I'm reminded by one reviewer, DaMonkMan, that I overlooked the fourth anniversary of this trilogy as a whole back in April. I can't believe it's been that long, that this saga has been this long or taken us all as far as it has. Several of you who have reviewed or messaged me have said that this saga should become a movie, or be picked up somehow by the producers at DreamWorks of the HTTYD film series or franchise. But spanning so many words and pages, so many experiences, thoughts and years, even lives and lifetimes . . . how could this tale really be told other than how it is, here? It is an online, serialized saga, taking full advantage of this medium. These stories are sharing themselves the way they want, freely, through words and imagination in ways that even hours of movies or TV episodes could not.

So I invite you to rejoin Lance and his family, along with the Drekar and her crew, as they continue their travels far from home, in search for a second one . . .

Norwesterner


Day 9

Ships seem a lot less exciting when they're tied to a dock. As I step onto the pier with Roana to take her on a date into town this sunny morning, the sleek Drekar just seems chained somehow, even in bondage. The light grey ship looked a lot better when I first saw her at sea the day I joined her, running, even slowly cruising off New Berk, free as she was meant to be.

Substance, Rökkr and Spring have all seen us off from inside the large tent still draped across the aft landing platform. They knew I felt guilty about leaving them behind cooped up in the ship, but, "We belong in that town as much as fish does in air," Spring sagely noted, before turning away to attend to ship's business with Tyrah at his side. This was a work day for the two of them as they headed back inside through the hangar, stepping around a volleyball net being set up on the covered landing platform for a friendly series of games between the crews of the Hawaii and the Drekar.

A number of the sub's crew had already shown up in shorts and t-shirts, complete with a volleyball, as they conduct further translated conversations with several of our KJK riders and dragons before a first game. My last sight as I turned to step outside the tent was of Árvekni and his US Navy rider, whose name I still haven't learned, talking with a uniformed, dark-haired male lieutenant from the Hawaii, as a blonde female rider in her own KJK t-shirt and shorts translates among them.

The sight is almost enough to make me want to just order the tent removed, the Drekar shifted to a public dock nearby along the downtown waterfront, opened for public tours, and a press conference called. Once the dragons were introduced, and after the inevitable jaw-dropping . . . people, at least the more open-minded among us, could accept them as fellow sentients, even equals. Only a morning later, the Hawaii's crew are already proving that. But my inner sociologist starts reciting a litany of dangers such a sudden and unorchestrated introduction could engender. If even a think tank assembled within the Barony still can't agree on the next steps beyond selectively introducing dragons among further cleared members of the international military and intelligence communities after the several years they have been meeting, who am I to argue?

As we head off the pier towards a blue Audi sedan that is waiting for us, Roana and I have each been given what they call 'smart phones' while we're ashore so we can be contacted if anything comes up, or call for help if we somehow become lost in Halifax, as dragons won't exactly be able to come to our rescue in town. But smart as my mate and I are, neither one of us feels comfortable using these things. Mine is on, but tucked away in the vest pocket of my blue windbreaker. I leave my chief's strap and crest behind this time, carrying my photo badge and Canadian and Norwegian passports for ID, having not had a valid driver's license for some time now.

My cousin, Gunnar, and his wife, Jana, greet us at the sedan they've rented to explore the Maritime provinces with, happy to run Roana and I to the downtown waterfront on their way out of town.

"Always hitching rides," Gunnar quips however as my mate and I settle into the car's back seat.

"Well, no one has let me drive these things in thirty-one years now," I reply as he sits down in front at the wheel.

"I wasn't being allowed to either, once I was promoted to generalmajor in the Air Force, even before my transfer to the Navy," he notes. "But once I was finally permitted to retire, I could drive again as much as I liked. Maybe that's something you should consider."

"Don't tempt him," Roana half seriously interjects beside me as the car starts moving.

— — — — —

Before long, the sedan is parked in a garage downtown and the four of us are at an outdoor table of a café on the Halifax waterfront, sharing a brunch together before Gunnar and Jana take off.

"Historic Lunenberg is our first objective," my cousin notes over his fish and chips at the busy eatery. Roana and I each find bacon cheeseburgers to be far more of an enjoyable rarity where we come from, along with the first authentic Canadian fries and gravy I've had in a long time.

"A cod fishing and whaling port?" I wonder though, knowing of Lunenberg from history and geography lessons I once had in high school back in Manitoba. "Haven't you seen enough of those back in Norway?"

"This one apparently has an historic sailing ship," he replies. "Something Norway didn't get around to preserving many of."

"The Bluenose Two is a replica," I almost grump, finishing another bite of my burger, citing something I learned as a Canadian schoolboy, "although built in Nineteen Sixty-Three, she's old enough now to be historic in her own right."

"Lunenberg seems a charming small seaport," my cousin notes. "But you don't look or sound very happy."

"Well," I quietly note, "without being able to say much here in public, I'd just like to know what comes next . . . what can come next. I'll be ordering us on to British Columbia with absolutely nothing in place unless I can meet with the prime minister while we're here in Halifax. There isn't even a road map for us anymore since Tanner basically shot or shut us down."

Roana puts her left arm around me while trying to eat her messy burger with her left hand. I quietly obsessed about this with her last night in our bedding, saying yet again that life on the island used to be a lot simpler until I came along. Now at brunch, Roana just finishes her bite and wipes her mouth before just steadily looking at me, her eyes squinting in the bright but breezy sunshine.

Having endured—well, loved me—for thirty-one years now, she knows not to counter or argue with my stronger doubts or insecurities. She has just come to calmly look at me with an arm around me or even a full embrace at such times, until I stop and look at her.

I can never, ever help but crack a smile and slow down when she does that.

"That's my Lance," she finally praises while I warmly put an arm around her as well. "One step in blind faith at a time. But not now, okay? We're on shore leave here, even from problems and pressures—ones I am sharing with you every step and day."

"Almost makes me want to get a room," I quietly reply.

