the gods giving you magically regenerating organs and a massive ghoul that runs a catering business.

So Anna takes Elsa's hand and listens. All the way to the castle gate she listens, leans in closer when they alight from the coach and Elsa has to whisper because she's afraid of upsetting the servants (who are—in all honesty—a fairly jaded bunch after years of Anna's bikes and dirt and Elsa's occasional private ice storms), and open stops listening because Elsa is instructing Kai to prepare the council room. Then she tilts her head in again all the way up the stairs and past her rooms to a now happily unlocked door, where Olaf goes wandering off because he has no ears and can't eavesdrop very well. Also, he saw a butterfly.

All this time, Anna holds on to that hand, only parts when Elsa has to shed her traveling dress, and weave her favorite gown out of snow and magic. What she's heard so far has been with Elsa for the better part of a week, and one of the things she newly knows about her sister is that for all those years no one was really listening, and Anna was once one of those people too.

Elsa's room is still new territory to Anna, even now after her sister had opened her life and arms to her. Surprisingly, there's less of her sister's beloved cool azures and periwinkles on the walls and floor, these being dominated by rugs and paper of shades of purple lilac. She was even more surprised at how…cluttered was not correct, but full was not wrong either. A small white vanity with arched mirrors sits beside the door of her closet and toiletries. On its other side, near the window, is a secretary's desk, also painted white and dotted with abstract facsimiles of mysterious blossoms. A heavy bookcase broods beside her door, packed tightly with histories, economic and political treatises, biographies (Anna can recognize the names of several of their grandfathers and grandmothers on those), and a crisp set of encyclopedias. On the lower shelves, bookmarked and wrinkled in the middle, are the sort of things Anna stacks on her nightstand: Ego and Envy by Austin, Deckens's A Yuletime Carol, The Queen of the Golden and Silver Rivers, old, faithful friends all.

Queen Elsa is bent over the vanity, dipping her hands into a white ceramic bowl painted with lilacs, rubbing water over her face. From her recumbent seat on the bed, Anna wonders why; Elsa seems to repel dirt, the opposite of her younger sister, who once sent two maids running in terror just by coming in for lunch, one fine day. But dirty or not, Elsa runs her wet hands across eyes and cheeks, looks at herself in the mirrors.

Looks at Anna.

And Anna sends her a smile, through the fluttering black wings in her belly.

The Vikings, Anna. They've come back.

Anna was never an accomplished student—it's no secret, she'll admit it to your face—but some of the histories stay with her, as they should. They're the story of her family, the foundation of their inheritance, which squats so cumbersomely across Elsa's back and Anna's arms, as they support her sister. It's a story of glorious battle, of amazing conquest, of a people shepherded into a greater family, a prosperous, bountiful village occupied by the likes of Corona, Tomainia, Avalon, Weselton, and the Southern Isles.

So maybe everything didn't quite work out.

Elsa glances at the clock atop her desk, a stylized crocus supporting a clock face and barometer, and says, "It's time."

She stands erect, takes a deep breath, and looks over at her sister. Anna stands up, flits over, grasps her sister's hands and squeezes.

It's fine.

You'll be amazing, like you always are.

A small smile flutters across that pale face. The squeeze is returned by cool fingers.

Thank you.

Here goes nothing.

The hands part, the door opens, and they leave Elsa's room. In the corridors the sunlight leaves Elsa's dress in scattered, dizzying sprays and sparks. They pass the odd suit of armor, paintings of landscapes and the occasional lord, lady, or princeling whose greatest service to their monarch was to cover up a spot where an insect was slapped.

They pass their parents' old bedroom, Elsa sparing a glimpse from the corner of her eye while Anna takes in the great doors with both peepers.

"Why didn't you—"

"It never felt right," Elsa says, eyes forward. "I'm fine where I am."

"Could I have it, then?"

Now Elsa does turn her head, raises an eyebrow. "You? Why do you need such a big room?"

"Well, you're not using it…"

And Elsa laughs, as gentle as the final collapse of a snowflake among its heaped brethren. Despite everything in the north, despite what Anna can only picture as a great, brooding storm, lined with hellish red and punctuated with lightning gathering over the Northern Seas, she can laugh. It's a massive improvement.

