Hello again, everyone. Once again, a chapter has come out later than I'd like. It's been a busy and depressed time for me, both of which affect my productivity.

What has kept me going is the appreciation and affection so many of you have for this story. It is much appreciated and often comes at the right time for me. Some of you folks have written the longest and most intelligent reviews I've ever had. One or two have sent me some nourishment for my thoughts. Others have sent a kind word, which keeps my fingers moving.

Noctus Fury: Thank you for saying so. Naturally, the idea has occurred to me (and episodes of Race To The Edge have led me to regret some of my earlier choices) but Hiccup is still in mourning...and will still be mourning for quite a while yet...

Camicazi did her best. Scouting in those days have always been an iffy mission; Hiccup understands that. He's just annoyed that he isn't able to inflict the Blood-Eagle on Viggo yet.

On Valka: Wait 'til you start reading this chapter ;D.

Jackalope89: I was quite taken aback, sir. Your review had some brilliant ideas, better than mine. Thank you for that.

illusions-of-octarine: Thank you for your honesty and sharp eyes. I always endeavor to make sure each chapter comes out with few grammatical errors but I can't always spot them...or keep up with them, for that matter.

To ALL the Rest:

Thank you, each and every one of you, who take the time to compliment and critique. One of the highlights of my life is hearing from you. And please: keep reviewing!

Special thanks to Raberba girl for her excellent and thoughtful advice on this chapter.


Of State

Dreams

Part II

"Stand still," Valka orders and then, after a moment: "And straight! Stand up, Hiccup!"

Hiccup stretches up to his full height; he's nothing if not a dutiful son. Valka beckons to Heather with fluttery fingers, as if about to share a secret. Then she turns a key on a battered and damp trunk—Viking baggage has to last—and throws it open. Heather gasps in appreciation.

"Isn't it fine?" Valka coos.

"Gorgeous," Heather gushes. Heather—a noted Berserker and tamer of her own Razorwhip—gushes. She reaches forward hesitantly, until Valka beamingly approves with a nod and then she strokes a black pelt. "Is this wolf?"

"A hundred and forty pounds," Valka says with maternal pride. "Brought it down with his own arrow, as it was charging."

"Wasn't charging, Mom," Hiccup tells them.

Valka turns and says, "You said you caught it running."

"I did," Hiccup sighs, "It was going for a deer." Left unsaid is that Hiccup would swear by every god in Asgard that the wolf had turned its head between the human and deer once, given him a look of contempt, and decided to go for venison. There is some small solace in knowing one has no appeal as a quick lunch.

Valka turns back to Heather and brightly says, "He did take it in one shot, though!"

That is true, but he modestly says nothing.

With low soughs of appreciation, the two women draw up the black pelt and the attached long cloak of black, edges trimmed with snaking red symbols for courage, wisdom, and power. They swarm around Hiccup, drop the wolf-mantle around his shoulders, fasten the clasps that fix the cloak to itself and to his armor, and begin brushing away at dust he can't see and tugging at various folds and uneven bunches that he is not sure ever existed. Valka lifts a sword—by the name of Piecemaker—and scabbard from the trunk and carefully affixes it to his waist.

"High King of the Norse," Heather says as she shifts a patch of fur on his shoulder, "Lord of the Dragon Riders…Lady Killer."

He glances at her and her smile is playful and brittle; an unthinking mistake. His mother watches, hands clasping unconsciously.

"I…it is a great look for you," Heather recovers, patting his covered shoulders. "When did you get it?"

"Dad commissioned it a little before…well," he answers dully, feeling the cloak in his hands. "It was supposed to mark my ascension."

Ascensions—Vikings have no crowns (too la-de-da) and hence no coronations—are one of those occasions that is grueling to arrange and involves far more people than one wants to even see, much less host, and yet at some point it turns into a party that leaves one wondering why they didn't have more of them. Hiccup's had come just after his father's death, with half the village frozen and the other half stomped upon. A cup of mead had gone around and then everybody started bickering over hammers.

The door opens as Moira knocks on it in impertinent efficiency. "Them lordly nibs is waitin' outside the Great Hall," she tells them from the threshold. "And the one with the great filthy beard says theys hungry and antsy and wanting all this to be over with."

"You mean Alvin the Stubborn?" Hiccup asks.

"Himself," Moira nods, unimpressed with epithets

"Moira, dear, what do you think?" Valka gestures over Hiccup's cloak, the strange maternal pride unfaded.

The Mathantiran looks him up and down. She doesn't move from the threshold. "Lovely cloak," she says, then gives a reproving look at Valka. "Still a bloody reed."

"Who's right here," he reminds everyone.

"Killed the wolf himself," Valka says again. Hiccup doesn't bother qualifying that.

Moira looks at him again with shrewd eyes. "An arrow, was it?" she asks in tones that heavily imply she will laugh like an idiot if he says differently.