"I wouldn't mind," Roana smiles as she proceeds to dip a fork into the fries and gravy on my plate, spearing a couple of them.

"Just let others carry some of the load," my older cousin advises across the table, smiling himself as he and his wife draw closer as well, "give things a chance to open up, and take care of a partner who obviously knows how to take care of you. It's what I intend to do," he finishes, looking at his spouse.

Roana and I warmly part from them after our early lunch as we then shop in the tourist district, eventually paying to take a ferry ride across the harbour we had just sailed up in far greater style the day before.

As I stand at a railing of the open upper deck on the small ferry while we make our return crossing back towards downtown, holding Roana from behind, we see the Drekar and Hawaii moored in the distance across the harbour. For some reason though, I just can't shake this almost dragon-like sense of misgiving I have inside, despite all the scenery and activity around me.

— — — — —

Days 9.75 and 10

Roana and I wind up getting a hotel room in downtown Halifax, one right on the waterfront with great views, for two nights. We phone to inform the Drekar's duty officer of our plans. Fortunately they had pre-programmed the ship's shore phone number on something called 'speed dial'. I press the buttons they showed me on my phone's touch screen, and amazingly the call goes through. My laptop is then locked away in the hotel safe, and we're both tempted to throw our smart phones in there while we're at it, but decide to keep them. As we take a swank elevator up to our room, I pledge to focus on Roana and Roana alone for at least the duration of our stay.

I then proceed to do so though, even gallantly carrying my mate and wife into our room and making love with her in the kind of plush white bedding neither of us have seen in some time. However, she starts worrying and obsessing as I hold her.

"You've infected me," she finally sighs after practically reciting my own litany of worries right back to me.

"How about I do a whole lot worse to you?" I finally offer with a smile.

"I'll take it," she welcomes with a growing smile of her own as she gently wraps her bare arms about my shoulders.

— — — — —

Day 11

Having enjoyed what basically became a second honeymoon—well, our first really, as I can't remember us having one back on the island when we originally mated—Roana and I return to the Drekar at CFB Halifax by taxi this evening, more united than ever and ready to go forth into whatever awaits us.

Thank goodness the Barony provided us both with signature level credit cards however, as neither of us has even a bank account back on the island. They came in handy for not only the hotel, but also when Roana took us shopping today, noting that no one else was wearing village clothing on board the Drekar, and that both of us needed warmer, and slightly more stylish wardrobes for our arctic trip. So we're coming back with bags of slacks, shirts, sweaters, socks, shoes and parkas—just one or two for each of us though.

It's everything I was originally dreaming of when I settled on New Berk decades ago. But I've just grown so used to village clothing!

— — — — —

Days 12 through 16

Roana and I, as well as Spring, Tyrah and the rest of the Drekar's crew, are finding ourselves remaining in port longer than planned.

First we've been delayed by DuFont's assurances that he could schedule a visit and talks on board our ship with the prime minister. But it is campaign season in Canada, and the closest the PM has gotten so far is Levis, Quebec. Apparently he and his party are confident of victory in Nova Scotia and the rest of the Maritime provinces. But DuFont is in the national capital, Ottawa, still trying.

Then there's the problem of the Drekar's computer systems. A whole team of cleared I.T. folks from Gerhard Technologies are aboard, doing who knows what on the bridge, down in Engineering, and elsewhere throughout the ship. At least Spring has been kept busy saying practically every command and word he can think of in English, Old Norse, Bokmål and even Dragon as the techs try to get the computers to understand what he's saying and act on it. Fortunately, they have finally enabled the polarization function on the bridge windows, so Spring can be on the bridge in broad daylight in port and no one will see him, even from the pier only metres away.

"Let's just disable computer control," Spring sighs today on Day 16 though as Roana and I look in on the goings-on inside the bridge. While hardly any crew are present besides Spring and Tyrah, a number of techs are working around them as everything seems to be on in testing mode. I can even feel the subtle hum of the ship's diesel engines far below.

"I have all you to do things at command," my dragon son continues. "Captain does not need to push buttons or levers by self."

"We have installed an updated version of the voice recognition software," a tech assures from a console in the alcove just off the bridge. "You could try it in the demo mode we've set up, or we could go through a process to disengage everything and set things up for manual control. Your choice, sir."

"Go ahead, try it," Tyrah encourages him, stepping away from her console at the front of the bridge.

"Nothing will happen?" Spring double-checks, glancing back towards the tech in the alcove.

"The screen is still showing test mode," the tech assures, looking at it.

"Alright," Spring sighs, looking down as he pauses to pick a command at random. "Computer, engines. All ahead Two," he then directs, referring to the numbered settings on each of the bridge engine throttle casings.

"Engines, all ahead Two," a female computer voice dutifully confirms in clear English. However, we now hear the diesels suddenly come to life as the ship starts surging forward.

"COMPUTER, STOP ENGINES!" Tyrah now calls as she rushes back to her panel.

"Voice authorization not recognized," the computer voice calmly replies.

"I don't have control!" Tyrah says, rapidly pressing a series of buttons on her panel while looking at a couple of her video monitors.

"Computer, all stop!" Spring now orders as well as he looks out the forward windows.

"Multiple voice commands," the computer voice now replies. "Input error One Three Three Zero."

The ship is now straining against her lines, her bow turning inwards towards the pier as we move forward a couple of metres. A degree of alarm ensues among a few dock workers on the pier, especially in front of us as a few of them are pointing down and waving us off, seemingly in an attempt to get our attention.

Tyrah picks up a phone at her console. "Motorrum!" she desperately says in the Bokmål of Outside Berkers. "Slå av motorene! Nødsituasjon manuell overstyring!"

Thankfully, the diesels below us now subside as the ship slowly drifts back to her original position against the pier.

"That it!" Spring sharply barks, almost marching over to the tech still working at his console in the alcove. "Default all systems to manual control! Add panels in here if necessary. Computers for data and assist only. No voice control! Understood?"

