A/n: Oh hey look, not updating five years after the previous chapter! Imagine that. ^^ Okay this chapter's super expository and not great pay off for the cliffhanger and stuff buuuut the end picks up a little so there's that.

Also let me just lay down that I know medieval warfare did not work like this, and I significantly simplified all that nonsense because I'm lazy. I mean, depending on the exact time period and how orderly the specific kingdoms involved were, the rules could have been a little looser... but generally speaking, even back then it could get kinda bureaucratic – more dependent upon meetings and discussions than what actually happened out in the field.

Two chapters left after this! My god I'm actually finishing this biatch. And in less than a year, what a twist...

-Blessed are the Pure in Heart-

Sir Lancelot du Lac had always wanted a strapping lad with a brawler's arm and a lord's certitude. Gilead the Rugged, he would call him, the rough and rowdy little boy to follow in Lancelot's steep steps.

But when Lady Elaine gave birth to a bastard child unto the land's mightiest knight, she gave him another boy she wanted was to be a fair, noble creature, so she called the child Gahalad the Pure.

Little Galahad wore neither nobility nor severity upon his meek brow, to the disappointment of both Mother and Father, and to the mocking scorn of his home village of Berk. Here was the child of the fiercest warrior this world knew, an unmatched legend of the Northern lands. Here was the child of the loveliest lady in the village, a sweet Christian woman who could charm a unicorn from his hiding.

Here was their clumsy, mumbling, skinny bastard who could do no right, and who answered to Hiccup – the Mistake.

War changes a man in ways one can never foretell. It reaches into the very crux of his soul, and pulls out what lies therein for all to see. Where there is darkness, it spreads, and gnaws at what light is left.

Where there is light, it shines all the fiercer against the dark.

It is only the purest hearts that can conquer the ever-inherent darkness of man. And Galahad, though so unlike the haughty nobleman he was meant to be, though so ironical in his speech and so lacking in outward grace, carried within the strongest and the fairest heart of all.

In a land so drenched in the blood of needless battles, of mismanaged illness, of unchecked crimes, it was so seldom that a man could see with the eyes of mercy, knowledge, and justice.

Galahad locked gazes with the beast he'd wounded with his own arrow, an innocent creature caught in the midst of man's bloody games. And like a lamp waiting to be lit, the boy began to flicker with newfound conviction. Always, the components were there, an untold courage and compassion buried beneath his gawkish surface. But until that moment, they were only threads in a flameless wick.

Now there was a monster called War to slay, and a battle-enslaved nation to free.

It began with the smallest steps. His Majesty's royal forces recovered from their blow on the gray battlefield, and the boy rejoined their ranks without complaint.

But he began to speak.

First, he found out the easiest ones, the soldier who would give anything to be home with his wife and child, the soldier who knew fear before valor, the soldier who wasn't a soldier. One by one, Galahad picked them out, and very quietly shrouded their escape in clever ploys.

Then it was the soldier who followed every order, the soldier who knew only what he was told, the soldier who knew no mind of his own. There some trickiness emerged, but no one thought twice of the danger in a scrawny lad's words – for mere words were all he needed to plant an idea. And once sewn, an idea can dismantle even the surest minds, let alone the weakest. These men too soon sought escape, back to the safety of their homes, or to protect them from pillagers striking in their absence. And Galahad's careful wit granted that passage.

The foot soldiers became so diminished in numbers, knights were dispatched to catch the deserters. But never were they found, for each knight sang and danced and slept rather than gave chase – their canteens were filled in the night with the strongest drink in the North.

Noblemen saw war as a jolly sport. Never would they listen to a lowly foot soldier, but there arrived a new lord on a black steed with a visored helmet, and to his words their ears were open. Now, the nobles were not the sort to desert like a coward, nor had they much call for fear, since the foot soldiers would carry the bloodiest brunt of the battle for them. But worry began to grow in their proud minds when the noble on the black steed spoke to them.

