And run I did.

I intend to run away to a faraway place, away from Berk. Away from my only family and friends.

It doesn't matter how many are there, how few.

It still hurts all the same.

Fishlegs, Camicazi, Gobber, Dad. I may never get to see them again.

And, for now?

I'd prefer it to stay this way.

I can't shake the feeling off. Of just... feeling so ashamed. Of my body.

And... more so of myself.

I shouldn't have fallen off the ship, leading things to transpire the way they do now. I shouldn't have left Dad in a state of utter distress because of the way I am. I shouldn't have let Gobber down at the smithy for all of these years. I shouldn't have left Berk in a state of disarray, now that the heir is gone. I shouldn't have, I shouldn't have, I shouldn't have.

I have transformed, quite brusquely, into a Viking's worst enemy. I am not fond of it, but I'd have to tolerate it soon enough.

But. I ask you.

Please respond honestly.

How on earth are you supposed to like something, when you already abhor it so much?

I can't gage the idea. Can you?

I don't want them to see me this way.

No.

I want to spare them from their suffering, and mine.

Through the flesh of the undergrowth, through the forest's moss-covered residents, through its despondent grey hue.

I run.

As fast as I possibly can.

It is going to rain today. In more ways than one.

Tears trickle down my cheek.

I hold not a clue of how long I ran, but it looks to be a far away distance from where I started.

Slowing down my sprint, I heave a sigh of relief.

They can't get to me this fast.

Can they?

I try to suppress my overstated worries with understated logic.

-Of course not, you oaf-

All right, then.

Some burden lifts itself from my heart.

Now, considering that I've been running non-stop for the better part of thirty minutes, you'd think I'd be breathless and on my knees, pleading and entreating for air – in a state that is a bit worse for wear. But, in an unusual turn of events – one that is rather shocking, really.

I don't exactly feel... anything.

Not panting, nor wheezing.

I feel how I would normally feel, jotting down my notes. Granted, I can still sense that my heart is beating like a how a tongue-lolling dog would maniacally breathe, but, generally, I don't feel tired at all.

At least there is something I can take from this... a pro to add to the severely one-sided list: I don't suffer from fatigue easily. Now it's... three pros against tens of thousands of cons.

I'd say that is good progress.

No?

I wander around the density of the forest for a jiff, while, yes, acknowledging that is the dead of the night, and, yes, my eyes somehow had somehow found a way to make its own clairvoyance without a light source.

Should I make it four, then?

In a planned, calculated decision, the night reckons an atmosphere that is as desolate and despondent as possible would be a fantastic idea, for this particular day, for this particular hour. And, for all intents and purposes, I have to commemorate him: at least it keeps to the mood consistent. How eloquently dramatic.

I near a tree. Not just any tree, of course, the forest is an abundance.

It is the tiny yet cosy hollow sitting at the bottom of the tree that colours me intrigued.

It makes itself as modest as naturally possible. It is, by all accounts, even by a dragon's standards, average. It is just cavernous and lofty enough for a dragon to fit inside of it, but not enough to make one comfortable, like a public well. You know that there is probably going to be gods-know-what muck down there, but you know that its depths are a wealthy one and mostly safe.

So, you can't complain.

Gobber and co. are possibly fighting tooth and nail to save my skin, trudging through every terrain imaginable because of me, and what do I do? And, what do I do? I decide that this is a good time and place as any to catch up on some much-needed beauty sleep.

Am I trying to deliberately be the bane of Dad's existence?

Because it seems like it.

But, at the same time, I think I'm sparing him of the incredibly sensitive sum of information that his son has been turned to Berk's worst nightmare.

What he wants, I am not too sure. I think he wants closure on me.

Oh my, closure. The way that came out was really cold.

I burrow myself into the tree.

I mean, I guess it's cosy.

I sleep.

Or.

At least try to.

The wind is making an awful lot of ruckus. Toss, turn, toss, turn.

After ten straight minutes of tossing and turning, I'm left not being sure of what exactly there is to do. I know I need some rest, especially from today. I... just can't. Some outer supernatural force is interfering with my life and wellbeing, and it just won't let down!

...

Alright. Fine. I'll come clean. I can't sleep,

because I am scared.

Of what Berk might do to me if they get hold of my throat.

As to turn away from that burning pile of emotional mess, I decided that I needed a distraction.

My satchel probably has one. Wherever I am, whatever I am, that satchel is always near me, and never leaves my sight. I open it to the best of my ability.

Having giant claws is severely overrated.

And, what do I find in its little crevices?

My notebook.

Albeit soaked and drenched by the little ocean swim it had.

I try to take it.

...

Ugh.

My paws.

They can't really fit.

What is that age-old English expression again?

Ah, yes.

-It fits like a glove-

Or is it supposed to be the other way around?

The small tinkering and tid-bits of their language gets me all riled up.

So confusing.

I need more English reading material.

And it wouldn't be as if I'd be able to grab hold of it, anyway.

Its 'fingers' are annoyingly tiny as well. Even as Hiccup V1, my fingers could stretch two times further than this sorry display.

Deciding that reaching for my book using my current assets would be fruitless, I grab hold of the whole bag and flip it over.

A waterfall of knowledge and all things natural falls from its pit.

Seawater and sand have interwoven in between my books, and my notebook looks to be particularly hospitable on that end. Climatically, my charcoal stick falls last. It thumps softly on the ground.

I take the notebook. Thankfully, my laughably pathetic fingers could accommodate for its presence.

I open it.

NOTES

This is property of which belongs to Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third.

Any sign of discrepancy or abuse done to this book will hence by be reported to Chief Stoick.

This is to be given to FUTURE generations of Vikings when I pass.

A FOREWARNING

If read on its own, it would look like a convoluted collection of blabbering and rants. I may suggest that readers should seek guidance from a village blacksmith before consulting with the aforementioned contents.

CONTENTS

Interesting Things of Note from Countries Afar (WIP) - 1

The Bola Launcher - 8

The Seed Driller - 12

The Water Pump - 18

The 'Boomerang' - 23

Gods, I almost forgot just how cheesy the introduction is.

I carry on reading. Page after page, letting out a snort after almost every one, it is truly a wonder how a Viking like me would have been able to fit in with the tribe. Aside from blood, I may as well have been raised in a monastery or somewhere else of the sort.

I would delve in further, but alas, my body seems to have much more interesting things to attend to.

Like me getting some actual rest.

Need it to stay sane - and I am not exactly the sanest of people right now.

Letting out a yawn and feeling my eyes water, I adjust the back of my wings to get comfortable before my much-needed slumber.

I close my eyelids.

And, before I know it, the world left my consciousness.