"Y-Yes, sir," the North American tech stammers. A tongue-lashing is always frightening—one given by a large, angry black dragon, even more so.

As things settle down, a sober-faced second officer comes onto the bridge.

"They are demanding to see the captain," he says, "down on the pier. Two dockworkers were on a float, between the ship and the pier, performing routine maintenance on the pilings and piping underneath. One was saved by a couple others of his team who pulled him clear just as the ship was moving. But the other has been crushed . . . by us."

A shocked and terribly quiet atmosphere now settles on the bridge as both ambulances and base security cars show up outside at the foot of the pier.

"I go," Spring decides, turning.

"You can't," Tyrah replies, reaching a hand to stop him.

"My command, my responsibility," he says, looking down. "Bring them inside tent aft."

"And my ship in port," she quietly counters. "Plus my urging you to do it. So it's my responsibility, especially if there are hearings ashore. You know you cannot appear in those, or give testimony."

"Tyrah . . ." Spring says, now giving her a genuine look of worry.

"I know," she accepts with a quiet resolve, almost as if she can read his mind. "But I go." She then turns to the panel once more, hitting a button as she picks up the phone, but then stops as she just closes her eyes.

"It done," Spring confirms, closing his eyes as well. "All dragons moving to Mission Space and hidden quarters. Ship's relevant spaces can be searched by Outsiders."

"Glad I didn't have to announce that with everyone around," Tyrah sighs, placing the phone back into its cradle, "even in Norse." She then turns, bending down a little in front of Spring, taking his large head into both her hands. "It will be alright," she assures him.

Spring just sadly shakes his head though, looking at her once more.

"I'll go with Tyrah," I decide, looking at the two of them, "as head of state. Roana, call in Hope. I think she's still in Ottawa. Call Gunnar back, too. And get on a secure channel to inform the baroness and the Defence Ministry in Oslo as well. I think we may be here a while now."

Roana just silently nods her head.

— — — — —

As I then accompany her, Tyrah pauses at the quarters she shares with Spring, donning a silver necklace around her neck with a metallic badge, or 'dog tag' as American soldiers call it, bearing her military I.D. She then briefly pinches the somewhat thick tag before letting it fall against her neck within her khaki uniform shirt, giving me a nervous glance as she takes a deep breath.

I just nod.

Then, the minute she steps off the gangway onto Canadian soil, several security officers surround her. Probably as Spring sensed they would, they escort Tyrah off to detain her. "Just for questioning," they assure.

Base security know they can't touch me however, because of my diplomatic immunity as a head of state. "I'll go with her," I nonetheless offer to the officers.

"You can visit her, later," one officer says as he stops me. Tyrah looks remarkably calm, even focused though as the others lead her away.

I then compliantly return aboard the ship. Soon, Roana is meeting me in the bridge deck corridor. "Our dragons are hiding on the veranda," she tells me, "in case the authorities decide to search the captain's quarters. Spring is devastated though."

"I know," I assure my own mate as Roana and I take one another into a worried embrace. "But we'd better get down to the Alternate Comm Space amid the Forward Dragon Quarters."

One unique part of the training all our Berk officers and enlisted undergo is protecting the dragons from the Outside no matter what, developing the skill to think of and provide dragon-free explanations quickly in the event of any incident which might result in questioning by Outside authorities. Even as midshipmen, our Berk warriors are drilled over and over under at times harsh questioning, until providing convincing and mostly truthful explanations for anything that might happen becomes second nature among us. Even Roana and I underwent the training some years ago.

Tyrah knows she has the lead in developing our cover story however—a story the rest of us will have the responsibility of confirming. Soon Roana, myself, a couple Gerhard technicians who were on the bridge, and the ship's Communications Officer are down in a classified space amid the equally classified Forward Dragon Quarters, listening in on Tyrah's initial questioning via the micro transmitter hidden in her metal I.D. tag, which she should have no problem keeping on her person under military custom.

Roana and I are both looking at nothing in particular as we carefully listen to the accurate but dragon-free details Tyrah is providing Coast Guard and Naval investigators, as we even make notes on paper at times.

"They are wanting to see the rest of you as well," the Second Officer eventually interrupts at the doorway to our darkened space though, knowing where we are.

"Ready?" I sigh to my mate.

Roana just nods once more.

— — — — —

Days 17 through 22

We find ourselves caught amid a whirlwind of diplomatic, as well as naval, coast guard and even police activity.

All of us humans, even me, have been questioned several times by investigators, and the Drekar has been splashed across both the Canadian and international news media in ways that are giving the Barony fits. If they could fire me as chief, the baronial bureaucracy at least probably would.

You find out who your friends are in such situations though. The baroness, old as she is in her early nineties now, personally clamped down on her bureaucracy, ordering them to give us full support in Halifax—the best lawyers, money, anything we need. The king, equally as elderly, gave a rare public statement announcing his full support for us as well, even sending me a brief but powerful private message by secure email . . .

Do not quit now.

Tyrah remains in detention ashore, in officers' quarters, but under guard and detention nonetheless, as Hope informs us that Canadian authorities are considering at least involuntary manslaughter charges.

"Gunnar and I are continuing negotiations," she tries to reassure us however.

Spring has seemingly been confined right along with Tyrah though, restricted to the veranda as investigators searched their quarters, as well as Roana's and mine, in a dragnet sweep trying to find anything that could be relevant to their inquiry. Outside Guardians from the Barony have fortunately gone ahead of them, ensuring that no trace of anything dragon could be found in the areas the coast guard and naval authorities searched, even changing our bedding and asking the dragons to sleep up in the veranda or in other hidden quarters below.

While the lower spaces have dragon toilets and washstands, even I wind up pitching in with the scooping up of dragon manure and hosing down the veranda up top that some of the dragons are confined in. We humans can come and go, but they're stuck inside those spaces twenty-four/seven right now, although they do rotate themselves up and down the interior ramps between the veranda and the Mission and Forward berthing spaces down below at night for the following day.