"Yes," he says, hoping to kill the subject, "We'd better go then," he pulls his fur covered shoulders from beneath his mother's hand and makes for the door. Moira stands aside, a curious look passing over her face as the door closes after Heather. She's about to let the other Vikings pass when Hiccup beckons to her to walk with him.

"There was an animal in my room," he tells her as they walk.

"Castle's old, High Lord, and nobody lived innit before the scrotes came and began futering around. Animals'll get in," she says with belligerent respect.

"Animals that big? And in the same room? I've looked and that's the only one that's scratched to hell like that."

She frowns, looks back at the women behind them, and dares to reach out with a gnarled hand to touch his arm and stop them.

"That room's cursed," she tells him.

"Cursed…" That's a new one.

"Aye. Oh, doesn't hurt no one but when somethin' awful happens in a place, it just sticks to it. And they say three bad things happened in there, on the same night."

Hiccup stares at her, can't help himself: "'They'?"

"Eh?"

"Who's 'they'?"

"Elders, gossipy hens," she shrugs. "Used to have a Storyteller's Association, but it's been suspended since the plagues. Anyway," she says as she begins walking again, feet moving of their own accord as her brain works to remember, to tell, "this whole land weren't just tribes or clans, had it a few kingdoms before the Norse come. One of them was the Kingdom of DunBroch, named fer' the clan that united the other three clans to push out the Avalonian army and free the island. Had a braw king, too, Fergus of name, and a bonnie queen Elinor and a bonnie princess and three wee boys."

Hiccup's eyes are on her face, leaving only to glance into a room where Toothless endures brushes and flapping rags as Steelta and a nervous native boy—probably Gil, from the way his elbows start moving when he notices Moira watching—polish the Alpha's harness and scrub his scales. Fishlegs has placed his little portable desk on a windowsill, where he flips through papers and yells out instructions at the crew hurriedly assembling a shelter outside for the Gronckles that will vomit up weapons for the army. Steelta pokes her master's shoulder, and Fishlegs gathers up his work while Toothless gives a hearty shake and slithers out to receive Hiccup's welcoming stroke. He nods to Moira: keep going.

"This Fergus was a fierce king, sworn to kill the Mor'du, the demon that haunted these lands, for eating his leg. But he loved his queen and his wee ones, and he was a fine king to everybody. He doted on his daughter, the crown princess, and let her learn the men's ways and let her slip on the women's."

"Men's ways?" Hiccup asks.

"Aye; she wielded weapons, and rode a horse like a man, and fed on raw berries and fish."

"So…this was…bad?" These DunBrochs sounded like an odd bunch.

Moira shrugs and says, "I suppose; never really understood it meself, thought mebbe she wielded things obscenely or something. I don't know: I'm just tellin' you what they told me when I heard the story."

Hiccup still wonders why this story seems to regard everything every girl he'd ever known had done as scandalous but listens for more.

"The princess was a wild girl, loved escapin' from the castle and responsibilities, but she was growin' like a weed she was, and the time was comin' when, for the sake of the kingdom, she'd have to take a husband from one of the great clans that ruled the island. When the lairds arrived, they agreed to decide things with an archery competition. The lads tried, they did, and fared…well, they wasn't archers anyway. But the princess suddenly appeared, planted her clan's banner and declared she'd shoot for her own hand!"

A rather juvenile part of Hiccup's mind finds illusionary implication and goes eww.

"One by one, she humiliated her suitors. Every arrow shot true and every bullseye was pierced."

"I take it people weren't happy."

"Ach, no," Moira shakes her head as she drags out an O. "Queen Elinor least of all. Can ye imagine all the work o' yer life, everythin' ye've worked and bled for, buggered up by a dafty girl who's never wanted and never kin a day of war in her life? Fergus and Elinor had given the island freedom and peace and it could all crash down around 'em."

Hiccup can imagine it, can remember it. When days were spent watching the sun swim overhead and disappear beneath the clouds he'd flown above. When swords stopped being the main business of the forge, except for ones used in marital disputes. When he could lie against Toothless's warm, breathing hide and look up at Máni's smiling face and then back down at Astrid's, pale and beautiful and content in the moonlight and his long arms.

It only took one person to ruin all that.

"The queen had words with her daughter, but the princess ran off to the forest. Ain't none kin what happened there: some say she struck a deal with the devil Mor'du. Some say she was a witch all along, and silly thing she was, never thought before witching. Me gram says she just happened across one of them old witches what live in queer old huts and go dotty from havin' nothin' to talk to asides birds.

"However it happened, the princess returned home and found her mother and apologized to her with a lovely little mince pie. The queen, bein' a lovely, gracious woman who hated fightin' with her daughter, accepted and ate some of the pie."

"She shouldn't have done that."

Moira eyes him approvingly. "Ye're right. Yer heads on right."

"Who takes food from a relative you're arguing with?" Hiccup wonders out loud.