Kai stands outside the council chamber, plump and stalwart, flappable only with great effort. He'd been waiting at the castle doors when the carriage had entered, ready to offer tea or cakes, tools of royal soothing, attentive to orders. His features are detached, a prerogative of his own small business in statecraft. But there's warmth in his welcome and his eyes; the senior servant in the royal household, one of a chosen few who attended to both little princesses as they had grown, maybe it was inevitable.

"Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness," his back bends momentarily; excessive for a man of his position, his years with them. "The council has arrived, by your command. Unfortunately, Friherrinna Irvoll is in Høysand on state business but her deputy speaks for her."

"But General Fleischer and Admiral Larsen are here?" Elsa asks.

"The first to arrive, Majesty," Kai assures her.

"Very good," Elsa nods to her chamberlain. He turns to the doors, lays gloved hands on the handles and pushes them open to the room and people beyond. Then he steps forward, shoulders back, hands at his side, and polished shoes in exact tandem.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he announces, "Her Majesty Queen Elsa I of Arendelle and Her Royal Highness Princess Anna of Arendelle."

Kai moves to one side, bows his head again as Elsa sweeps through the ingress, Anna towed after like a leaf caught in a triple-decker's wake. Her sister's Crown Council stands around a long table, arched and dipped in bows and curtsies. When they rise, it's with the clink of swinging metals—gold chain, medals, loose eyepieces—and their faces are familiar, friendly.

Obedient

Anna remembers them from the coronation, of course, but before that there was the Regency Council, consisting of some of these same worthies, who had conducted some of their business in Elsa's presence (awkward, stilted conferences, their future Queen still grieving and eager to flee, and at most five members of her government aware of her…condition.) There's First Minister Kristoff Bugge with his spectacles and midnight blue cravat ornamented by a silver snowflake (a popular accoutrement). Beside him is his partner in governance, Jennie Lie, Treasury Minister, keeper of the kingdom's vaults, younger and blonder but sharp as a whip crack. Further along the table are High Priest Frans Harket, the speakers of parliament, ministers of interior and New Territories, Justice's deputy, and two men with loops for absent swords on their belts.

Severe in face and body, General Gustav Fleischer wears the blue-topped epaulettes and four eight-pointed stars of his rank and the closely-trimmed white whiskers of his age. He's Arendelle's foremost soldier, though he's never spilled a drop of blood specifically for her defense. Instead he's been abroad, loaned to Corona and Zeamark for their border skirmishes and one actual war, where he served with courage and intellect, winning the red ribbon of the Order of the Golden Crocus. Fleischer has taught three generations of Arendellan officers how to protect the Crown and the country it rules, raised four of his own sons for the army, personally handpicked members of the Royal Guard, tutored Papa and Elsa on military affairs, and served on the Regency Council from beginning to end.

In the storm of snow and fear of her sister's final blizzard, General Fleischer was the reason Hans had run out to confront Elsa alone. Unlike her sworn guards, he had no fear of a slender, trembling girl who had run from the Duke of Weaseltown of all people. Very unlike those men, he had no inclination to choose the authority of a low-ranking foreign princeling over that of his crowned Queen. He'd stopped Hans and his supporters in the castle halls, demanded to speak with the Queen.

Hans told him that as regent he'd been forced to arrest the Queen of Arendelle.

Fleischer had replied that no regency existed with a crowned Queen in her own capital.

Hans informed the general that he was a widower, Princess Anna's husband and heir, and that Elsa was guilty of murder.

Fleischer asked to meet their witnesses and see proof; he also said Arendelle had its own parliaments, courts, and police, thank you.

Hans had turned to the guards, remarked on the passing time, and moved that they should go on with business.

Fleischer drew his sword, and said: "I am Her Majesty's chief general; if you men wish to commit treason, you will have to pass me."

Hans fled. Alone.

When Anna had heard this story, she'd hunted him down, given him a mighty hug and peppered his beard with kisses. He was red-faced for days.