There have been more than a few firm exchanges, even brief shouting at times, as Oleg and the other Outside Guardians steadfastly do their jobs—restricting, deflecting and dissuading outside authorities from accessing any areas the dragons are hiding in, using every justification there could be.

Spring has fallen into a deep depression however, even trying to resign his naval commission more than once. I just firmly but lovingly decline on behalf of both myself and the king each time.

Wanting to remain clear of our problems, we lose our sub escort on the eighteenth day when the Pentagon in Washington recalls the Hawaii to Norfolk as soon as authorities in Halifax clear them to depart. While our NATO liaison officer had already left the Drekar according to schedule upon our arrival days ago, both NATO Supreme Commander Collins and Vice Admiral Tanner have agreed to leave Tanner's former aide with us, especially as we will be passing through American waters as we round Alaska en route to British Columbia. Saunderson and our new friends on the Hawaii haven't wanted to leave us amid our crisis, but they have no choice. Trying to lift our spirits however, Saunderson shows us the practice torpedo one more time, having it briefly hoisted out of their torpedo loading hatch just before they cast off.

"We are keeping this torpedo!" he calls from the casing or deck of his sub towards us, knowing Spring is up behind the veranda's grills. Sure enough, the practice torpedo now bears the painted crest of our dragon KJK unit on its side, complete with moniker and motto. "I've given standing orders that it always be kept and maintained on this ship as an exchange memento, and when she's decommissioned, this torpedo will be exchanged back to you!

"Stay strong!" are his final words to us a short time later from the conning tower as his sub is assisted away from their pier face by tugs. "And keep in touch!"

"We will!" I assure with a waive from the pier as Roana and I watch our new friends go.

Losing the Hawaii, Spring has wanted us to just return home to New Berk, using everything from, "World not safe," to, "Ship not reliable," and more as his excuses over an otherwise quiet dinner later in our quarters.

Roana tells me he is not alone. "Some of the other dragons want to return to the isolation of the past as well," she quietly shares in our bedding a few nights later at the end of the twenty-first day as our dragons, including Spring, sleep around us up on the veranda, the nighttime weather being warm. "They say things like, 'Outside can't be trusted.' But others maintain we have to press onward, and support you."

"All over a man whose funeral we couldn't attend," I note sadly.

"It was held off-base," she sighs as she rests her head against my bare shoulder once more, "and we couldn't leave. Even you couldn't leave the base until the first rounds of questioning were completed, and by then, it was too late. At least Hope represented us as our ambassador—Gunnar, too."

"The king said I shouldn't quit," I remark as I take Roana more tightly into my arms. "But I don't know anymore."

"You can't quit," she gently affirms to me. "None of us can. Something will break loose, and then we will go on. As you've said, we don't have a choice. Bottle us all up back on just New Berk? That's not happening. Okay?"

Sandwiched between Roana and Spring, I just try to relax for sleep against a thin pillow, lying on an even thinner camp mattress spread upon the veranda's enclosed steel deck within a military issue sleeping bag I share with my mate. This is feeling just like what I've read in the Journal about Hiccup and the search he ordered for a new home for our tribe. Only unlike he had, I was leading this search myself.

Fully half of me is wishing I had followed his example, staying behind and directing this from afar on New Berk while dealing with the normal busyness of my life there. But the rest of me knows things would likely be really falling apart by now, with the Drekar even heading back for Norway, if I wasn't here on board.

Just calling a press conference, and showing the modern world that dragons exist is feeling sooo tempting though.

— — — — —

Day 23

A breakthrough has occurred, this very next morning. But it is a bittersweet one.

"Tyrah is to remain here at C.F.B. Halifax until a Coast Guard inquiry and hearings into the incident are completed," Hope reports to Roana, Rökkr, Substance, Spring and myself in person over breakfast back inside our quarters as preparations are being made to depart at last. "But the Drekar is free to go on your intended transit of the Northwest Passage, subject to putting in at another Canadian port if requested, until the proceedings are concluded.

"All charges have been dropped though," she assures. "The Coast Guard and Armed Forces Canada now simply want to compile an official and conclusive report as to what occurred. Gerhard Technologies is voluntarily providing them with data and voice logs as part of the deal. They're just dubbing Tyrah's voice in place of Spring's for the crucial commands, and making sure all other comments are scrubbed clean of Spring or any dragon references, while ensuring the time indexes synchronize. Their lead tech tells me it's the most complex task they've ever done, but Kaiju Bob has been helpful, even doubling back to Langley after enjoying only a weekend on New Berk, and making C.I.A. and N.S.A. resources available to us.

"Gerhard Technologies has also pre-emptively assumed full liability for the incident to deflect attention away from the Drekar and the Barony," she continues. "They've settled with the victim's relatives as he was single, and no lawsuits will be pressed."

It's a relief to be sure, but hardly any of us are really feeling better.

Then there is another knock at the door.

"Come," I invite, dressed in my now usual Outsider shirt and slacks for the day while Spring is still absorbing the news.

"I'll take my leave now, sirs," Oleg says, opening the door and stepping partly through it.

"You outrank me, Brigader," Spring reminds him though without breaking his almost constant downcast gaze at the floor or deck of our quarters.

"You were 'Young Master' to me once," Oleg warmly reminds my dragon son. "But you will always be 'Sir' as far as I am concerned. There is still much to be done ashore though. But the pilot is now aboard and on the bridge, and waiting for you, Captain."

"Me?" Spring wonders, finally looking up at him.

"We have fully vetted and cleared him," Oleg reports with satisfaction. "He is former Canadian Navy, already possessing a top secret clearance. He says he's looking forward to working with you, sir, having heard about us through another channel. He even contacted us, offering his services."

"Thank you, Oleg," I express on behalf of both Spring and myself, " . . . for everything."

"It's what we do," he accepts modestly, the strain showing somewhat in his face. "Even I wouldn't want you doing this alone."

I rise to my feet to shake his hand, even taking him into a grateful embrace.

