A Dragon's Gift

Chapter 11

It was, Adúlfr mused, as if the gods had gotten bored one day and, in a pique of ennui that only the immortals might get away with, decided to have a little game amongst themselves. Nothing fancy, you understand, not even anything truly malicious; merely an idle passtime, as it were. Adúlfr imagined that the rules of this small entertainment might have run something like this:

"Let's isolate a few hundred souls way out at sea, up in the highest latitudes. We'll toss in the elements – gotta have those! – and then we'll let these fine folk battle for survival against some unremitting, deadly foe. Dragons, did someone say? Excellent suggestion! Now we'll just let things simmer for a few centuries, and see what species of humanity emerges on the other side."

Yeah. There was a saga in there somewhere. Perhaps someday he'd write it down, before his eyesight faded and the advancing years claimed him for their own.

But in the melancholy of his mind's eye he saw that there could be no happy end to such an intervention. It was unreasonable to suppose that such extremes of circumstance would favour anything other than just one type of man: the kind with violence bred into his blood.

Except, of course, it hadn't.

Adúlfr Hofferson was that conundrum of a Norseman: he was not, by nature, violent. Sure, he'd killed enough of the scaled beasts in the loathsome days of old, but only to protect his family, his village and his friends. Deep down he hated every sword-strike, every hammer blow; and when Astrid started her ascendance to become the finest female warrior of her generation, her father was torn between outward pride and inner disgust at her accomplishments.

He was a trapper, so yes, his livelihood came from killing. But again, it was done from necessity, not desire. There was a reason Adúlfr set his traps at such far removes from Berk, and so far off the beaten track. For when he made a grateful prayer to Ull with every hare and beaver in a trap or snare, he was certain that his leaden sadness showed clearly in his face, and he didn't care to explain to others how he felt. But his knife was always kept the keenest of any there on Berk, the better to grant each victim a quick and clean dispatch.

Still, any man could be pushed too far.

He'd already lost his Astrid to the dragons. Just seen the houses of his neighbours reduced to charcoal and to ash. Lain wretched and awake most all night long, and when he stumbled sleep-robbed and clumsy out of bed into the dismal light of dawn, it was to find his younger daughter gone as well.

Stoick joined him on his frantic search that morning, but Finna was nowhere to be found. Even so, they almost left the barn unchecked, so unlikely a prospect did it seem. And so it was that, when Adúlfr and his chief did negotiate the cliff's sharp edge to glance inside the ruin, it was more in desperation than in hope.

There was a mass of russet dragon in the barn, altogether too close for comfort, all fangs and legs, wings and stocky torso. The great beast filled their view. The Nightmare was purring, head just off the ground and swaying slowly side to side, the eyes half-lidded and unseeing. And up there on the neck, pretty as you please, perched Adúlfr's darling younger daughter, her face a mask of rapt contentment her father couldn't remember ever seeing before.

Adúlfr's blade flashed into his hand without a conscious thought.

"FINNA!"

And then everything happened far too fast.

The Nightmare was instantly awake, eyes snapping open with pupils cold and narrow. The dragon's body tensed into that hard-edged battle-stance of awful memory, wings jerking up and out to strike sudden puffs of lime from the walls to left and right. Back in the half-light of the barn's far end, small ghostly shadows scritched and scrambled up onto the spines.

A guttural roar rose up to fill the father's ears. He caught his daughter's eyes, appalled to find them lit with just the same ferocity and outrage as filled the dragon's own. His child flung her body low upon the scaly neck, clinging tight with arms and legs encircling round.

A reddish hindleg flashed out in the gloom. The claws tore through an old hay bale lying tumbled there, then whipped forwards. The gusting wind snatched up the talons' load, and the world burst apart in a blinding, dusty cloud of chaff and yellowed straws.

Finna and her dragon shrieked as one, and exploded from the barn in a blur of ochre fury.


It was only fragments, afterwards, that Astrid could recall.

Her side ablaze with pain, the water's icy sting …

a dragon's wing beneath her own, lifting and supporting …

staggering and stumbling forwards, collapsing, trying once again …

dark of heather heath, stark stone sentinels tall against a moonlit sky …

her mind awash with turquoise haze, dashed through with shards of brightest crimson, there and gone just like a dream on waking.


"Adúlfr!"

Hard fingers bit into his shoulders, cutting through the numb as he knelt there on the turf.

"Adúlfr, listen to me!"

