In this chapter Stoick will meet the mysterious Nightwalker properly, without the use of deadly weapons. Not to say weapons won't come into play in future chapters, as what good love story develops without the aid of near death experiences and dangerous situations? Thanks so much to everyone who follows, reviews, and favorites this story :)

Disclaimer: I wish I owned Valka. I totally wish that, because she is turning out to be an EPIC character, despite the fact that half of her background is from my own little world. But I totally own the title 'Nightwalker.' I might need to claim that later for one of my original fics which I do have rights to be they're MINE. MY PRECIOUS. Okaaay, that was a tangent. Point is, I don't own HTTYD nor any of the characters in this fic so far (and I highly doubt there will be OC's in future chapters).

She would have killed him if she'd known he would come back the next day. Yet this time he bore no weapon. In spite of her better instincts, she at least had a rather simple sense of justice. If an opponent was defenseless, she had no right to attack him.

But this? It was as if the young Viking was trying to appease her. It tore at her heartstrings, this attempt at peace, and made her feel human again, appealing to whatever human feelings were left within her.

Damn him for stirring such emotions, for making her mind want so badly to kill him but her heart to hear him out. Him and all his questions.

She slipped between the trees, dew falling onto her shoulders from above as she stalked beneath the canopy like a dragon hunting its prey. If only she were hunting something so simple as prey. If only she were hunting at all.

The look in this man's eyes bothered her. It was not as if his gaze was filled with violence or fury. No, it was the curiosity. He wanted to know who had fought him the other night. Who had hissed into his face and vanished in the cloak of night.

He looked directly at the old pine behind which she stood, and she flattened her arms against its bark. For one endless moment, she could feel his eyes upon her motionless back, scanning the trees nearby. Then he turned away and continued on his path. And she continued to follow this path, for not only did his curiosity get to her head, but her own curiosity was prickling in the back of her mind. She did her best to push it away, but it had already gotten the best of her.

The young man stopped again and tasted the slight wind. "You leave no trace," he murmured. "But I know you are there. You carry a sense of foreboding wherever you go. You are like the shadows. Always moving, unnoticed, until they stretch across the entirety of the land."

"Wise words," she whispered to herself in response, watching him over the top of a boulder. "If only you knew who I was and what I am."

"You are the Nightwalker," he said to empty air. "The Shadow Man. But even darkness itself can leave a scar upon the earth. You are watching me with dragons' eyes; that much I can feel. But you dare not speak, for you know how we react to legends. Our superstition can get the best of us at times. But you, Nighwalker, you are no legend. So I ask of you, come out and speak with the shape of a myth and the voice of the Northern wind."

"You like folk tales, don't you, Viking?" She did not know what compelled her to step out from her hiding place. Perhaps it was the eloquence of his speech. Perhaps it was the plea for knowledge in his voice. But she liked to believe it was the respect he showed her though he had not yet met her properly.

He spun around at the sound of a woman's voice. Deep and cold, like that of the mountain stone, but a female voice nonetheless. Even he had not foreseen that their Shadow Man was not a man at all, but a woman of the wild lands.

She was dressed in old furs that fell past her shoulders, and her forearms bore the scars of a spring hailstorm. Her hair was thick and matted and swayed as she walked, as if she had made some attempt to tame it but had settled with roping it into whatever random knot had first come to her fingers. Her eyes pierced the skin and soul, a pale gray-blue like the thunderheads that gathered in the sky on a midsummer's eve. She was, indeed, the Nightwalker, caped in black and build like a stone statue from the wilds themselves. A hooked blade hung at her waist.

"So you are the shadow of which the old tales tell," he breathed, staring deep into her eyes. Her face was hard as she dipped her head, as if it were the most difficult thing she had ever done.

"I am," she murmured in response, only loud enough that he could hear. "I am the wanderer of the great mountains and daughter of the raging storm. I have seen the seas lit on fire and heard the thunder's drums as it breaks and wars upon the mountaintops."

"Quite the titles," said the Viking. "I am afraid I only bear one." He held out a hand. "I am Stoick. No deeds of yet to tag onto my name. Son of the chief of Berk."

"The dragon-slayers," she mused, eyeing his cloth-wrapped fingers.

"You shake it," he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he watched her brow furrow slightly in thought.

She grimaced. "So I am aware." She shook his hand. She had forgotten how warm a human hand was, even in the dead of winter, and the contact was a shock for her. She could feel a shiver run up her spine.

"Do you have a name?"

"That shall be left unsaid for the time being."

"Perhaps you will tell me later."

"If you see me again."

"Will I?"

She thought for a moment. This was a young Viking, the slayer of her kin. Yet there was something rather odd about his demeanor that she found rather endearing, if her logical mind were to admit to such feelings.

"How often do you see pale light upon my forest scattered bright and clear for all to admire?"

"Once each moon, when the full moon graces us with its presence."

"In the dead of night when the full moon rises will you see me again. Only then. The forest does not grow by day, yet each morning new blossoms may be found. Nor do the mountains grow in sunlight, though each time you climb they feel higher. I am just the same. I cannot risk being out in such light."

"Then why are you out right now?" asked Stoick, his eyes bright at the prospect of speaking to this mysterious wanderer once more.

The woman grimaced at his realization. "A mistake, Stoick, Son of Chief. An intentional mistake."

Reviews make me happy. Yes, precious, they makes us happy.

Me: This isn't a LOTR fic.

Smeagol: We thoughts we was in her LOTR fic with all of the NCIS references

Me: nope wrong fic. Sorry, Smeagol. Plus, you won't play much of a role in that anyway, because it follows Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. And I didn't know you watched NCIS.

Gollum: We loves NCIS, precious. Loves it! We was so sad when Ziva left (spoiler alert). We totally ships Tivases!

Me: Okay, this is getting out of hand. I'm done here.