Beside him is Admiral Leif Larsen, big as a mountain and his shaggy red beard and hair shot through occasionally with white, dressed in a black double-breasted frock uniform with gold stripes on his sleeves and stars at the collar. He's younger than Fleischer but they bicker like they've known each other their whole lives. His hands are calloused to sharkskin, muscles annealed to the level of dockyard ropes, by years aboard the Royal Navy's sloops and cutters. He knows the waters of Arendelle better than the orcas, but his service has been spent chasing smugglers and the occasional confused pirate. Never a member of the Regency, he'd still come along mostly to act the unfriendly giant and chase a young princess with similar hair through the lower levels of the castle, grimly vowing to devour her.

Behind them are young fair haired officers with infant moustaches and bare tunics, bearing thick stacks of bound papers and a large rolled-up and wrinkled sheet. Across the room, Captain Heversson of the Royal Guard stands at attention in this august company, shako humbly in hand. Two secretaries stand at the peripheries, small desks with quills, ink, and paper at the ready. When he sees Anna enter, one of them darts forward to wrestle another chair to the table.

Kai pulls out Elsa's seat and carefully nudges it forward as she settles. Anna does the same, at her sister's side, smiling a thanks to the young secretary. The councilors seat themselves on purple cushions and dark wood.

"I thank you for coming so quickly," Elsa tells them. "All of you will have been told the reasons for my return."

It's as much a question as a statement and the answers are nods.

"Captain Heversson will explain the event in greater detail," Elsa gestures to the guardsman. "Captain, if you will please…"

It seems briefing a cabinet is beneath the dignity of queens. Or perhaps she's just tired of repeating it; she's already told Anna everything.

The smell, Anna…their hands…and nobody knows who they are! All that and their families can't even say who's who.

Once upon a time—which is how all the great stories of Anna's childhood begin—there wasn't an Arrendelle. Well, there was, but you wouldn't know it to look at it then. It had no provinces, no great castles, no highways, no crowns. What it did have was a village—a fine, large village, to be sure, but just a village, nonetheless—and a pleasant, secure little bay that opened into a nice wide fjord with few islands to break your ship into splinters when Jan the lookout was drunk on duty again. What it had was a good solid line of brave and wise chieftains, who raided and farmed well and invested better. Arendelle was the envy of her brethren squatting along the coastline, stretching further north, and pride of the Viking tribes. A pity she's so small, some of those admirers said.

It was a thought that occurred to her chieftains, as well.

In those days, the Viking raiders were part of life in Europa, like thunderstorms: you didn't know when or where they'd hit, but you knew when they did. Some places were so frequently hit that they'd leave their valuables on their beach just so they could sleep in when the longships arrived (a practice many Vikings found unsporting but grudgingly accepted out of neighborliness). Insurers and gamblers—often sharing the rent on an office—took odds every time a burdened ship left port. Drinking games were built around looking through peepholes and sighting a particular helmet design ("Wings! Take a shot!"). Carpenters advertised their skill with secret compartments in furniture and tunnels leading outside town. Europa screamed, cringed, and then began shrugging; like thunderstorms, Vikings made a mess, but if you stepped right you only got a little wet. People acclimated, could not imagine how it might change.

Anna never learned who actually imagined it. The stories—the history—say that one fine day some quite daring men made their way to Arendelle and politely requested audience with Chief Agdar. They brought gold trinkets and bags of precious stones and honey-soaked words. Such a fine village. You must be very proud. But isn't this place a little too small for you?

Foreign gold arrived for foreign men, coalescing around a core of Agdar's own warriors, and an army left that friendly fjord, making its way by road and water to the nearest village and tribelands…then the next nearest…and the next nearest after that. Hundreds, then thousands perished, the only outcome possible when Viking fights Viking for ten years. The petty chiefdoms wrestled with refugees, old feuds and disputes killing aborning alliances. All the while, Arendelle grew and her spears moved northwards until finally the last Viking of the last tribe stepped off the dock of the last independent village on the mainland, sailing to exile.

Thus, the Kingdom of Arendelle was born and Anna's family made itself a crown to celebrate. King Agdar I was welcomed into the family of Europa, all sins forgiven with the permanent cessation of pillaging, a condition that fattened the continent's farmers and tradesmen. And everyone lived happily ever after.