It was his chief, he dimly knew. He ought to pay attention. But none of that seemed to matter any more.

His daughters, lost to dragons. Both of them.

The clifftop was right there, so very close, but he felt no vertigo. Indeed, the void seemed almost to beckon to him now. Who should question his choice?

But then his chief's arms slipped beneath his own. Adúlfr let himself be hauled back to his feet, to follow all unseeing in the big man's steps, trudging in shock and utter fatigue back the way they'd come.


::How dare you! Let go of me!::

::Oh, I don't think so, Pragaras. Not just yet.::

::Perversions! Obscenities! And you bring them here, to taint this Council!::

Viggen cursed her feeble human eyes that, in this thin and pallid moonlight, permitted her to see by greyscale only. Vaguely she was aware that she stood within a great stone ring, perhaps fifty faðmur across. Three-score slabs, each roughly hewn and standing Nadder-tall, defined its perimeter. A dozen dragons stood within, all staring at a Nightmare male writhing in the peaty turf at the circle's very centre. He squirmed there in the gloom, as if to back away. But a pair of grim-faced Gronckles blocked his path to either side; the nearer frowned and squinted, and immediately the Nightmare shrieked, his body wracked with spasms.

Melisma lowered, a mass of shadow, just over the Nightmare's head.

::The disgrace is yours and yours alone, Pragaras. Your arrogance and cowardice is a shame upon us all.::

The mind-pinned Nightmare managed a snarl, though the effort seemed to cost him dear. ::I p-protect all dragons – the means are mine alone to choose! Your fondness for the t-thinskins fogs your judgement, Melisma! Your actions will bring our world to ruin!::

A Zippleback leapt in fast. The twin heads loomed and hissed, and in the face of that the Nightmare cringed and shrunk back on himself, quite small upon the turf.

::No,:: Melisma cried out. ::By all means let him speak. We will grant him the voice he sought to deny to my companions.::

Pragaras slowly raised his head, blinked, and swept a wide-eyed gaze around them all. ::You all heard her!:: And then to the Fury, spitting out the words: ::So it's companions is it now, Melisma? Tell us, when did the notion of this wretched betrayal first occur to you? While puffing on the thinskins' weed, perhaps?::

He snorted then, and sneered.

::In its foolishness this Council granted you great leeway, Melisma. Permitted you to watch over Berk and its human friends to dragons, even stayed its claws as those two –:: He tossed his head at Hiccup and Toothless. ::– joined as one. And now your complacence brings us this!::

Viggen gasped as the Nightmare fixed her with a narrowed gaze. Never before had she felt more isolated than in this moment. If only her Astrid was awake right now!

But Pragaras' eyes widened then.

::Oh, but wait now…::

His eyes gleamed, and a shimmer of pale flame raced briefly down his back.

::I wonder. Is there more to it than just weakness and incompetence, Melisma? Getting on a bit now, aren't you, for a Counternamed? How many seasons do you have left, Fury? Makes me think... oh yes, of course!::

Again he turned to look around the greater company.

::A fine legacy it would be, no doubt, for a dying Fury – if she could bring it off! Dragons living free from Shadow, mingling with the thinkskins once again! Such songs that would be sung in her remembrance!::

Melisma's eyes went wide as well, all sensors up, but her wings drooped at the shoulders. Pragaras continued on, relentless:

::It is futile, surely you all must see that? But she doesn't care. She acts only from prideful folly, even as she fades, for she knows she won't live long enough to see the dragons fall!::

::THAT'S ENOUGH!::

There was complete silence in the circle as Hiccup stormed up to the prostrate Nightmare.

::I've heard enough poison from you right now! You don't even know us, yet still you attack us, you insult us – just like the folk of Berk behaved to dragons while the Queen still held her sway!::

Viggen gasped at the audacity. But hadn't Melisma said his name was weighty, now, among the Council? Viggen earnestly hoped the Fury had been right.

::The thinskin…it…it speaks…::

It was Pragaras again, his voice now small and shocked.