"Smooth sailing, sirs," he says to both Spring and myself. "Go," he then smiles, "find us someplace new to protect and shield. My grandson will need a job before long."

I smile as well as he then leaves, shutting the door once more.

I sense though that Spring has not moved, which is confirmed as I turn to face him. My smile fades.

"You are fulfilling your obligations and vows to our family, our tribe and nation, and especially to this ship and your crew," I quietly say to my dragon son as I turn to take his epaulettes and strap from his locker. "You are captain of this vessel, and we will complete our intended mission."

He just numbly looks down once more.

"But," I continue, kneeling down before him, "I will be with you, every step of the way, until Tyrah is beside you again. I know what a hole it would tear in me, what hole I would even be deep inside of, if I had to leave Roana behind. You think I've been father to you before? Well, that will pale in comparison to the journey you and I will take together now, until Tyrah returns."

Spring just gives me a wordless nudge as tears fall from his eyes, while I proceed to tack him up in his simple naval uniform, extending and securing the broad, black strap with its gold-striped epaulettes across his shoulders as Tyrah had been doing for years.

"Just nudge me as you need to," I invite him as we exit our quarters while Roana, Rökkr and Substance follow behind us, given this first chance to be on the bridge for a departure from port.

"Captain and Chief on the bridge," a crewman announces in English for the benefit of our one guest as Spring and I enter the space. This time all crew are at their posts . . . except Tyrah. The Second Officer, Kapteinløytnant Ivar Jansen, is at the front panel, while next to Ivar, the pilot seems to be waiting for a reply on the radio, holding a radiotelephone handset to his ear as he looks out the large window in front of him.

"Drekar, Halifax Traffic," the bridge radio speakers crackle. "You are cleared for departure. Other than the ferries, no other expected incoming or crossing ships at this time, over."

"Thank you, Traffic," the pilot replies into the handset. "We should be departing momentarily. Drekar out."

"Halifax Traffic clear," a final reply comes as the pilot replaces the handset into its cradle at the right edge of the front panel, and both he and Ivar turn towards Spring and I.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain," the aging pilot greets with a mild Maritime Canadian accent and an extended hand, "and Chief," he adds with a nod towards me.

I gladly shake his hand but Spring just quietly nods this time in response before assuming his station at the right side of the front panel, next to the pilot and looking out the large window in front of him.

"We've had a difficult few days here," I excuse to our guest. But that is no excuse not to be polite, I mentally remind my dragon son as I glance towards him beside us.

"Of course," the pilot accepts, turning to face forward as well.

"Ready for departure, sir," Ivar notes, standing before the front panel.

There is a long and uncomfortable pause.

"Apologies," Spring finally says, breaking the silence. "Not feeling well today . . . at all. Mister Jansen, you take her out," he decides, now turning away.

"Spri—Captain," I quickly correct myself as I call to him.

"Drekar, Mobile One. Line crews standing by on pier," we all then hear a voice report over the bridge radio speakers . . . a very familiar and female voice. "Kommandørkaptein Ýsa, respond please, over."

That voice stops Spring in his tracks as he turns his head.

"I know you're there, Spring," the voice soothingly adds, "because I'm the one who found a pilot who could work beside you. It gave me something constructive to do during my free time here between interviews."

Spring now turns, moving over to the port side of the bridge. "Decrease window polarization fifty percent," he directs.

"Captain," Ivar cautions as his hand hesitates over a button on the front panel, "I am not sure that is a good idea."

"Do it," Spring quietly orders.

All the outward-angled bridge windows around us then lighten to a degree. Spring continues to gaze steadily through the large single pane at the left side of the bridge. As I move next to him, I am hoping that all but the whites of his eyes still blend in with the partly obscured bridge when viewed from the pier.

"Go on," we now both see and hear Tyrah radio from the dock. Hope, Gunnar and Jana are standing either side of her as Tyrah gives a slow single wave to Spring. "I will be right behind you."

"Single up fore and aft on spring lines," my dragon son now directs with a tear in his eye but a subtle dragon smile upon his lips as a bridge talker repeats his order in Bokmål over the PA to the deck crews.

Soon, lines of white nylon rope are going slack at the Drekar's bow and stern as dock crews lift them off large iron bollards on the pier. They kindly hold the looped ends or 'eyes' until our deck crews take in the slack, keeping the lines from getting wet in the seawater below us.

"Release spring lines," my son directs as the bridge talker repeats his instructions once more. "Walk her out Mister Jansen," Spring then orders. "Starboard back Two, Port ahead Two. Helm hard left."

"Starboard back Two, Port ahead Two," Ivar replies, spreading the twin engine levers somewhat apart.

"Helm hard left," the young woman standing at the helm reports as well.

The final two lines are slackened. Tyrah is handling the forward spring line herself. As she releases the final line, the ship begins to slowly move sideways from the pier.

"Shift colours," Spring directs, ordering the Berker standard at our stern lowered while the one at our mainmast is raised astern of the Norwegian ensign—a common practice among all naval and government vessels.

"Nice handling," the pilot quietly observes, seemingly to himself as the ship moves slowly sideways from the pier while remaining parallel to it.

"All stop. Helm amidships," Spring directs.

"All stop," Ivar confirms as he brings the engine throttles together once more.

"Helm amidships," the helmswoman reports as well.

"Ship is yours, Captain," my dragon son then notes, temporarily transferring command to the pilot for the duration of our trip out of the harbour. "Mobile radio on VOX please, Mister Jansen," he adds though.

"Sound departure, followed by the manoeuvring astern warning," the pilot quickly adds though as he moves to the enclosed starboard side of the bridge and looks aft across the harbour.

Ivar is suddenly busy complying with the overlapping commands as he presses one large red button on the panel, causing the ship's five mid-ranged horns mounted on the single mast above us to sound their harmonious notes in a long blast, soon followed by three short ones.

"Engines, all back One Third," the pilot then orders, using an old school naval command.