"How few the peasants are," he remarked with a funny strain in his young voice.

More would be found, was the sure reply.

"Of course, of course... but when? That is, would they not be here by now so near the eve of battle? Not to say that they are not coming, only... well, supposing they do not – which of course, they will – but what if they don't?"

The mysterious lord subtly challenged what was once a certainty, provoking first one, then three, then five and ten and then every horseman in the legion to ask – what if it is we who must bare the brunt of war, like the foot soldiers? What if we are the ones to face true battle – what if we are the ones to face death? This was a risky part of Hiccup's ploy, most gradual and delicate. But once set in motion, doubt runs ahead on its own across self-important hearts.

The King's army soon became a debacle, scarce of peasants and full of quaking noblemen.

Now, the foundation of this war rested not solely on the King, but his son, Mordred – Mordred the Dagger, he was called. For some said he would strike his own father from behind had he the chance. Even the most ferocious of knights found him cruel and duplicitous, and his invasion of the Germanic countries wasted resources and burned lands.

The Dagger's petty malice was legendary... known even unto their enemies.

Many a time, a white flag flew over the enemy forces. Always, it was ignored. But the enemies were strengthening, at last beginning to beat back the raiding armies. Mordred himself led the charges, that one defeat leaving him with a gaping scar over his face and a mad thirst for revenge.

But his father's army had grown suddenly so weak, eaten slowly away by a wily parasite. Upon the next battle, their forces stood still and wary across from the ready enemy. The formidable Dagger never partook in parlay with his puny opponents, but even he could see they were outnumbered this time, and his men wore terror on their sleeves.

He gave the order to attack despite his odds, sooner plunging them all into death than accepting surrender.

Only his men refused to budge.

The Dagger screamed at his subjects. "I am your prince!" said he. "You will obey your future king!"

"You would have every one of us die," said a voice amid the slide of jittery metal and the murmurs of reluctant warriors. "Wave the white flag!"

Murder flashed in the young sovereign's eyes. "How dare you – all of you! Surrender is the path of cowards!"

Many a voice then sounded, all in different words conveying one reply: "We will walk the path of life. Wave the flag."

But Mordred would not.

He again commanded an attack, this time charging himself into the field. The enemy responded in kind, torrenting towards the army. Mordred had begun the battle, forcing his men to defend themselves.

Or he might have, had a black stallion not barreled after the selfish prince, bearing the mysterious lord upon his back.

Fury bore down with lightning-fast gallops on the white steed, until the two men were sat directly at one another's sides. One leapt at the other, knocking him from his horse and dropping them both into the grass.

The foreigners and the King's forces knew not what to do. A man of Mordred's own army rebelling against him gave both sides pause. Those bearing the sign of the Red Dragon knew it was among the highest of treasons to attack their prince, yet they moved not to stop it, for their loyalty no longer lay with the madman of royal blood.

While the Stallion reared over the Dagger, the other man rose. With him was a flag of the King's emblem, but he tore the Red Dragon down from the pole, and strung quickly over it a white sheet tucked readily in his armor. He lifted the symbol of truce high, so that both armies may see. From either end of the field, there were cheers. This battle was over. For the first time in this senseless war, they might part in peace.

That was when the Dagger rolled out from under the threat of Fury's great hooves, and struck with his thick sword. It sank into flesh and cracked bone. The noble's blood-soaked shin buckled his knees, and he fell, his flag dropping with him.

Mordred was too late. The message of peace was made clear, and his army was made cowards. But this little lord would know the wrath of a vicious prince. He ripped off the helmet, stealing a good, hard look at the freckly boy who'd dared to stand against his rule.

"Here is the face," hissed the young sovereign, "of the one who kills you."

But there was a sharp cry, and the black stallion kicked at the prince, knocking him from the boy's side.

There were others, the few foot soldiers remaining, running up to the wounded youth. That was all Hiccup saw before his vision faded, and night fell over his mind.