::That's right, Pragaras. I speak, as dragons do.:: Hiccup glared at him, then glanced all round the circle. ::It was a gift to me, a great gift from the dearest friend that ever I shall know, here in Midgard or in any other worlds to come.:: The great wedged head of Toothless nudged firmly under his arm, and at that the young man's face broke briefly into a grin, taking the edge off his intense and serious demeanour. The Fury's body thrummed hard to his purr. ::And if you'll only listen to me now oof!:: Toothless had flicked his head, landing his rider squarely in the saddle with a thump. ::I would tell you such a story, a tale of one fool boy who chanced to down a dragon; of how that dragon forgave him, and then saved him, and gave to him the skies.::

Hiccup's words were humbler now, calming, almost serene. But then Toothless' wings and fins snapped out, and suddenly in Viggen's mind it wasn't ::Hiccup:: and it wasn't ::Toothless:: anymore. Nor was it some maimed human and a flightless Fury. It was ::Dragon-with-Rider::, one fused entity of unlimited potential, and in that moment Viggen knew that nothing in the world could stand against them.

The Vigilants, it seemed, could sense it too.

::...never have I seen...::

::...how... how is it even possible...::

::...the tail? Really? With his foot?::

Pragaras spoke up one more time, but his voice was high and edgy now:

::Dragons, do not be mislead! It is nothing but a trick!::

But a jet-black Nadder stepped up then, slammed one great foot down right by the Nightmare's neck. ::Mica, Vigilant to the Southern Oceans, has flown long airs and hard to attend this Council.:: Her voice was cold and steely-clear, a fall of snow on ancient ice. ::And she, for one, would hear this human speak.::

Viggen's heart thumped, altogether too loud, as it seemed to her, there amid the silent dragons. But ::Dragon-with-Rider:: was still there, strong and swelling, rippling like a living thing to claim all that stood within the stones.

At last, uncertainly, and rather quiet–

::Very well...::

::Yes, I will hear him...::

::Agreed...::

Viggen lets go of a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding, just as Melisma nodded curtly to the Gronckles.

::Graben, Tephra, would you be kind enough to escort our friend elsewhere? I do not think we can trust him to remain civil.::

A gruff grunt. ::Our pleasure.:: And then, to the wretched, writhing form between them: ::What will it be, Pragaras? You play nice, you get to walk. If not, we drag you out unconscious.::

The Nightmare staggered up, still glowering, and spat a splash of liquid fire into the turf. ::Walk.::


Alfdís had been very quiet at the news of Finna's departure, and in no mood at all to be consoled by male company. She'd only mumbled something quietly, as if to herself, as she drew on her long winter cloak. Something about going over to her sister's for the evening, she would be there a while...

To a house where, Adúlfr knew, his wife could lose herself in family, to a home where the walls still rang bright with children's cries.

The trapper and his chief, meanwhile, trudged out through silent woods that seemed to bear the dying light with a sombre, heavy grudge.

The scrunch of a second pair of boots fell strangely on Adúlfr's ears: apart from occasional forays with one or other of his daughters, he'd always paced these trails alone. Yet when Stoick had offered him some company to check the traps, Adúlfr had accepted instinctively and without hesitation. Here, this evening, he didn't trust himself alone.

Adúlfr's thoughts spiralled back those eight short weeks, back to when he'd stood on that awful shore amid the ash-swirls and the burning boats. With all the rest he'd watched, struck numb, as Hiccup and a Fury flew to render their salvation. With all the rest he'd heard Chief Stoick's low words of contrition and remorse that heralded Berk's new dawn.

It had seemed altogether too good to be true, back then in the aftermath of the tyrant Queen's demise. Such a sudden and complete reversal, the prospects of the village flipped end on end as the dragons calmly came to live in Berk as if they'd never left. At the time, none of the villagers thought to question their good fortune. But now it seemed it might only have been the trick of some malevolent deity, perhaps finding a moment's pleasure in granting the folk of Berk a glimpse of heaven, only to snatch it cruelly from them once again.

Quite why the Hoffersons had been singled out for double punishment remained a mystery. They'd always been loyal to the village, hard-working, respected. He even dared to think that he and Alfdís had been tolerably good parents; certainly their children had seemed contented, Astrid especially so of late...

Those happy days were still so close at hand. It was far too easy to imagine that at any moment he might still hear his daughter's cries mingling with the musical cackle of her Nadder friend. They liked to dance up there, just above the tree-tops, joyous in their flight...

Adúlfr and Stoick skirted a muddy glade, the gap within the wood still fresh and raw with cold, churned earth. Jagged stumps of larch rose stark and white like so many broken, angry teeth. Adúlfr knew well what had happened to those trees: they'd gone to build an improvised extension to the Hofferson home, an open-sided lean-to, Viggen's residence on those nights that the dragon chose to spend close to her rider rather than with others of her kind. A Nadder was just too large to be accommodated comfortably inside a human house, and besides, Viggen had shown a lingering nervousness of enclosed spaces.