"Engines all back One Third," Ivar replies, pulling the twin engine levers back.

"Outer water jets also steer ship," Spring notes to the pilot as both now look aft from their respective sides of the bridge. "Clear port," he adds.

"Thank you, Captain, for both," the pilot acknowledges.

"Mobile radio on VOX," Ivar chimes in.

"Mute VOX for moment," Spring replies, putting duty before personal interest as he continues looking steadily out the aft windows of the bridge's port side.

With the Drekar smoothly backing away from the pier and our bow now well clear of its end, "Starboard ahead One Third," the pilot directs. "Standard left rudder."

"Starboard ahead One Third" . . . "Standard left rudder," the replies come back from Ivar and the helmswoman respectively as the Drekar now pivots towards the open sea several miles away down the harbour. Both the pilot and Spring now turn to face forward as the ship's backwards progress slows to a stop.

"All ahead One Third, rudder amidships," the pilot now orders as a phalanx of security zodiacs with their blue flashing strobe lights once more take up station around us to escort the Drekar through the harbour.

"Un-mute VOX," Spring now orders as he moves across the bridge on his four black legs.

"VOX on," Ivar replies.

"Ýsa to Mobile One, over," he now says, gazing out the starboard bridge window this time.

"Kristiansen-Ýsa here, over," the voice softly replies on all bridge speakers. For their sake, I wish Spring and Tyrah could have a more private conversation, but that doesn't seem possible right now.

"You know how I feel about you," Spring nonetheless says as the two of them share a final gaze while the ship begins to move forward past the pier's end now.

"I know," comes the gentle reply.

"I . . ." Spring begins, but then hesitates.

"I know that, too," comes the warm acknowledgement.

"I love you," Spring says anyway as the pier begins to fall astern, his gaze remaining fixed upon it.

"Now that takes courage," the voice smiles, as all the rest of us can't help smiling as well . . . except for the pilot, who gives Spring a curious sideways glance while pretending to remain focused on his job and the course ahead. "I love you, too," Tyrah replies, "and I will rejoin you, very soon. Be strong for me, and sense my thoughts, anytime you like."

"I will," Spring pledges, now looking through the aft bridge windows as the pier recedes behind us. "Protect yourself . . . until I can once more."

"You, too," comes the reply. "Tyrah out."

"Spring out," my dragon son quietly echoes, finally breaking his gaze on the pier as he lowers his large head.

Realizing that he has likely never been apart from Tyrah like this since they bonded together as companions years ago now, I move next to my son. Being a dragon, Spring is likely every bit as heartsick now as Altaff once was upon truly parting from his companion. Even though they will soon be reunited, this is perhaps worse as Tyrah and Spring consider themselves soulmates as well. I can see my dragon son struggling through it all as I gently lay a hand upon his large left shoulder.

"Let's get us out to sea," I quietly encourage as I bend down beside him, "and then just have an early dinner."

Staring vacantly in front of him as another tear leaks from his large right eye, Spring just quietly nods. He then takes a deep breath, looking with longing back towards that pier, before turning around once more to face the ship's bow, and our course ahead.

I move to stand right beside Spring on the starboard side of the bridge as he now maintains a gentle contact between his shoulder and my hip.

"She still watching me, us," Spring quietly notes, sensing Tyrah's thoughts.

"Hope, even Gunnar, are with her, just as I am with you," I assure. "And as chief and head of our family, I am prescribing nightly phone calls, or at least emails between you two for now. I can be pretty handy with dictation as well, you know."

"Dragons . . ." he starts to say, his voice breaking though.

" . . . Are supposed to feel just like you are," I assure, bending beside him once more as I extend my arm across his thick neck.

"Father . . ." he whispers, allowing his pain to come through as he shuts his eyes.

"The bond between dragon and human companions can be close," I hear Roana quietly explain to the pilot near us. "One of his kind even committed suicide over a rejection and separation a hundred years ago. It has become one of our tribe's most sacred stories and legends."

"Captain," Spring and I then hear the pilot say, "I could use a second experienced set of eyes. We have both port and marina cross-traffic coming up."

"Of course," Spring replies, now looking forward and straightening himself up. "Tug with barge on hip departing from pier ahead to starboard," he then notes, even though I can't see it yet.

Sure enough, the bridge radio speakers crackle, "Halifax Traffic, Tug Ocean Rover with fuel barge on hip, requesting departure clearance from Pier Twenty-Four. Destination Ultramar Oil Wharves, over."

"Ocean Rover, Halifax Traffic," the reply comes back. "Give way to Berk Patrol Ship Drekar, length one hundred, eighteen metres, outbound with security escort from C.F.B. Halifax, currently approaching your position. You are cleared to proceed once they pass, over."

"Copy, Traffic. Ocean Rover out."

"Halifax Traffic clear."

"How did you know?" the pilot then asks, turning towards Spring, while continuing to glance at the tug and barge beginning to emerge from behind the Halifax cruise terminal in the distance ahead of us on the right.

"Classified," Spring simply replies.

My dragon son seems to be regaining his stride now as I lay a reassuring hand on his neck once more.

— — — — —

Before long, we are clearing the mouth of Halifax Harbour and the security zodiacs turn away as we re-enter the open Atlantic Ocean. The Drekar begins to gently sway and surge once more amid the swells that surround us.

"Pilot boat approaching, port side," a bridge lookout reports, glancing towards our stern.

"Steady on course One One Zero, reduce speed to twelve knots," the pilot directs. "The ship is yours again, Captain," he then says, turning to Spring. "You have a fine ship and a fascinating journey ahead of you—one I've always wanted to experience, but haven't yet. I was just flown between ocean assignments while in the Navy. You also have an unforgettable crew, and a very persuasive first officer," he smiles.

"She is that," Spring agrees.

"Wish I could go with you all," the pilot sighs, glancing ahead once more. "But this is a work week for me. Now it's a couple hours being tossed about on that pilot boat until my next ship shows up."