"Personal experience?"

"Yes…well, I've never eaten it." Thank goodness for Ruffnut's inadequate baking skills and overeagerness to use all the worms. "But it was tried more than once," a year…okay, a month that year we turned eleven, but no more than that.

"Suddenly, the queen turned sickly. The crown princess were just as sudden a lovin' dutiful daughter and helped her past all the lairds and King Fergus at supper, up to her rooms. And that's where the curse happened, High Lord; kind, bonnie King Fergus came up to look in on his lovely, good Queen Elinor and what does he find but a bloody great black bear tearin' apart the room and snarling at the princess. Well, y' might guess that braw King Fergus weren't the sort to stand for that so he let out a great bellow, pulled out his sword, and buried it in that beast's chest."

Hiccup's cape sweeps over cold candles, sending them tumbling about his feet. He looks at Moira's face and listens, because he knows that a tragedy—whether beneath his eyes or beyond his place in time—deserves respectful attention.

"And when that great bear fell, its fur cleared away, its teeth withdrew, its ugly snout became a pretty nose, and it all shrank into the form of the Queen Elinor, her life drippin' away in the place she'd loved her man and birthed her babies. And, oh, how mighty men bellow in their grief, and brought the castle runnin' to see their bonnie king take his cannie queen in his big arms and cry for her to live, and to say what happened. She say what she does and dies, and the King stood and seized his daughter, shoutin' curses and roarin' to his men to search the castle for the wicked pastry. He shook his wee girl, demandin' an answer fer his wife's death. But the princess were a daft one, she was, and she shouted right back. Twas all the queen's doin', she says. She were stubborn and cruel and cared nothin' fer the girl's freedom. None of it were the princess's fault, none."

Hiccup sees the flickering torch lights and the unwavering glow of sunbeams through windows ahead.

"One o' the king's men found the pie, and took it to Fergus. That bonnie King is gone, his heart is broken, and he holds that wee daughter of his so hard she shrieks her arm is breakin'. He grabbed up that pie and shouted at her: 'As fer the lovin' mother, so fer the faithless daughter' and shoved the evil thing into her gob and held it there 'til she swallowed. Then the men cast her into the courtyard, where she became a bloody huge bear, as black as night; and they chased her into the woods, where she vanished."

"She didn't stay that way," he guesses out loud. They never do.

Moira shakes her head, saying, "Glimpses, mostly, in the years after. They say she wandered the woods, lookin' fer the witch what gave her the wretched spell; killed the demon bear Mor'du, maybe, 'cause he was never seen again. She ran from people, even her da, King Fergus, when he came to find her, full of regrets and hurt love. Never the same, that bonnie King. When he died, the kingdom went to his boys and then it fell apart."

Hiccup comes to a stop, glancing down the stairs as a few Vikings stack freshly cut logs by the fireplace and sweep lazily where a table once stood. Gobber stands before the dais, thumb up and supervising the twins as they shift the throne around, trying to center it beneath a vast red, black, and blue banner, the colors of the United Norse. Gothi, arrived with the fleet, sits on a stool of honor, getting in the twins' way and mending a pair of mittens while two of her Terrors squabble over the yarn ball. Grump snores away in a corner, the rest of Gothi's little flock crawling over his blubbery back. On either side of the great doors sit Mulch and Bucket, apparently trying to figure out if either one of them had remembered to block the chimney before they'd left home.

"And then we arrived."

"All the great castles had a Viking chieftain sitting in them, but never DunBroch," she tells him. "She wouldn't allow it. Made her den here."

"Must be some bear," Hiccup mutters. He thinks of tiny hands grasping a Nadder's jaw and pulling the head free.

Nadders eat bears; he's seen it.

"'Twas more trouble than it was worth to evict her. Nobody holdin' the castle was as good to the chiefs as havin' themselves in it, so they left her be. But these…foreigners came…and now…" she shrugs.

"Now she's disappeared," he finishes the story by stating the obvious. If a bear had been here when Alvin and Bertha had seized the castle it would be in a cage or Gobber would be mixing up some of his grandfather's tanning juice (also known to bartenders as "Thank The Gods It's Freyer Day" back home).

"Or she's dead—or was never here," Moira shrugs. "All these are things me Gran and Ma told me, I never stepped foot in this place before you lot arrived."

"You were never curious?"

"About mebbe getting' me head torn off by a cranky bear princess? Nae thanks, I got plenty more pleasant ways to die than temptin' fate."

"Sensible," Hiccup says.

"Thank ye, High Lord; now go on, that throne needs a royal arse."

Hiccup smiles at her, she bobs her head and moves away from the head of the stairs, and he flows down in a brief black stream, dragon and Vikings in tow. Gobber turns his battered head towards Hiccup, gives a curt nod, and squeezes his eye shut to measure the placement of the throne, a heavy affair made of clumsily polished wood with a high back that bears Odin's ravens carved directly into a modest crest. A thick burgundy cushion, recently stitched and stuffed, sits placidly, awaiting the grace of his bony buttocks.