The shattered teeth, almost shining in the gloom, mocked Adúlfr now. The trapper lengthened his stride, the sooner to leave the glade behind; following on behind, Stoick matched his pace without a word. Soon enough they were back amid the close-spaced trunks once more.

What of the future, now?

Truly, Adúlfr didn't know. For the time being, just placing one foot in front of the other seemed accomplishment enough. It was difficult to martial any thoughts at all of days to come, for the road ahead was hidden by a shifting shroud of memories that quickened like a mist to fill his mind.

The birch and larch began to thin, and presently Vragi's Shield began to loom up out of them, the great granite bluff, roseate and gleaming, that served as a natural waypoint for every forest navigator. The first snare was set just up ahead. Good; any task, any small distraction, would be welcome to him now. He strode quicker still, closer to the rough, sheer face –

"We knew that you would come."


It was agreed: they would wait till morning to hear Hiccup tell his story.

There was no option, really. The physical exertion of the long flight, paired with the trauma of the past two hours, made for a potent mix. Melisma and her party, dragon and human alike, were exhausted.

And standing there in the moonlight, in that strange setting and surrounded by unknown dragons, there was nothing more that Viggen wanted than to nestle close up to her mate and sleep until the glow. But there was a serious impediment to that ambition.

An impediment that took the form of another Nadder, braced up close to Astrid's side.

Viggen was unable to pick up any scent, nor under moonlight could she detect any coloration of the scales. But from the muscularity of the torso and the thicker, longer horn atop the muzzle she knew this dragon for a male.

The once-dragon stood quite still upon her spindly human legs, staring and uncertain and very much alone. Viggen felt a foreign, most un-Nadder-like stab deep down inside her chest. Her mate, curled up with another!

But Melisma, standing close by, only laughed.

::Go on, Viggen. Berylline will not harm you.::

Viggen looked again, and saw that the placement of the male's body was not accidental. Lounging on his left side he held his right wing half extended, its crook supporting Astrid's own and folding it gently to her body as she lay against him. Astrid herself was still unconscious, prone and unmoving save for her rise and fall of her shallow breaths.

Pragaras' blow had been to Astrid's right-hand side.

Viggen edged a little closer. The male opened his eyes, flashes of pallid yellow in the gloom. He smiled at her, and then his sinnljós hit her, and after that there wasn't a single thing that seemed to matter anymore.

Berylline was dichroic.

Amongst her kind there'd long been fables told about these Nadders, but Viggen had never dared to believe any of them might actually be true. She'd certainly never thought she'd live to meet such a dragon in the flesh.

The flaming crimson hit her first, a wall of intense saturation that reminded her of nothing other than flying into the blaze of an autumn sunset. It sang bright and deep of untamed energies, of passions and emotions only barely held in check. It was as far from her sister's gentle, subtle ruby as could possibly be imagined.

But then the flames began to burn away, as if consumed by their own violent heat. What rose up to replace them was a bubbling creamy white, pure and frothy as driven sea-foam, or perhaps some puffing summer cumulus where a dragon could lose herself in dreams.

::Viggen?::

Viggen realised that she was still staring.

::Please? There is space, I think, for you.::

The syllables came to her lilting, with a liquid, rolling timbre. She couldn't place them. Yet there was a lifetime of experience in those strange tones, all calm confidence born of long perspective; and there was respect.

Viggen decided that this was one Vigilant she wouldn't mind spending time with. And so, still without a word spoken, she made her decision there and then.

Moments later she was sinking at last towards a blessed slumber, arms and hands splayed wide against her mate's warm flank, and trusting to the protection of an unknown dragon whose wing folded gently over her. She let herself be carried off upon an endless tide of white and crimson all woven through with Astrid's muted, glittering threads, too tired to seek the destination of the flow.

The night was merciful to her, for she did not dream.


Adúlfr stopped so abruptly that Stoick almost barrelled into him. The voice had come from way up at the summit of the crag, fully five faðmur over the tops of the tallest trees.

Finna's voice.

Adúlfr gazed up at the high rock face. Eighty feet above them, perched on the edge and staring calmly down, perched the Nightmare that had entranced his daughter.

A dragon, speaking with his daughter's voice?

No; there was Finna now, standing close beside the dragon, hands leaning on the long neck to peer more securely over the edge.

"It's all right, father. Please, come on up. You too, chief." And then, as if as an afterthought: "Best leave your knives."