"I feel we come this way again," Spring assures. "Give us your card. We call ahead for you. I prefer being on bridge myself going in and out of port."

"Sure," the pilot replies, pulling a business card out from within his day glow orange float coat.

"I'll accept that for him," I graciously intercede on behalf of Spring.

"My cards under left epaulette," Spring notes as he gazes ahead out the bridge windows.

"They gave you business cards?" I openly wonder as I nonetheless reach for them, finding the cards in a small black pocket hidden beneath his left epaulette.

"Need them in dealing with Outside," my dragon son replies. "Just has email and cell number though. Tyrah answers both cell and email for me as personal aide. Even still has phone with her."

Deciding to take two cards out of his epaulette pocket, one for myself—sure enough they say . . .

KOMMANDØRKAPTEIN SPRING ÝSA
Den Kongelige Norske Marine

. . . along with his phone number and email at the bottom left and right corners (sorry, but I don't want to give those out in this narrative.)

"How many of these are on the Outside?" I query, still looking at it.

"Ordered five hundred," he replies. "Don't know how many Tyrah has handed out so far."

"Do the Outside Guardians know about this? Do any other dragons have business cards?" I then ask in quick succession.

"Only Árvekni, as ship department head and KJK dragon unit commander," Spring replies, still looking ahead out the window. "Gunnar and baroness overrule Outside Guardian objections at Tyrah's request. Árvekni's human X.O. handle his calls and email, too. Privilege of command, and no Outsider tell difference. Árvekni even adopt X.O.'s surname of Erikssen as cover for time being. Confusing at times, but works."

"Is there anything else I haven't been told of that I should know about?" I sigh as I finally pass the now bemused pilot one of Spring's business cards.

"Your head might explode," Spring cautions, finally glancing towards me, using an all too human piece of slang he must have picked up on the Outside. "But we have plenty of time on voyage to British Columbia," he assures as the pilot bids us adieu and follows Ivar off the bridge.

— — — — —

Soon, Roana, Rökkr and Substance have gone to our quarters for an afternoon nap and Spring has ordered the Drekar secured for sea as a new bridge watch takes over. I note with interest that the Nighmare, Løytnant Skelfa, is apparently the officer of this watch. The dragon løytnant takes up the position to the right of the panel Spring previously occupied as his human companion mans the front bridge panel.

"Let's see what's for dinner," I suggest to my dragon son as we turn to leave, "even perhaps pick it up for the rest of our family."

We find ourselves having to carefully step around Skelfa's long, crested tail as we exit. He thoughtfully moves it aside for us however without Spring or I having to say a thing.

"Skelfa only really speak Dragon," Spring quietly notes to me once we're off the bridge. "He understand Norse, Bokmål, English, but his human languages very rough. Trouble shaping his lips amid all those protruding teeth. Don't need to worry about that with Dragon though, as it guttural language."

"I have the same problem with Dragon because it is a guttural language," I sigh. "I can't shape my throat very well."

"You have tried," my dragon son consoles as we turn and start walking down the ramp towards the mess area. "But I can't make peace sign, or order two drinks in loud pub."

"When have you been in a pub?" I now wonder, stopping him halfway down the ramp.

"Skelfa know navigation, ship routines," Spring tries to deflect.

"No," I maintain as we stand halfway between decks. "When have you been in a pub?"

"It one thing that make your head explode," he now sighs, looking away. "My graduating midshipman class insist we all celebrate. Say that if everyone else drunk enough, no one realize I'm there, other than as dismissible hallucination. So, using Barony credit cards given as spending allowances to Island Berker midshipmen, human classmates buy enough rounds of drink for everyone at isolated pub in countryside near school first. Then, they mind-call me in. They drug bartender and two servers with syringes, and we run pub ourselves for while, celebrating. Tyrah in on it of course, and we include generous tip on our tab for pub, leaving everyone passed out and sleeping."

"And neither the Barony nor your school staff noticed?" I wonder.

"Spread bill across several credit cards over two different dates, since we go past midnight," he replies. "We tell school we go off, celebrate graduation in woods, bring our own booze, which human classmates say they buy at pub. So Barony pays bills without objection. No one begrudge us, ask questions, even at pub next day when Tyrah went back and checked as our secret Outside Guardian to cover tracks if necessary. Passing herself as a customer from last night who lose glasses at pub, she talk with staff and report night staff not say anything about falling asleep on job, and owner very happy with previous night's receipts."

"She is better at being an operative than I thought," I begin to admire.

"We could have no better," Spring quietly agrees. "But it worked," my grown dragon son, a full captain in his own right, cautiously smiles to me.

"Did you get drunk?" I ask, strenuously resisting cracking a smile now.

"I had one bucket of beer," my son replies, "and Tyrah tip couple stiff drinks in my mouth. But someone had to watch out for everyone else, so I be designated guardian. One Outsider came in late around midnight. I send Tyrah to partly drug him as he stood there, shocked at seeing me, and hand him drink on spot. Got him into festive spirit. He happy as anyone within minutes, even around me."

"You know how many protocols that violated?" I quietly sigh.

"It sixteen years ago, Dad," Spring smiles. "Everyone involved are senior officers now, here on Drekar, and on New Berk and Dragon Island. As I warn, your head explode."

I just stand there on the ramp for a moment longer, stupefied as a human crewman walks up the ramp past both of us. "So . . . did humans ever have problems adjusting to dragons in command?" I then ask, changing the subject as cover while trying to regain my equilibrium once more, and allowing us to finally continue down the enclosed ramp.

My dragon son now genuinely smiles at me. At least I am amusing him for a moment.

"You never do such things, did you?" Spring now quietly perceives as we emerge at the bottom of the ramp at the edge of a fairly busy mess and lounge area.

"I wanted to," I admit, unable to keep from smiling myself now. "You know," I then sigh, glancing at him, "I'm actually envious of you."

