For several deliriously wonderful moments that stretched out nice and long everything was all right. Stoick thought of nothing but the axe in his hand and the dragon in front of him. The weight of the weapon was familiar, comfortable, and perfect. He knew how to use, he knew how to use any weapon, and he knew how to use his fists. He did not fear dragons. They were monsters, but dumb beasts that could be faced and had been faced for centuries. He had been born to go against them. And for those moments there was nothing but that glorious purpose and the attacking Nightmare. Everything as it should be. No thought of Hiccup, no thought of the village, no thought of even himself. He was the weapon and the Nightmare was the natural enemy. He brought down the axe, chopping right through the lovely red scales of the dragon's front leg. A sure cut, a clean cut, blood already pouring out of the wound. What a nice sight. The Nightmare screeched and clawed at Stoick with its good claw. Stoick jumped out of the way as he swung the axe again. Another battle begun. No capturing the beast tonight, no small injuries. This night he would be killing the thing.

And with that reality snapped back. He remembered the jumbled mess of reasons he was here, all connecting back to Hiccup and what had happened to Hiccup because of one stupid dragon. And all that had happened because of dragons altogether. All dragons. Every single vicious evil one. None of them deserved to live. And so the sheer rushing pleasure was over and replaced by another, stronger need: the need for revenge. Blood revenge. This Nightmare would be the first. One of the worst of the common village attackers. Bringing it down would be most satisfying.

But that second swing missed, and the sound of it whipping through the air was deafening. The dragon's maw shot toward Stoick, releasing fire that barely missed grazing Stoick's face. But the heat was wonderful after the cold of the house. The light of the flames lingered in the air and for another moment Stoick's attention turned without warning to observe the Zippleback with surprising calmness. The Zippleback did not seem to considering fighting, but it was awake and its head looked on in bloodthirsty fascination. Then Stoick's gaze was back on the Nightmare, its huge jaws opening to reveal the rows of glistening teeth. With one fist Stoick punched against the nearest fang. It crunched against his knuckles and he didn't know if he had broken his hand or the tooth. Perhaps both, for the tooth slid from its socket as the dragon screamed in annoyance.

A tooth. So Stoick had taken out a mere tooth. Pathetic. He could do better and he knew it. His next fist went right into the snout while he with his other arm struck the side of the axe against the jaw. The head whipped around in shock and he seized the opportunity to strike again with the axe, this time into the neck. The scales there were thick. He wasn't severing the head or anything, but he did make a cut. Nothing serious as far as he could tell, but more blood. He just had to get deeper. Deeper and deeper until the thing was dead. He wanted the thing dead. It deserved to be dead as the rest of its kind did. He struck again, aiming at the same spot, the bloody mess near the massive shoulders.

But the head whipped around again with a fresh round of flame that Stoick could not avoid. He closed his eyes against the blast but still the heat meant nothing. He wasn't burning, he was fine. One would expect fire when fighting a dragon, it's how it worked. He didn't fear dragon fire, no Viking did. And his axe had met its mark, blade sinking deep into the neck.

The Nightmare hollered in pain.

Stoick just laughed.

That was interrupted by the throaty click behind him. Ah, the Zippleback, interested in a brawl as well. Stoick turned. He felt the mad grin on his face and did not comprehend it. But it felt good. He hadn't felt this good in a long time. Dragon killing, Berk's ancient art. Sparks lit the maw of one head as green gas billowed from the other. Nice sparks, such a great feature of the Zippleback. Well, those heads could come off as well. He prepared his axe as the Zippleback sent out its fire.

One fire, lighting the air, revealing the shadows of the trees of a place Stoick had forgotten had existed in the midst of all this. And during that fire a long neck swung out, struck the axe blade, and knocked it with impressive force into the darkness.

His palm seemed to burn where the axe had been. But he didn't care. He had to be mad, he had to be crazy, but he didn't care. He laughed again. All right, dragons didn't wield weapons, why should he? He could allow for fairness once in a while. Fairness wasn't going to change anything, so why not allow it? It wasn't going to fix the past, it wasn't going to bring Hiccup back, it wasn't going to change what he planned to do to these dragons. He'd kill them either way and if they demanded freedom from a piece of iron so be it. Let them have a say in their own deaths. He didn't care one way or the other. Dragons held no honor, so he would be happy to teach them some. In fact, there was liberty without the axe. No longer did he have a specific way he had to kill them. It was strength against strength and legends had not cropped up about him for nothing. And unlike them he did not care about the result for himself. They were here to protect themselves. He was not.

So as the next neck came his way he grabbed onto it and squeezed with all the strength he had. Crushing strength. But the neck snapped away suddenly and Stoick crashed to the ground.

He couldn't get up. He knelt where he was, sure he wasn't hurt, not that he knew of. But he couldn't get up. In that single moment fatigue had taken over him and zapped him of all energy. In a single moment. He gasped for breath and fortitude, but there was none. The rage still rushed through him but was unable to do anything but boil in his veins. Logically he understood it. Days and nights of no sleeping, no eating, no drinking. And the effect would happen now. Just as well.

He glared up at the Zippleback, daring it to do its worst. The Nightmare raged not far away, still focused on the injury to its neck. With any luck and blessing of the gods it would die. Die slowly. He looked back to the Zippleback, clicking again for another shot.

But there was no fire. Just the swipe of a claw against his head, and he lost consciousness.