Adúlfr hesitated, glancing helplessly at his companion. Stoick's expression was unmoving and quite beyond interpretation. But after a few moments the chief gave a small nod, calmly drew the hunting knife from his belt, and lay it on the moss at his feet. Adúlfr stared down at the blade, disbelieving, then back up at Stoick; his chief's face now carried a grim scowl.

"For Odin's sake, Adúlfr, put yourself in her place. What she asks – is it so surprising?"

"Chief...?"

"Tsk! Come on, Adúlfr. Think man, think. If that dragon meant harm to Finna, would she still be alive right now?" His words came in a low and muttered undertone, falling on the trapper with a leaden weight. "I grant you, she is a little young. But like it or not she's chosen that dragon, and it her. Don't you want to see your daughter again?"

Put like that, Adúlfr saw he really had no choice at all. Moments later there were two long knives glinting on the forest floor.

The southern face of Vragi's Shield was sheer. But the northern side was scalable, a rough and stony scramble up through clinging blackthorn scrub. The men edged round and started their ascent, hands scrabbling for grip. The father's heart pounded hard, but not from any physical exertion.

The short summit ledge came into view, and Adúlfr saw that Finna had resumed her place up on the Nightmare's neck. The hatchlings still clung on close among their mother's spines. His daughter's choice of rendezvous made sense now: at the first hint of trouble the five of them could launch to freedom from the precipice itself.

Adúlfr dared to look again upon his younger child. She'd always been of dainty frame, same height as Astrid's five-feet-and-change but none of the wiry, muscled build. Finna might, he thought, never be grown enough to wield an adult's shield or spear. Yet here, this eve, she sat astride a Nightmare's russet neck as if she had been born there.

"Father, chief, this is Ember." Finna's words came calm and clear; her palm smoothed across the scales, and the dragon craned its head back to her, crooning low. "You scared her – you scared us – back at the barn. That's all."

The forest, already hushed, seemed to quieten further still. Everything faded: the trees, the roughness of the granite underfoot, the itchy scratches up his forearms from the blackthorn spines. Stoick might have been speaking to him, some advice, perhaps some warning, but Adúlfr didn't hear him. All existence shrank away, leaving nothing but the father, the daughter, and the dragon.

Adúlfr wanted nothing more than to dash up to his daughter, to hug her close and never to let go. But he'd already fouled things up once today by acting on gut feeling, so now he forced himself to hold his ground.

"Finna... daughter... I thought I'd lost you. After Astrid – "

"Lost me?" The girl seemed genuinely puzzled, frightened, even hurt. "Of course you haven't lost me, Dad. Whatever made you think that?"

"When... when I saw you up there before, the way you looked at me on that... that –"

The Nightmare peered at him closer, eyes narrowing just very slightly.

"Ember, Dad. Her name is Ember."

"Ah, alright, alright, on Ember... well..."

I looked into your eyes, and thought that a demon had stolen your soul for its own. I drew my blade in anger, thinking that my family was gone for good.

"Oh Hel, I jumped to conclusions! I didn't know what to think! I'm, I'm sorry, Finna!"

Finna smiled, swinging herself easily from the neck of her companion to stand close by the great horned head.

"That's fair. I guess we must've looked pretty scary – "

Adúlfr startled back with a yelp as the Nightmare nudged his daughter hard, but Finna only laughed.

"Wait you, wait!" And then, to her father: "What I meant to say was... we're sorry, too. For what we did. We're sorry that we scared you. Ember, here... she was just protecting her babies."

As if on cue one of the hatchlings sidled up its mother's back, almost to the neck itself. Finna took a step back, holding out her hands; the youngster crawled into her arms without hesitation, scrambling up quickly to her shoulders.

"She needs somewhere safe to raise them. She thought that place was Berk. Was she wrong?"

"Finna..."

"I don't think she was wrong." She paused then, glancing aside. "Do you know how we found you tonight?"

He had no words, could only shake his head in silence. And so, after a moment, Finna continued.

"You take some good straight wire, no kinks. You measure from your fingertip to elbow, and that's the length to cut. And then you take the pliers and make a little eye, just so. Push the free end through, then take more wire, and form a stop..."

Adúlfr dry-swallowed.

"How to make a stopped snare. First lesson that you taught me, father, first one I remember anyhow. None of the other trappers would bother to make stopped snares, but you did. More humane that way, you said.