When next he woke, no more than a raw stump composed his left leg, and an entire army had been made outlaws, noble or not. Among the names of wanted men, the topmost was his own – Galahad, the Treasoner.

Most escaped to foreign lands from the prince's vengeful reach. Hiccup stole away to the small town of Burgess, living simply in the Dagger's shadow while Mordred chased off in every other direction.

The war was nigh forgotten to the young warlord. All he now desired was to wring his grip round that boy's frail neck, and squeeze.

Sooner or later, he was bound to look even back to his own shadow in search of Hiccup. And when he at last found him, there would be no rest until the youth was strung up before the people, a wriggling fly strangled on a spider's web as warning to the other insects.

Never cross the Dagger.

The story fit all the gaps in the horseman's chronicle Jack had never known. Slowly bending the will of an entire army, battling the heir to the Red Dragon reign head-on, and losing a limb for the sake of peace – all with no more than wits and nerve... that was Hiccup. Through and through, it was the stable boy who cooed to ponies and shared his home with a stranger.

But now, the remaining pages in Hiccup's incredible life were about to be ripped out before they were even written.

"You say you know where he is?"

Astrid's solemn voice returned Jack to the little room of the Inn. The sky had turned from dusk to night, the only light springing feebly from a candle by the knight's bedside.

The young man glanced at his feathery companion upon his shoulder. "Yes," he repeated after her peep.

"Then take me there," commanded the woman, throwing her sheets off. But as she struggled to rise, Jack sighed and flipped the sheets back over her bandage-bound torso.

"You can barely stand, Astrid," he pointed out gently. "...I'll go."

She looked ready to fire a retort, but the knight swallowed her frustration, and allowed sense to slowly calm her frayed spirits. "Storm's faster than the other horses. Take her." Her sharp blue eyes flew up at him. "And you bring her back," Astrid demanded of the young man. "...Bring them both back."

He knew not how, yet he made the promise to try.

The moment Jack stepped back out into the cold, a familiar shriek filled the air. He turned, and a vast, shadowy shape plodded up to him.

"Fury..."

Reaching out to the very saddle Hiccup had been stripped from, Jack stared at the restless stallion, loss clear in those big shining eyes. The man leaned in towards its flaring snout. "We'll find him, Fury," he soothed. Then he took a breath, and hoisted himself up onto the great animal's back, Tiana and Aster clutching to him as he mounted.

Jack had never ridden on his own before. But there wasn't time to spare for his comfort, so the man just held tight to the beast's reigns and buried himself against the mane as the horse began to run without command, as though he had only paused to fetch his master's friend before carrying Jack back to him.

The summer sprite flitted to the horse's ears, and whispered in a tongue that crossed the understanding of all creatures. Under her guidance, Fury followed the long path to his young friend. The beast's vigor reignited with a low chant from the furry spring sprite, and he raced hard with all his suddenly freshened might.

It still took all the night to reach the path's end, where there rose a castle, tall with strewn out walls like a sea monster's many long limbs. The cracked stones told of centuries of wear, still standing strong against all enemies. There were shouts and lights in the high windows, and Jack heard songs as Fury brought him closer.

All the night, it seemed, Mordred had ordered celebrations. There were parchments about the town surrounding the palace. They read, upon first light tomorrow, the treasoner would be hanged. Dawn was already creeping in gold and pink threads over the horizon.

Guards were stationed at the only entrance. Keeping their distance from the armored sentinels, Jack and Fury searched for another way in, but it was only through the great front drawbridge that one could pass in or out. No guards watched the back of the castle, save one or two soldiers on a tower. And one man on a horse seemed not to warrant their attention.

Jack dismounted the stallion, approaching the old stone outer wall in sleepless desperation. He wondered if he could climb it, but found nowhere to latch his grip. Could he somehow fool the guards into letting down the drawbridge? But even if so, what then? How could he get in and bring Hiccup out?