Except…

Don't concern yourself with them, Princess; what does it matter? And it seems that it really didn't matter, not when Elsa began disappearing into locked rooms and refused to come out for snowman building and bicycles and cake (Anna still can't believe it) and the only people who won't answer why with changed subjects or cookie bribes are made of canvas and oil. She dimly remembers more lonely lessons, assigned readings with difficult words that Elsa absolutely not help with; something about an invasion of Mathantir, strange, foggy, and half-barbaric itself; then distant islands to the far north where monsters be. That is what Anna knows about the Viking tribes that share her and Elsa's blood. For all she knows, that is all anybody else knew as well.

"I've already authorized the call for militias," Elsa says, and Anna returns to the present. "I also breveted Colonel Bjørklund to brigadier general and given him command over our northern defenses. The Vadmark Foot Regiment is marching to reinforce him. I've delayed any other measures until consultation with this council."

"Your Majesty, no one with any brains would have done differently," Genera Fleischer rumbles when Bugge opens his mouth.

"Agreed," the First Minister says with a mildly reproachful look at the War Minister. "If I may, Your Majesty, did you issue a call upon entering the capital district?"

Elsa shakes her head. "I wanted to…" she pauses, Anna knows, because wanted to see my little sister may not have sounded very regal. But she recovers handsomely. "I wished to avoid any panic, given the events surrounding my…coronation. My people are still seeking new markets and suppliers given the severance of trade between this realm and Weselton, and to unilaterally declare an emergency after returning so unexpectedly will only make this task harder for them. I want to hear the thoughts of my councilors."

"Larsen and I can have orders prepared within the hour, Majesty," Fleischer promises.

"That is not the point, General, excuse me, Your Majesty," Jennie Lie snaps. "Her Majesty is asking for our opinion on full mobilization."

"Precisely," Elsa has stacked her hands on her lap, one thumb rubbing against a wrist. Not exactly what Anna does for full blown wrecked nerves, but she's watchful.

"I have my concerns," Lie continues. "Your Majesty mentions that a general call up may disrupt the commerce; I can't predict what will occur in that instance, but there is a question of labor," she points to the windows, in the general direction of the fjord. "Mobilization will suck up everyone from the docks, the markets, and the farms, to say nothing of the professional guilds. Even if contracts are signed we'll have to rely on old men, little boys, and housewives to handle the freighters."

"Parliament will be hit, too," Bugge puts in, toying with his long watch chain meditatively. "I know at least two men who will have to report to their provincial units; there's probably more, I don't know how many."

"Perhaps they can go do some good for their country, then," Larsen mutters.

"Your concern for our efficiency heartens us, Admiral," Halvor Juul, fat, deep voiced, has his chair at an angle, the better to spread his legs and lean his head into a chubby hand. "I know the deputies the First Minister mentioned, and the others. In all frankness, Your Majesty," Juul tells Anna's sister, his eyes on her even if his face isn't, "when I return to the Storting I will have to declare a general recess. There's a lot of men who've left their spears back home."

"I had no intention of making your job harder, Master Juul," Elsa tells him.

He waves a pink hand of respectful dismissal. "Larsen's right; it'll do no harm for them to go home and march around a bit. Give them a bit of perspective." Left unmentioned was that Juul was certainly not to be mobilized, but that was fine; Juul could only threaten an enemy soldier if he was falling on one.

"The Royal Navy will also take its share, won't it, Admiral?" Lie aims the question at Larsen, who looks at her steadily.

"With the Queen's decree, yes," the admiral says with the air of an instructor. "Our flagged merchantmen will come under naval authority, but I'm not going to do that."

Lie seems pleased, in spite of the discussion's subject. "Really?"

"Thank the peace," the admiral shrugs. "I don't have the officers, or the shipwrights, to make warships out of all our doggers and haulers."