"And you always check your snares each day, no matter what. Twice or three times, when you can. You always hate to see things suffer."

Adúlfr let out a ragged breath as the Nightmare shifted slightly, raising a wing. A little pile of bodies was revealed. Two, no three mountain hares, if he wasn't mistaken, and a half-grown wild boar too.

"We checked your snares this time. The boar...well, Ember caught that. It's for you."

Finna reached for one of the hares. With her other hand she drew her own small blade. It might have been scarcely bigger than a penknife, but it was every bit as sharp as her father's, and soon the hare was roughly butchered into smallish lumps. The girl wiped the blade carefully on a tuft of wood-rush growing there, resheathed it, then tucked it back inside her smock.

Finna slowly stepped up to her father, a dragon on her shoulder and chunks of raw flesh on her palm. The mother dragon's neck rose, eyes fixed on her offspring and the man, but otherwise made no movement at all.

"Please, father. They are so hungry now."

For the first time in his life Adúlfr looked upon a dragon hatchling. The scales were cinnabar, and not yet fully hardened; they shone perfect and pristine even in the gathering gloom, for they lacked the scars the marred so many of the adults. The claws were short, just barely formed. No fangs. The little dragon flicked its wings, keeping balance, and Adúlfr was struck by how thin the membranes seemed, how delicate the ribs. How ever would they bear this little jewelled creature in its flight?

Benumbed, hardly knowing what it was he did, Adúlfr took a single bloody lump from the mass held by his daughter. He offered it up, his fingers trembling. A puff of warm air gusted on his knuckles, and all the hairs upon his arm rose up on end.

The hatchling's snout held quiet and still, before splitting wide to grasp its meal in gentle jaws.


A intoxicating and very human aroma came to her, and for a moment Viggen thought she'd awoken back in Berk, there in the shelter Astrid had built for her, close by her own dear rider's dwelling.

Her mouth watered; the zesty tang of fresh, warm sourdough could not be mistaken. But there was a sharp disconnect between that wonderful scent and her present surroundings. She was still exactly where she was when she'd fallen asleep, still tucked in close by Astrid's side, still sheltered by a Nadder's wing.

::Well, good morning! Awake at last, I see!::

The wing lifted slowly away, and the low dawn rays of the winter sun fell full upon her face. She blinked and squinted, cursing: she'd missed the glow again.

::Thought you might be hungry.:: A kindly yellow eye glanced down to her from a face framed all around with garnet scales. ::Your friend Hiccup was starving, that's for sure.::

A pair of sun-bright Terrors danced in on fluttering wings, chittering and squawking to each other and to her. Each clutched a bulging linen bundle in its claws. The little dragons hovered for a moment before her, fanning her face, then deposited their cargos neatly at her feet.

Bannocks and flatbreads. A little earthen pot of blaeberry preserve. Some good-sized strips of cured ham, some beef jerky. A waterskin, too.

She knew what these things were, had seen how humans ate and drank. Now this was her food, too. But its provision in this place, and now?

"Don't... don't understand..."

::Snaelit and Sokket here are naughty. Ain'tcha, boys?::

They cackled at him joyously, flew two tight turns around his head, and dashed off out of sight.

"They brought all this, for me? I never thanked them!"

::You'll see them later on, I'm sure. And frankly, they'll have enjoyed, erm, procuring this little lot for you.:: He leaned down then to sniff the feast. ::Mmm, that jam smells good. Hiccup got blackberry.::

Viggen's stomach rumbled. She tore a bite-sized chunk from a bannock and stuffed it in her mouth. Then she stuck two fingers deep into the jam, and reached up towards the dragon.

::Ooh, thanks. Don't get to taste this very often.:: Berylline's tongue flicked out to lick her fingers, then his lips. ::Little dragons can Shadow just as well as big ones, you know, Viggen. And for sneaky work Terrors really are the best. They can be a bit unpredictable sometimes, that's the only thing. Like, those two once collected every left sock from every village here in Orknoyar.:: He gave a trilling laugh. ::Took 'em weeks. The thinskins thought it was gnomes and trolls.::

There was no wind, and the midwinter sky this morning was cloudless and translucent. The sun picked up a little strength as it climbed, striking faint pillars of mist from each of the stones as the dew burnt off. A hint of that same warmth edged into Viggen's skin, and started to chase away the worst of her stress and worry. For after all, she thought, she and her mate were still alive, and she had food, and she was in the company of another of her kind who was, apparently, in a mood to talk.