Gobber suddenly exclaims, "All right, that should do it—hey, what do you think you're doing, get off of there!"
Tuffnut looks up at the blacksmith from his sprawl across the seat, a look of pondering on his face. "No," he declares.

"Ye have to," Gobber tells Ruffnut.

"Why?"

"That's Hiccup's chair."

Tuffnut looks up at the chair, the arms, and replies, "I don't see his name on it."

"Look under the cushion."

Tuffnut gets up and lifts the pillow, leans over to read out loud, "'Property of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III.' Whoops." He hangs his head and shuffles off to the side, where Ruffnut greets him with an affectionate slap upside his head.

Toothless slithers up the dais, starts sniffing and rubbing against the throne while Hiccup pauses before it. He's never paid much attention to chairs before; they were nice things to have for tired legs or books that needed a place to rest but didn't have to go on the floor yet. This chair…put it in a nursery for children to climb and drool, it would be a chair. Put it in a hospital for people to wait or die in, it would be a chair. Put it on a dais for a chief or a king to decide mundanities like livestock disputes or exceptionalities like whether a man should keep his head, it is a throne. Anyone can sit in a chair, but a throne requires a résumé. And a eulogy.

"C'mon, c'mon," Gobber growls and shoves Hiccup towards the seat. "We haven't all day; the ships need unloading and the scouts are coming back in. Let's get these buggers signed up and full of mead so we can start fightin'."

To his credit, Hiccup doesn't knock the throne over—largely because there is no small chance that it weighs more than he does or ever will—and catches himself on the arms. In a swirl of black he turns about and lands on the cushion, arms out and gripping the rests. Toothless huffs and plops his tail down beside him.

Hiccup glances around at friends and family. "How do I look?" He hopes to at least half-impress the chieftains of Mathantir.

Everybody looks at each other.

"Quite regal," Valka tells him.

"Warm," Heather says.

"That's not what he asked," Fishlegs tells her.

"I know, but it's all I could think of," she whispers back.

"Ye look like a skinny doll that's been left on adult furniture," Gobber says.

Valka turns and hisses, "Gobber!"

"What? We're all thinking it."

"I know, but there's thinking and there's saying."

"You look like our great grandmother Puffnut," Tuffnut tells Hiccup.

"…isn't she the one who went insane and started dressing like an elk?"

"Hey," Ruffnut snarls, "Don't talk about her like that! She was a kind, loving woman who made the best cookies and built a canoe to paddle north to find elves!"

"I didn't forget," Hiccup says in a placating tone. "It's just that the bear thing stood out. And you have to admit, the whole northern elves thing was pretty weird."

"I dunno," Gobber interjects. "Those little hats she brought back were pretty convincing."

Hiccup shakes his head and asks, "Okay, fine, so I look like a skinny little doofus who's playing at being a Viking lord?"

Tuffnut is the only one who says anything: "Yeah, pretty much."

"Good, then everything is normal," he turns to Gobber. "Send them in."

Gobber signals to Mulch and Bucket, who hop up and grab the heavy rings on the enormous doors and pull them open with all the effort it takes to open a picnic basket. Outside is a confused, armored, and armed crowd milling around in a thousand bright, dull, shiny, chinked, rusty, stained, and mismatched colors. Arguments and conversations collapse as the doors creak to the side, a battalion of strange faces stare in, bobbing apart and back again as Alvin pushes his way to the front and stomps inside, waving the rest to follow him. And they follow, a clinking, clanking, shuffling, farting, stumbling wave of humanity, spiked with spears and horns and carried by padded leather, bare feet, and wooden pegs.

They're Vikings. They look very much like Vikings, bearded and smelly and leathery and absolutely bewildered by him. And yet Hiccup can see that life on Mathantir has influenced these Nine Tribes, dripped something into the blood of their generations that makes them paint their faces, don sashes and skirts of that odd mishmash color scheme, and—for perhaps half of them—forgo the horns on their helmets.

But the scars are familiar, as are the little hammers and ravens, dangling from necks or inscribed onto leather, wood, or metal. And the lightning in those eyes, the harshness of a hard-lived life, the cold calculation of blood-debt collectors…yes, these were Vikings all right.

Alvin stops right in front of the dais, and gives Hiccup a brief bow and salute, then grins and says, "Your Majesty, I present the Nine Tribes of Mathantir. Warriors, Shieldmaidens of Mathantir!" He turns to the crowd and gestures grandly to Hiccup and his throne, "Here is His Majesty, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, by the grace of the Aesir High King of the Norse and Chief of Berk. Now, step forward and declare yourselves!"

Hiccup can't see Alvin's face now, but he can see those of the Mathantirans. They look at him in his chair and cloak, at Toothless and his harness, and he can recognize the thoughts, the expressions.