Now that he was finally here at the doorstep of his beloved's prison, Jack hadn't the first clue what to do. The man just pressed at the wall fruitlessly, racking his frenzied thoughts for an idea.

Chestnut eyes spotted the sun's shallow beams reaching up into the clearing sky.

There was no time.

"Jack," urged Aster.

"The dawn," Tiana added needlessly.

The young man's head was shaking. He couldn't... there was nothing...

"...I can't," came the useless words up from a hollowing heart to his lips. His back against the stone, his own weight suddenly fell too heavily upon his limbs, and the man fell.

Jack was so tired, so overwrought that he hadn't even the strength to cry.

He wasn't clever like Hiccup. He wasn't a fighter like Astrid. In this form, he couldn't even scale the damned wall!

The man's eyes shot up suddenly.

In this form...

Jack stood. He turned his gaze to the descending moon, bright and full – Father Winter's ever-watchful eye.

"Father... hear me," the man whispered to the fading night, praying his words reached the god's ears. His eyes fell closed, teeth clenching.

He whispered again.

"...Change me back."

The hare stood up on its haunches, ears alert and eyes wide. Tiana gasped. "But Jack," her hushed tones squeaked. "The deal..."

"Change me back!"

He shouted it this time, slamming his side into the wall. It scraped his human skin until it bled. But he kept hitting the stone barricade, throwing his palms into it without heed for the prickling pain.

"Come on..." rasped the man between futile blows to castle wall. "Change – me..."

Again, he struck the rock – and under his touch, it trembled.

Frost sank into the crooks in the stone like teeth.

A last breath left him, and all the clumsy burdens of mortality lifted with it. Red-rimmed chestnut sharpened to a piercing ice blue, and snow white streaked through haphazard brown hair until all color was consumed.

Once more, Jack Frost was a winter sprite.

But within him, he now carried a human-touched heart. All that he never before understood now had meaning; he knew more than simple glee and play.

He knew loss, and he knew vengeance.

Within seconds, the morning sky grayed with dark, rolling clouds. Winds howled, billowing his old cloak and whipping the white locks around a stony face, pale as a skull.

The being staring up at the man-made edifice was not the smiling, dancing weather spirit it once was. This was an immortal child of gods, wielder of winds and commander of heavenly wrath.

And his celestial body was not frail like a human's.

The sprite's flattened grip against the wall closed. The stone snapped around his fingers.

There was a reason Father Winter made his children free of humanity's woes.

So that they would have no will to use their might for deliberate harm.

"Winter'll have our heads if we do this," Aster murmured.

The spring sprite stood beside the younger spirit, his mortal form too cast off.

"You needn't have a part in it," replied the winter sprite evenly, his focused gaze drawing thick flakes of snow from every cloud in the sky.

Aster scoffed. "Think you're hogging all the action for yourself?"

Ethereal blue tore away from the snow-filling gray, glancing over the smirking spring sprite. At Jack's other side, Tiana's bright wings beat rapidly. The little crown upon her royal brow shined without the sun's help.

She wore the same sure smile as Aster's when Jack looked on her as well. Jack's lips too perked a little.

And with a mere squint of Jack's eyes, the three immortals and the castle fell under the shroud of a sudden, screaming blizzard.

A/n: Aaaand immortal Jack is back! It was possibly overkill to make him this powerful lol. But I guess the point is, before his experiences as a human, he didn't have a mortal context for that power. As a sprite, Jack only wanted to play. Then curiosity drew him to Hiccup, and the boy's fascinating complexity made him want to try humanity on for size. And humanity taught him about the uglier side of existence. So now he's gonna choke a bitch.

Anywho. Yeah, thought it would be interesting to show a godlike being that could strike lethally, but he was so simple, it never even occurred to him to consciously do so before.

I hope the whole Galahad backstory didn't bore y'all too much, heheh. Again, I guess the Arthurian legend tie-in is unnecessary, but I just like the whole purity theme okay?

Thanks for reading, hope you guys enjoyed~