Viggen's new day suddenly seemed redolent with possibility. But first things first.

Still chewing a mouthful of flatbread and jam – so good! – she scrambled up, intending to check the injuries of her mate. Berylline obliged her, wincing as he relieved the support he'd evidently provided all night long.

"Oh, your wing!"

::It is just a little cramped. Hiccup said he could make something for Astrid to do the same job. He's clever, that one, with his hands.::

The scar ran from Astrid's shoulder very nearly to her hip, blood clotting in ugly scabs where the bright blue scales had ripped away. It was a mess, and it would scar, but Viggen saw nothing to suggest that any deeper damage had been done.

::I'm sorry, Viggen. There's more than just the scar.::

She glanced up at him, aghast.

::Astrid sprained her wing-root when she fell. Wrenched the muscles pretty hard. She was lucky, actually; it could so easily have been a break. Still, she'll be here for a good few days, before she's strong enough to fly again.::

Fresh tension sparked inside here. Her mate, trapped here on an island with more humans than they'd ever seen before? Humans whose attitude towards dragons was, for all she knew, dubious at best?

Berylline picked up on her mood at once.

::Oh, don't you worry! We'll be quite safe here. Don't even need to Shadow.::

He raised a wing to gesture at the stones.

::The circle was created when thinskins and dragons still dwelt as one. They raised these stones together in celebration of their friendship, to be the grandest of all their meeting-places.:: He sighed, and dropped his wing back down. ::But now the humans of Orknoyar shun this place; to them, it is haunted and accursed. Worse than gnomes and trolls, they say, live here.:: And then, brightening: ::Oh, but look! Hiccup's going to speak.::

Viggen followed his gaze, over to the circle's opposite edge. Sure enough, the Vigilants were starting to move closer to the young man and the Furies, the dark dragons flanking him close. Berylline would strain to hear him from here.

"Um... I can ask them to move closer, if you like..."

But her companion only closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Do you not wish to hear Hiccup speak?"

::Mmm no, not right now. There will be time enough to talk with Hiccup later.::

He must have caught the surprise in her eyes.

::Oh, there is no doubt the others will accept Hiccup and his dragon now. You and Astrid too, I think. Indeed, there's little need for Hiccup to speak at all, though I suppose it will satisfy everyone's curiosity.::

He grunted and shifted slightly, perhaps relaxing a different muscle.

::We're not all like Pragaras, as you've seen. For the rest of us... well, we saw pretty much all we needed to, the instant Hiccup sat upon that Fury's back. No, Viggen...::

He took a deep breath as he regarded her, flexing the spines along his tail.

::...this morning, I would prefer only the company of another Nadder. I have been separated for so long, you see, from others of my kind.::

Viggen couldn't imagine what he meant; after all, Astrid was still very much unconscious. But Berylline smiled gently to her then.

::You, Viggen. It is with you that I would speak.::

Viggen's heart surged. He knew, he understood, and she didn't need to explain!

::As it happens, I was about to show Astrid the skies of my own posting. It'll keep her mind active, help her recover faster. But I'm afraid she won't be very good company, at least not for a little while. Would you join us, Viggen?::

"Yes! Yes! I have so many questions!"

::As do I, Viggen. As do I.::


Sometimes the marriage between risk and necessity is so tight that even the sharpest blade won't fit between them.

Stoick had made sure to arrive at the Hofferson barn good and early the next morning. Sure enough, Adúlfr and his wife were still abed, the hunter's snores carrying clearly from their house beyond. How did Alfdís manage to sleep through it, night after night? It was a puzzle Stoick would never figure out.

Still, he could chuckle somewhat now, grateful to his friend for providing all the reassurance he needed at this point.

"Good man, Adúlfr. Good man."

He was a good man. Just as kindly and forgiving as his good wife, who had, with minimal persuasion, chosen to focus on her joy at Finna's safe return, and not the fact that her younger daughter was bedding down in a barn with three young Nightmares and their dam, just like any other of that kin.

Stoick's knuckles rose to tap, just lightly, upon the heavy doors.

"Finna? Ember?"

A grumbling rumble came back in response, carrying with it the edge of wariness and warning, and Stoick wondered if he'd made the wrong choice after all. But a moment later, Finna's slurred and sleepy voice was faintly heard as well.

"Who – who's there?"

"It's Stoick." He nudged the doors apart a crack, just wide enough to whisper through. "Only me. Please, Finna, may I come in? I'd really like to talk."