Dubiousness. Doubt. Disbelief.

Save us?

How?

Alvin steps towards the crowd, and when he speaks it is with confused irritation: "What's this, now? C'mon, what's the holdup? I know he doesn't look like much, but I'm here to tell you he's clever as a fox and as mean as whatever happens when a wolf and fox spend the night together."

But the faces say: You look like you couldn't even save yourself.

No, he does not. There are times when he looks into glass or water, takes in the bristly hair and bones, and thinks, How the Hel did you do that? You must have cheated somehow.

His hands tighten around the arms of the throne and before he can stop himself he levers himself up to his full height and steps forward on one and a half legs, cloak slightly billowing. Alvin turns to look at Hiccup, eyebrow raised and hands twitching. The Nine Tribes watch.

Wait.

His mouth opens, immediately shuts when his brain can find nothing to put in it. Oh, Gods, what has he done? He's no speaker; sometimes he wants to throw fruit at himself.

And yet…

"I understand."

What?

"I—" he pauses, licks his lips. Don't look around for help, you need to speak to them. They doubt because they're scared.

They're you.

"I know what you've heard, what you've seen," he says slowly, groping for vocalic handholds, prodding whichever gibbering lunatic part of his brain decided that this was a good idea. "I know what you were raised on. A Beastlike," he raises one hand, careful to keep his eyes on the distance lest he has mistaken one group for another, "fights a Repug," another hand rises, "or a Vindictive. Sign truces with them, maybe even let some of them marry that daughter you were worried about…but never let them see you without a sword on your belt. Back on Berk, it was the same with Outkasts," he nods to Alvin, who watches with steely encouragement. Then he extends a hand to Heather, saying, "It was the same with Berserkers. With Lava-Louts. My Dad told me about my forefathers, and the freedoms and glory we enjoyed because they had fought one or all of these tribes. My nth great grandfather Hamish was rich off the loot he took and demanded of his enemies. The Bog Burglars built their reputation by stealing furniture from the Meatheads—"

"We tried to give 'em back," Bertha muttered. "All rubbish in good light."

Meatheads snickered across the hall. The Mathantirans look around in wonder at the missing blood.

"My point," Hiccup stresses, fumbling for their attention, "is that we were all raised on these stories. 'Remember when we put one over the Berserkers?' 'Look at this goblet; took it off a Thunderhead.' 'Happy birthday, Pa; here's a compass. The Ghoulgoyle won't miss it.'"

He pauses, looks around before continuing: "That's what Drago saw when he came here. It's what the Grottons and their foreign backers saw, when they took the birthlands from us, and what should have told Drago Bludvist and his people that the same couldn't happen again? He looked at a map and what he saw didn't say 'Here Be Vikings: Piss Off.' It said 'Hooligans' and 'Outkasts' and 'Berserkers' and so many other names at war with each other. We invited him—we did this," he laments, and raises a hand towards…something. Somewhere. It doesn't matter.

"We battle each other and the Europans brush us into the shadows, away from their coasts and water, away from them. We feud and argue and Drago bursts in to burn away our invincible tribes, our glorious histories, our rights. You heard me," he snaps at them, and a stout man with graying moustaches that sway above his belly steps back at the vehemence. "We have rights, the right to live, the right to sail where we choose—to fly where we like," he corrects himself, reaching for Toothless's proferred, purring head. "The right to honor our gods, the right to walk in the light like every other free people, every other nation. The Europans shake their coins and the Grottons' at us, Drago menaces us with slave dragons and shackles but our rights are bestowed by the gods themselves and the only way we can give them away is if we fail to fight for them. That is the legacy of our forefathers," a finger stabs the air, "not victories over neighbors, not Nadder skulls or treasure chests, but the rights and freedoms they gave to their people and defended at the cost of their wealth, their happiness, and their blood."

He stops to gather breath, himself. The Mathantirans stand silently, spears held uncertainly. Alvin looks up at Hiccup, lips pressed in upon themselves.

"This war began with one tribe," Hiccup begins again while running a hand down Toothless's neck, "protecting our homes and our families against an army built to destroy and enslave them. And along the way, more and more tribes took up their swords, until soon every tribe within the archipelago was fighting the same enemy, for the same reasons. We are fighting alongside each other because we looked at each other and didn't see that tribe that bullies our fishermen or killed a grandfather that nobody remembers or didn't even like anyway; we saw Vikings. And when we looked at the Northern Alliance and Drago, we didn't see somebody who could help us gang up on a neighbor or settle an old score; we saw the enemy and we turned our swords—and our fire—on him. We're not fighting for land or loot, we're fighting for each other.

"And when this war ends," softly, for futures are leaps that need soft landings, "the victory will belong to all of us. And why should it be the last one?" he asks the Vikings and dragons. "Why can't we share them, from now on? If we stick together, there'll be so many more."