"What can you do?" Anna suddenly asks, and the councilors swing their heads over in surprise, as if a bird had just flown in and started reciting binomial theorems. That happens sometimes and she's learning to take it in stride; mostly she's curious to see if Admiral Larsen is going to want the royal yacht. Then she began to wonder if they had a royal yacht, and if they did would that mean she'd have to help out with the sails, because that would be a problem since she only knows maybe three knots and from what she half-remembers reading sailors have to know, like, ninety different knots for all kinds of situations and she wasn't sure that would fit in with all the math junk and the cello stuff. And would Kristoff want to go on it—well, of course he would, but Anna had the idea that a royal should captain the royal yacht and Kristoff didn't trust her sense of direction at all, which is unfair since he's been everywhere and she only got out of the castle to attend funerals until Elsa was crowned…

"There are ships," the admiral says, unflapped, "that were built with the help of navy or royal funds. Not a large part of our total tonnage but they were designed for mobilization in mind. A day or so and we'll have five ships added to our lines off the coast." He has the pride of a father whose "special move" won his son's hockey season.

"Going back to the militias," First Minister Bugge says, "General Fleischer, do you think a total mobilization is necessary?"

"If you want to win a war, than yes," the affirmative is so forceful, Bugge presses against the back of his chair. Fleischer regards him, then looks around the table. Clears his throat, "That is, if we were prepared to wage the kind of war that could remove the threat forever. That would require us to raise and train an invasion force, transport it to the Viking lands, and fight them there."

"And we can't do that?" It's an innocent question, but Anna wanted to ask it.

"I'm sorry, Your Royal Highness, but no," and oddly, he does sound apologetic to her, and by extension her sister. Then his voice returns to the sternness of a parade ground, "It has been the policy of Her Majesty's government that my ministry operates under a formula: one regiment per province, supplemented by militia and reservists. I would not send an army made up only of one third professionals to attack Viking territory, even if the navy could provide the shipping," he nods to Larsen, a silent acknowledgement of understanding. "In fact, based on Captain Heversson's report, I wouldn't send any troops beyond our borders at all."

"And why is that?" Elsa leans forward, interested.

"Because, Your Majesty, from this account of the burning ships, I can only surmise that we are not dealing with a single tribe," he says, leaning against the great table. "This 'Northern Alliance' was defeated by a grand army—a great Viking army, of many tribes, under a single leadership."

"And this is significant?" Juul asks, eyes hidden behind a meaty hand.

To Anna's delight, it is Henrik Knudssøn, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, who responds. He's short and squat, like an ambulatory potato, and has a deep, guttural voice that sounds like a refugee from an orchestra's brass section.

"When you consider," Knudssøn intones, "that up-to-now we have assumed that the Vikings continued their tribe-based political system, it is very significant. Nations tend to be."

"Isn't it a little early to be taking about a Viking nation?" Juul asks, his hand on the table now.

Knudssøn shrugs. "The implication is not too difficult to make. We've seen it before with other countries: Avalon, Tomainia…"

The idea, like afternoon sunshine burning through a window, is starting to bother people.

"What about Mathantir?" Bugge says, a challenge. "Nine tribes, all Viking, living on the same island, and ever at each other's throats; if anyone should have united by now, it's them."

"It helps to have a common enemy," Fleischer returns to the conversation. "Drago Bludvist probably served as well as any."

"Why should they have felt that?" Elsa interjects.

"Majesty, he was a foreigner in their waters, their lands…"

"And that should be reason enough to attack him?"

Now Fleischer shrugs. "Some men are provoked merely by strange people, Majesty. I don't support that fact but I can't deny it's true.

"Simple mathematics also enter into it," he continues. "The Northern Alliance had some thousands of men in its ranks—we've never been able to ascertain exactly how many—and it would have taken an army of equivalent or superior strength to overcome these forces. Especially given the sort of weaponry Bjørklund has reported in their armories."

Elsa's lips twitch downward. "You seem to know a great deal about the Northern Alliance, General."

"Policy, Your Majesty," Fleischer bows his head. "The war ministry cannot afford to leave foreign armies unwatched—especially one without a country, which is unnatural. They can't exist without each other—one inevitably forms the other."

Anna reaches over, touches her sister's arm. Elsa looks over, eyes darting.

Queen it up, Elsa.

right…

"General Fleischer," Elsa cuts into Bugge's next volley. "I'll accept your theory," ending all argument on that. "What do you propose to do?"