Silence. His innards churned. But, then, reluctantly:

"Come on in..."

He dared to breath again, began to edge inside. "Thank you, Fin –"

"No blades!"

Stoick froze. Thank the gods he'd remembered.

"No weapons, Finna. None at all."

Another moment's hesitation. His heart thumped.

"Well, alright then..."

There was barely any light inside the barn. Finna's voice seemed to be coming from somewhere over near furthest corner.

"We will leave, chief. If we have to. We don't want to, but..."

But they could. Of course they could. The dragon would protect her, hunt for them both, take them anywhere they desired. At thirteen, Finna had no need of Berk any more. Not with a dragon by her side.

But – for now at least – she chose to stay.

Stoick could just make out the form of an old milking-stool propped slantways on the flags. It would have to do. He dragged it to him, wincing at the scrape of wooden legs on stone, and carefully sat down.

"No-one wants you to go, Finna. Not you, or Ember, or any of her babies. You're all of you quite safe here." He gave a heavy sigh. "I wish there was something I could do to help you believe that."

No reply. He shifted his weight on the stool. It really was too small for him; the wooden edges bit into his rear.

"How's this barn for you, anyway? Sleep well?" He forced a smile into his voice, but he knew the strain will carry too. Completely defenceless and practically blind, he'd willingly entered the lair of a Nightmare female and her brood. Was he insane? "Bit less drafty than your last, I think."

"The barn's fine, chief." There was still an edge of suspicion to her voice. He couldn't blame her for that. "Where's Mum? And Dad? Why are you here alone?"

"Well..."

Where had this new Finna come from, all thirteen and assertive?

Oh, right.

Dragon.

Stoick cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone very dry. "Ahem... well, like I said, I'd like for us to talk. Just us, for now. This is very important, Finna."

Silence, but for a subtle sssssh of scales on stone. The dragon was paying full attention, too.

The dragon. It was as good a place to start as any. The best he could come up with, anyway.

"It was a brave thing Ember did, back there on the Shield. Trusting your father with one of her babies like that. Never would have thought of it myself, but it did the trick. It won your father round."

He took a deep breath, as ready as he'd ever be for the plunge.

"It was clever, too. And I wondered, afterwards – which one of you was it thought it up? Was it Finna Hofferson's idea, or her dragon's?"

That earned a gasp from the girl, and suddenly Stoick could make out the Nightmare's eyes, wide discs of red-gold staring at him full-on.

He couldn't stop now, though the words threatened to cling there in his throat.

"Hiccup spoke with me, Finna, the night that all the dragons left. We didn't talk for long. But he said, he said..."

C'mon man, you've come this far!

"He said that dragons are a people, just like us. Just as smart. And...and that they speak."

The red-gold stared him down, unblinking.

"Finna, I need to know. For the good of Berk, dragons and vikings both, I have to know. Have we really been so wrong about them, down through all these years?"


Author's Notes:

For a moment there, I thought Finna was going to morph into Daenerys Targaryen. Whoops.

The Vigilant's meeting-place is the Ring o' Brodgar, centrepiece of the Heart of Neolithic Orkney World Heritage Site. It's an amazing place. The stone circle is thought to have been built about 4,000 - 4,500 years ago; it therefore predates the split between humans and dragons that Melisma mentions in Chapter 10.

I'm trying for some consistency in dragon names:

Gronckle names are derived from volcanic and igneous geology. It makes sense for a species that chews rocks and spits them out as larva, and Gronckles do look vaguely rock-like anyway. Besides, geological words just sound... really cool. To me, anyway.

Nadders are named after minerals and gemstones, in line with the colour of their mind-light (sinnljós). Berylline is unusual in that his alternates between red and white, so his name is based on the mineral 'beryl', some types of which are dichroic; that is, they can appear as different colours, depending on the angle of viewing. (Viggen and Astrid don't follow this convention, as they were named by humans, not dragons.)

Nightmares have names based on different kinds of fire, hinting at aspects of their personalities. Thus, Pragaras means 'inferno' in Lithuanian, reflecting his fiery temper. Before Finna re-named her, Ember was Långsam Kol, 'slow coal' in Swedish, suggesting her mild and tolerant nature.

Terrors have traditional dialect names for the fleece colours of Shetland sheep! www . clrc . ca / 30shetlandcolours . pdf

A big 'thank-you' to all my readers for sticking with 'Gift'. The rest is plotted out, and subsequent chapters should come faster now.