"I know, Dad," he warmly replies before his expression suddenly seems to change. "But dragons and Riders set example for Outside Berkers," he then swiftly deflects, answering my previous question as one of the Outside Guardians assigned to travel with the Drekar passes in front of us among the three forward entrances to the ship's mess area. I don't recognize the young, buzz-cut, brown haired man as such, but fortunately Spring does. They're not bad or menacing like the Soviet KGB or East German Stasi were once reputed to be—but our Outside Guardians are a by-the-book sort within modern Berker society. They basically have to be in that line of work. Both Spring and I know it's just best not to mention violations of protocol, even pranks, around them. Fortunately there are no mind-reading dragons among the ranks of Outside Guardians, and dragons would likely have more of a forgiving sense of humour anyway—even my once intimidating elder, the previous Árvekni.

"Riders have to trust dragons who fly them," my dragon son continues though. "That same mindset taught to Outside Berkers during screening and academy training. We dragons are your wings and enhanced senses, and you humans are our hands and equal minds. It perfect combination, symbiosis. When presented that way, Outside Berkers accept. Any who don't, wash out. Dragons natural unit or watch commanders because we can't hold or do things like humans can. We also see and sense more."

"So we humans are becoming second fiddles to you dragons?" I wonder, getting back into the stride of acceptable normalcy and accepted conversation among us, especially as this young Outside Guardian seems to unfortunately still be lingering within earshot of Spring and I in the mess area. "Perhaps destined to call you all 'sir' or 'm'am' centuries or millennia from now?" I add.

"Please . . ." Spring sighs with a roll of his eyes. "But if you want us to do more than fly and supervise, help us figure out how we can handle ropes, hold tools, turn wheels, or push multiple buttons. If you had these for hands," he adds, holding up his thick right paw towards me, "you still be naked, living in caves, too."

"True," I admit. "But speaking of flying, and your schooling," I then knowingly smile, "I can't really remember us having a father-son flight, before you took off for the mainland ages ago. By the time I came to visit you weeks, even months later, you were already taking your fellow inductees, even Tyrah, on flights."

"You not want dinner first?" he wonders.

"Exercise is always best done on an empty stomach," I decide, even though the dinner being set up at the galley serving counter is looking and smelling good.

"Yes sir," my dragon son compliantly agrees with a sigh, but a smile.

"That's more like it," I smile myself as we walk onwards into the hangar instead. "But we forgot your saddle," I note, looking down at his broad shoulders with just his epaulettes strapped across them.

"Haven't had one in years," he replies as we continue heading for the hangar's open doorway to the landing platform. "Tyrah and I prefer it that way."

"Just don't drop me," I sigh as I mount and straddle his epaulettes.

"Dad . . ." Spring whines, as any grown son might, before stretching his large, black wings either side behind me and vaulting us both into the sky almost right from the doorway.

To be airborne on a dragon again . . . it feels so natural to me now, so much like home.

"Haven't done this since the day we arrived," I note to my son as he takes us both on a wide, lazy circle above and around the Drekar while she steams steadily onward below.

"Have you beat," he replies. "I haven't flown since ship called at Stavanger, before picking you up. Need this even more than you do."

"Should I be concerned over your lack of exercise?" I query my son.

"Should you ever doubt a dragon? Especially family?" he queries right back.

"Point taken," I concede as I vaguely hear an alarm on the ship below us. Spring doesn't seem the slightest bit concerned though as I look down to see other Dragons and Riders taking off from both the landing platform and even the opened Mission Space portals at the ship's stern and starboard quarter. "No flying solo, eh?" I then note.

"You chief, I captain," he replies. "Couldn't waive them off, even if I want to. Besides, they need fresh air and exercise, too, especially after extended stay in Halifax."

Soon, Árvekni is flying up beside us with his US Navy lieutenant on his neck. "So you're the reason we were scrambled," the lieutenant notes. "I was just settling into a good pork chop with au gratin potatoes."

"Sorry," I shrug in apology.

"Good drill," Spring adds beneath me. "Guardians must always be vigilant, ready—even during supper.

"We still within range," my dragon son then quietly murmurs to me.

"In range?" I wonder.

"Of Tyrah," he clarifies, practically sighing with the wistfulness of a lovesick teenager. "It even getting dark," he adds, turning us until we are pointed towards Halifax.

"You would never be able to chase this ship back down once you got there," I caution.

"Could always order it to slow, even circle," he reminds me.

"Alright," I openly decide, all but folding my arms as I continue to grip his epaulette strap, "captain's discretion."

Spring then banks away however, resuming his broad circle over and around the ship as she steams onwards.

"You would say that," he grumbles beneath me.

"Okay, to make it fair," I offer, "I could ask Roana to go keep Tyrah company. Cousin Gunnar would actually be grateful, as he and his wife could resume their vacation. I know Roana would do it, even flying there on Rökkr tonight. You and I could even go with them."

Spring pauses, thinking for a moment as our circling continues. "No, but thanks," he finally decides. "Temptation would be too much, parting too painful. Tyrah be disappointed . . . glad, but disappointed in me. And you should not suffer as I am."

"I'm not a dragon," I note.

"You feel like one," he replies, "if mom were gone."

"She's been gone before at times," I gently assure. "You hurting that much though?" I then quietly wonder as Árvekni and his lieutenant now give us some distance.

"I am a dragon," he simply replies. "Separation—it is hell to us, to bonded dragons, far more than humans know. If Asger knew, felt . . . he could not do what he did."

I then place my left hand squarely on top of my dragon son's head. Altaff, I then silently pray directly, closing my eyes and knowing Spring can fully sense my thoughts, help my son. Give him the comfort, the assurance you needed so much. And make me the companion my son needs for now.

My dragon son then turns us northeast, paralleling the Nova Scotia coastline and silently pacing the Drekar below us with the gentlest flaps of his wings as we begin the next leg of our journey and quest.

"But that pub isn't the only Outside foray you've had, is it?" I then quietly surmise to him.

"Dad . . ." Spring whines again beneath me.