Fleischer signals to the aides and stands, walks over to the head of the table with Larsen in tow. Anna places hands on her chair's arms, ready to move out of the way, an action Fleischer studiously ignores as he marches to the other side of the queen, looking down on a large, unfurling map of Arendelle, her waters, her neighbors…and the edges of that apparently cloud covered mystery land marked as "Here Be Dragons."

"The good news, Majesty, is that we may well be facing a great Viking army, but we have the advantage of the high ground," he draws his fingers across the mountains and fjords of Arendelle. "All the villages and fjords can be fortified. Nothing fancy, but enough to hold them off until Ragnarok. The militias can build forts, stockpile weapons, and patrol with the regulars. We can even extend the docks in places like Slitim and Yvensborg, extend the navy's patrol spheres."

The last is a generous gesture towards Larsen, who also leans forward with, "For our part, I have mentioned that there are certain ships we can mobilize into the fleet, and thereby support the army at its new outposts and fortifications. With the docks, we can increase our range. I think a patrol can be instituted that will be able to cover the right waters and give Your Majesty's forces warning of hostile movement."

In the voice of the long-range worrier, Elsa asks: "Have you seen any Viking ships nearby? Anna says the traffic has been normal."

"Not in our waters, no," Larsen assures her. "Princess Anna is correct about the port, and to my knowledge no one has seen them this far south and east in some time. Occasionally we'll spot one or two fishing or rowing somewhere, but they always have somewhere else to be. The only exception is Mathantir." He taps a large island, far to the west, north of Avalon, perhaps a fifteenth the size of Arendelle.

That's been coming up a lot lately, Anna reflects.

"Continental trade with the island stopped with the appearance of the plague twenty years ago," Larsen reminds them of the island's recent unhappiness. "Since then only the odd independent trader will step foot there; none of the larger trading houses or even the fishermen stop in. However, Arendellan subjects sail past there often and keep this government informed of odd happenings there.

"Beginning perhaps three or four months ago—excuse me, Majesty, it's been some time since I saw these reports—one of our merchantmen noted several vessels of what the captain called 'strange design' in the waters off here"—he lightly tapped a Mathantiran city—"the port of Eday. He made a drawing of some of the flags on them; consultations with Royal College and the war ministry confirmed they were Northern Alliance and Hun flags."

Hun? "I thought they were Huaxian or something, what are they doing in Europa?" Anna asks.

"Not really Huaxian, Your Royal Highness, they're actually enemies," Knudssøn corrects her gently, in the manner of a master tutor. "An easy mistake, though, and a sound question." He looks back up at Larsen.

But Fleischer answers: "The Hun—or rather a faction of the Hun—have joined with the Northern Alliance. The easternmost Utts have a long history of trade and intermarriage with Hun nomads and apparently Drago heard of their prowess and sent envoys. I'm surprised they were able to get so many, it's a long walk from their lands to the Barbaric Archipelago."

"Even further to Mathantir," Larsen added. "However, these Huns may not make it back. Three days ago, another captain told us that approximately three hundred miles off Mathantir they encountered a naval battleground."

"How'd they know that?" Anna has the same assumption of many landlubbers: ships sink. Period.

Again, she's politely corrected: "One of the ships had capsized, Princess Anna; air still in the holds, I imagine. You see them every now and then; sailors call them phantom ships. As to this vessel, they also found some debris and canvas, with scorch marks."

Elsa shudders and Anna tries to drag her heavy chair over discretely to take her hand out of sight of the councilors. If anyone notices, they say nothing"

"Of course," Larsen says loudly over the protesting racket of the chair's moaning legs, "it is impossible to determine what precisely happened, but perhaps this army that General Fleischer speaks of may be turning its weight to Mathantir."

Anna takes Elsa's hand as her sister says with skeptical hope, "So they may not come here at all?"

Larsen looks at Fleischer, who returns the gaze. The room grows still; not a challenge to the general but not complete agreement either.

"It is a possibility," Fleischer allows—to his credit, with little reluctance. "If the Vikings aim is to purge their territories of the Northern Alliance…but then, there is the matter of Alvsted." He looks down at the map, deep in thought. Then his eyes snap to the Queen. "No. I can't make any predictions or promises based on our intelligence, Majesty."

"Then what can you do?" Elsa almost cries, clasps Anna's fingers tightly.