Hiccup is tiring. His ire at his lot—at his people's lot—fades with every expression of it. But he knows he can't stop, lets the words flow.

"Nothing more will be asked of you than you can give, than what the other tribes here have given," he tells them. "We'll teach you what we know. The dragons will be your friends too. We'll give you grain, yaks, justice, peace…just join your voices to ours. Let the whole world know we've survived…let them know we thrive, and we will never be silenced again."

The words are spent, and Hiccup's voice leaves him like a mugger whose job is done. He stands before a crowd of silent Vikings, embarrassed and rather thirsty. Why did I do that? Why does anyone do something stupid? He hopes no one was taking notes—then, through his right eye's corner, he sees Fishlegs scratching away at a sheet of paper, preserving Hiccup's self-inflicted humiliation for posterity.

Wonderful.

Spears sway in the ranks of the Mathantirans, and a rather large man pushes his way to the front. He is bare-chested save for a heavy leather belt that is cruelly stretched across immense muscles. A full red beard hangs like unkempt curtains, knotted with teeth, desiccated human ears, and dried rabbit feet. Heavy bracers cling to his massive forearms, with depictions of scenes that really should be censored for young viewers. Flapping against his trousers are a diverse collection of hatchets, chipped and wrapped with rope or leather, but razor sharp. A huge battleaxe hangs from his back, the ginfaxi carved into each blade like eyes glaring at Hiccup. The man stomps up to Hiccup, stopping one step from the top of the dais and stares down at the High King from considerable heights. Hiccup stares back. Whatever either of them are trying to do, it isn't working.

A cough comes from Hiccup's left and he glances over to see Alvin with pressed lips, wide eyes, and tapping the hilt of his sword quite forcefully. Hiccup blinks and raises his hand to his ancestral sword, Piecemaker, in response. Alvin nods with curt gaiety and Hiccup understands.

The High King of the Norse steps back to the throne, eyes on the Mathantirans all the while, and pulls his sword from his belt, sheath and all. He tucks the point between his right arm and trunk and reaches with a long arm to grasp Piecemaker's hilt. Green eyes meet the small, dark ones of the giant.

The huge man strides towards the throne, and then falls on his knees (Hiccup swears he hears things fall in the castle around them). A vast, scarred, and calloused hand reaches forward, touches the underside of Piecemaker's hilt. The Mathantiran's eyes meet Hiccup's as the words—the all-important, oddly high-pitched and accented words—begin their echo around the vast but not-so-empty hall.

"I, Thorfell Bjornstrom-Arbuthnot of the Mingers of Mathantir, make this oath: that I and those who come after me shall be in the forefront of battle whenever and wherever needed by my highest lord and his house in time of war; that I and those who come after me shall offer wise counsel, render aid to our fellow oathtakers, and be otherwise obedient to our highest lord and his house in time of peace. And though I and those who come after me shall proudly lay down our lives rather than see harm come to our all-highest lord and his house, if he should fall in battle we shall not flee from the battlefield, but shall slay the enemy as we might, so that our protector should be avenged. And by Freyr, and by Njordr, and the Almighty Ase, may this sword smite me upon which my hand rests, and may my own blade twist and turn against me should I fail to keep this oath." Having said so, Thorfell leans forward and kisses the hand that rests upon Hiccup's sword. Then he gets up and backs into the crowd behind him, obviously possessing a sense of ceremonial drama (and a great weight which lands upon many feet as he walks).

The other Mathantirans watch Thorfell leave, then look between him and Hiccup and then at each other. Shoulders rise and fall and they come: a throng of men and women who all try to scale the brief steps and—in true Viking fashion—begin to bicker about who will be first. Hiccup is about to rise but Gobber pushes his shoulder down and Valka steps forward, joining Alvin in firmly but genially cajoling the Viking chieftains into some sort of order or line, except for Thorfell who has knocked over several people and is pulling them up with mumbled but sincere apologies and a red face. Squalls, Mangy Maniacs, Beastlikes, Vindictives, Repugs, Vindictives, Gashing Goons, Fillagers, Diments: all of them touch Piecemaker's hilt and recite the oath. All kiss Hiccup's hand, which gets rather wet when the Fillager chieftess shows her allegiance.

"I have heard your oaths," he announces as he stands and wipes his hand on his shirt, "as have the Aesir. And this is my vow: that you shall have peace with all the tribes of my kingdom; that you shall be rewarded for your loyalty and bravery; that you shall sit at the same table with us with the same meat and the same mead; that my laws shall protect you as they protect your neighbors and cousin tribes; and that our swords will be yours as well, as they are now." He pauses, then adds: "And dragons. We're going to give you dragons too.

"May Odin Allfather, God of Oaths listen," he prays, "may Freyr and Njörðr witness my words, let Frigga hold me faithful, may Saga keep this oath in memory, and may Thor, Almighty God hallow this vow!" He looks around, nods, and says: "Okay, let's eat."

Now Hiccup has found the doors to the keep are in relatively good repair. They're tall and unwieldy and gods help you if just one hinge plate comes loose because the charwoman will have to work late mopping up your miserable fluids and her children will curse you. They are good doors, for their age, and they have been sitting tight against the thresholds cooperatively all the time that Hiccup has spoken.

A bellow of a slam echoes through the chamber as the old wood bounces off the wall and timidly swings back against the sudden torrent of wind. Every conscious head in the room turns in surprise, Toothless bays, and Grump opens his eyes. The sunlight that had lit the room dims and sputters. Hiccup's cape lifts in the gust and flags, banners, and cobwebs flutter. Dead leaves and a few branches drift in, settling against Viking faces and boots like flotsam on the shore. A sharp, tilted rain stabs in through the open portal. Frightened screeches and yells float in on the wind; Hiccup can see captains and riders pulling dragons towards shaking tents and half-repaired stables. And then…

Then it's all over. Everything that a wind loves to play with falls back into place. The doors hang uncertainly, probably afraid of being shoved into the walls again (doors they may well be, but they're no fools). Dragons and Vikings look around perplexed and someone outside says "Oh, never mind."

Hiccup hurries down the steps and crosses the great hall, Toothless slithering beside him. They cut a black path through the gathered Vikings. As they pass everyone closes in behind them and surge towards the doorway.

They step through small, shallow puddles on the cobblestones outside, turn in small circles. Here and there are poles tipped over, tents partially collapsed, racks of spears and halberds turned into piles, and sacks spilled or fallen off of carts. But everywhere Viking hands are already reaching and grasping, correcting and pushing, holding and hammering, lifting and heaving. The Army of Sudri's Torch has lost nothing.

"Is anyone hurt?" Hiccup cries out, and Toothless gives a low but long shriek.

A nearby man picking up arrows and sliding them into quivers straightens himself and raises a hand. "I am."

Hiccup looks him up and down. "You are?"

"Yes; Hogteeth said hurtful things about that poem I wrote."

"For Bragi's sake, Dogguts," says a voice from behind Hiccup, "you asked me what I thought of it!"

"I wanted constructive criticism, not 'pretty good for wipin' an arse with!'" Dogguts shouts back.

Hiccup rubs his forehead. "Excluding your feelings, are you hurt?"

"Oh. Nope, fit and ready, High Lord!" Dogguts reports cheerfully.

"Great. Is everyone okay then?" He looks around. No crushed people, no wounded dragons, everything that's been broken or toppled is being made right again. He looks up: Sol smiles down; Hello, Hiccup! Good to see you! Isn't it a lovely day?

He places a hand on Toothless's neck and looks around again. Finally, he asks, "What the hel was that?"

A loud and insistent rapping fills the air, and Hiccup looks towards the doors, or rather beside them. Gothi sternly gathers the attention of the Vikings with her staff, her gaggle of Terrors dancing around her feet and head. Hiccup moves towards the elder, the oldest human he has ever met or knows of. Gobber and Valka push through the crowd, Cloudjumper's massive head floating with Valka's movements. They join Hiccup around Gothi as she glares about her, then down towards a pile of mud kicked up by countless feet. She raises her staff and begins to write.

Gothi has always unnerved Hiccup; there is some blood connection between them that he's never fully understood and Stoick never explained completely. He cannot remember his mother's first kisses and songs, but he can recall Gothi's shrewd gaze from corners and the touch of those horned fingers with disturbing clarity. She shook her head over Hiccup's…incidents and then faithfully soothed the outward hurts of each failure, always looking into his eyes. What disturbs Hiccup most of all is that Gothi is an odd one, and the gods love odd ones. The Aesir speak to them, protect them, and use them as levers for good or ill. Whenever Gothi looks at him, he wonders what the gods are saying about him. He already feels their eyes upon him, he thinks it's unfair that they gossip too.

And then there's Gothi's scratches; Hiccup has watched her scrawl long, verbose, and important advice or warnings in the dirt and sand for years and he still has no idea what she's saying. Gobber understands her, but Hiccup decided years before that that is because he's a bit touched himself. It worries him that one of the first long conversations Valka had after returning to Berk was with Gothi.

Now both Gobber and Valka watch the end of that stick with a competitive intensity. Gothi stabs down with expositional finality, and steps back for her audience to read.

Gobber leans forward, studies the scrawlings, and begins, "Gothi—"

"Gothi says that was no ordinary storm," Valka declares to Gobber's surprise. "It was Thor."

Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Thor? Thor. Thor! The favorite god of all Vikings (though Odin always publicly takes first place because he's Thor's dad and no one wanted to get on his bad side) has been here! How exciting!

How frightening; gods are like tax collectors: they only show up for two reasons—one of which is bad—and never simply just to say hello.