"Fortify and drill, Majesty, as I have stated before," he replies. His words and his face are softening as he takes them both in. "However, I can promise this: if they do come, we can and will hold. They can throw as many of themselves at us as they like, but we'll have the high ground and the forts and with all that all they will be able to do is die."

Elsa is looking up at him, eyes large and a little frightened; Anna's hand begins to feel like she's dipped it into a running stream. But she inhales deeply, closes her eyes, says: "General Fleischer, Admiral Larsen, carry out your plans. Prepare the orders and I will sign them. First Minister," she opens her eyes, looks at Bugge, "you will inform the Storting of our measures. I will be pleased to receive any members at their request."

"Yes Majesty."

"Excuse me, Majesty," Lie speaks up, staring at General Fleischer. "My concerns on the economic impact stand; is there any possibility for limiting this mobilization?"

"It seems a fair question," Elsa replies; Anna's hand is coming back from numbness "General Fleischer?"

He raises a hand to his chin in thought. "I think," he says, again with little reluctance, "that we shall initially need our full allotment of men in order to build our fortifications, especially in places where there are no regiments or engineers. However, once these are completed, we should be able to man them solely with our regulars and reservists. I still would prefer to keep at least some militia companies at hand—say, perhaps, an eighth of the total. We can rotate these units so that the burden isn't too great on them."

"That's acceptable," Lie deflates into a relaxed posture. "Even just releasing a few thousand men would have been helpful."

"Splendid," Bugge tugs on his gold chain, works his fingers towards his watch. He examines it for a moment. "If it is agreeable to Your Majesty, may I suggest this council disperse for the evening—with perhaps the exception of Ministers Fleischer and Larsen here—and reconvene tomorrow morning? Parliament will have had time to digest this and we can discuss further—"

A soft but noticeable knock echoes from the doors behind Elsa. Kai's knock; Anna would know it anywhere. The councilors wouldn't and they stare at the door, waiting to discover who would have such temerity. White gloves push the doors open to indeed reveal the palace chamberlain, accompanied by what looks to be two other men behind his bulk. Elsa stands, twists around to see what is going on, and Anna-for want of better ideas—stands with her.

Bugge is also standing, a little affronted at being interrupted. "What is this?"

Anna feels sorry, but Kristoff Bugge has never earned the privileges Kai has.

"Your Majesty," and now it's a bit scary because Kai is sounding apprehensive, which doesn't really suit him. "I deeply regret the disruption but these gentlemen say they have come from the north with important news. They have a letter from a Gudmund Bjørklund of the Northern Rangers confirming their identities." He steps aside to admit two exhausted looking men, with clouds of road dust floating off their clothes with every step they take. One is a soldier in white tunic and squished kepi. The other is shorter, elderly, all soft white hair and skin red with exertion and age, like Father Frost would look like after a long day of unsuccessful hitchhiking.

"Master Kun!" Elsa cries, whirls around the chair with an outstretched hand.

The soldier doesn't look any happier about the old man's condition; he stays silent, but follows him closely as this Kun guy gives his Queen a tired bow that almost ends with him toppling over. The soldier and Minister Knudssøn—everyone is out of their chairs now—grasp him by the arms and practically carry the old man into Bugge's abandoned seat. Elsa order Kai to fetch water, brandy, and pillows.

"Artem, what is all this?" Knudssøn is as alarmed as Anna has ever heard him; normally, he's difficult to read, as inscrutable and solitary as an oyster.

"Please excuse the theatricality, Minister, Your Majesty," he coughs. Kai appears with a tray bearing a single glass of cut and gold rimmed crystal, with two decanters containing a dark amber liquid and clear water. Invited, Kun indicates the water and the glass is filled, chilled by a wave of Elsa's hand, and pressed into his trembling fingers. He drinks deep.

"Thank you, thank you, much better," Kun sighs, looks up at Elsa with watery eyes. "Majesty, Radvo's been taken. By Vikings. I didn't even make it across the border, people are fleeing. They say"—he chokes on the words—"Drago is dead and they want their people back. And money. They say that if the demands aren't met within a month, Radvo will die…and then they'll burn Uttland to ashes."