Gothi stirs the mud, erasing her words. The staff's tip moves again, leaves what kind people would call runes and odd squiggles behind. When she finishes this time, the patch is covered with writing.

Valka leans forward. "She says that—"

"Thor is pleased," Gobber shouts and Valka scowls. "He has seen what just happened. He sees that the Aesir's people are marching together now, and he's celebrating! He's struck his anvil with Mjolnir to show he is with us!"

Cheers, exclamations, nudging. Smiles where there was blankness, confusion, or frowns. Hiccup looks around and sees eyes sparkling. His lips begin to twitch.

Gothi erases her words, writes again quickly, jerkily, a light in her eyes he hasn't seen since the day he woke up from the long sleep to find a dragon in his house.

Valka shoves Gobber onto his buttocks and reads in a high voice: "The eyes of the Aesir are upon us. They expect us to honor them with victories, with the blood of our enemies, and to make the sea and skies our country!"

A sharp crack of thunder echoes from the south and Hiccup turns, startled. Yes, he can see some darkness beyond the peaks that surround Loch Triùir…it doesn't look like a dying storm. If anybody else heard it, he can't tell for all the cheering and hollering that greets Gothi's last words. Swords, axes, maces, various blunt instruments, spears, and a confused Terror held by someone who just wanted to be part of the fun are raised and shaken. A nearly visible cloud of halitosis forms from all the open, bellowing maws.

The gods are watching. If there's one thing Vikings love as much as brawling, it's brawling with an appreciative audience. The troops will polish their armor and weaponry a little more. The women will start putting cosmetics on in hopes that Heimdall will show up in one of his guises. Excited mutterings reach his ears and Hiccup offers a twitching smile that blends him in well enough. This army enjoys the idea; they've never had to live with the idea of spying deities before. Well, fine; this just means the Army of Sudri's Torch will fight harder, better. He has the army, the fleet and…

The weapons.

"Toothless," he calls sharply, and the dragon whips his head around from the nickering dragons who seemed to have joined in the brewing party, though they doubtless had no idea what was going on to make the humans so happy. Blackness flows through the crowd, Hiccup climbs into the saddle, and with a mighty flap and a few cries from bowled over Vikings they're up.

They make an arc over the walls of the castle and camps, over carts and wet, wondering Vikings. Out on Loch Triùir, heavy transports of the fleet sail in and out of the inlet to the sea, disgorging Vikings, dragons, carts, yaks, and wheeled siege engines onto docks and a cleared beach. Toothless circles over the gathering of ships, waiting for Hiccup to find what he wants.

The Disagreeable Cod is a long, fat ship with three sails and spikes and sharp edges built into its prow to ram other ships and occasionally divide cooked livestock. Heavy crossbows angle outwards from the deck, guarding a single, deeply set hole with metal lining and a disassembled crane lying in recently unsecured pieces beside it. Vikings are picking up equipment scattered by the recent wind, putting their heads together over large sheets of paper. Hiccup knows what they're looking at: he drew it himself.

The crew is Berkian, and when Toothless lands it produces nothing more than distracted greetings. The captain hands the diagrams over to another sailor before coming over.

"Hello, Hiccup," she says, "What brings you out here?"

"The cargo," he replies immediately, sliding off Toothless and giving him a grateful pat. He looks over at the sailors, who are beginning to pick up wood and metal. "Any questions about that?"

"No, no," the woman waves a three fingered hand. "We'll have everything up and ready by the time we reach the docks. As for the cargo, Humus checked it right after that squall, said everything looked okay."

Hiccup nods to Humus—Mulch's little brother who is thrice as tall as Mulch—who is lifting a beam into the socket in the middle of the deck. "All the same, I want to check myself."

"Suit yourself," the captain shrugs and leads him over to a grated hatch behind the second sail. She bends over and effortlessly lifts the hatch up, inviting Hiccup down into the holds with three fingers. Cloak flowing behind him, he makes his way down the steep stairs—more like a ladder with large steps.

He stops at the bottom to let his eyes adjust—and to sniff the air. Half of a Zippleback's main weapon smells something like how a mouth tastes and feels after vomiting. Distinct and unpleasant. If even just a little Zippleback gas had escaped, Hiccup is certain he would smell it. But there is nothing but damp wood and iron, human sweat, and baked clay. He stands there for a moment with his eyes closed, taking in the creaks and flapping canvas, the grunts and arguments of men above, the clink of swinging chains, and the quiet.

High King Hiccup opens his eyes and looks at five more or less round shapes, each about as large as a Gronckle's torso, each gently swaying in their own nets and swaddled in thick piles of fresh wool, carefully spaced away from each other by at least seven paces. He reaches for one, carefully laying a hand against the uneven clay.

You made the sky ours, my little Hiccup.

And it would stay theirs.

The gods are watching.

"Then let's give them a show," he tells the dead.