The fanfiction we all enjoy on this site comes in many forms.
But fanfiction of fanfiction?
That's just what Eyes Wide Open 2010 is doing with the story he has launched elsewhere on this site. An adaptation of the 1982 movie, 'An Officer and a Gentleman', which was filmed not very far from where I live, this story will explore the evaluation and screening of Spring and several human potential classmates prior to their induction into the Royal Norwegian Naval Academy in the early 1990s, under the fairly rigorous instruction of a hardened drill instructor brought in from the Outside.
I was intrigued, even gratified, when Eyes Wide Open 2010 informed me he wanted to do his story. As I read the first chapter, it was something to see original characters and events from 'Legacy of Myth' here given further life, even through initial mention in someone else's story. It puts fanfiction in a whole new light for me, and is nothing less than an honour that I hope all of you who want to write seriously will receive at some point. While it is a somewhat different style and perspective, I am nonetheless happy to accept 'An Officer and a Dragon' as canon within the 'Taming a Heart' saga, and I encourage you to enjoy it right along with me as it unfolds.
However, let's rejoin a somewhat older Spring and Lance as they continue their quest for an additional island for Berkers to call home. And if you like music with your reading to enhance the atmosphere, you might want to play the very first and last (or last and first) tracks from the HTTYD 2 soundtrack if you have it, as you read the upcoming commando game in this chapter. I'll admit I was listening to them as I was going through that section as well.
Enjoy.
— Norwesterner
Day 31
It's amazing sometimes what a simple question can spark.
In our case, it was, "How did you do it?"
Both Commander Andrew MacLean, skipper of the Fredericton, and Royal Canadian Mounted Police Sergeant Gordon Rogers, leader of an embarked Marine Security Emergency Response Team—the closest thing Canadians apparently have to our KJK Coast Rangers—were asking variations of this question right from their first tour of our ship . . . after getting over the inevitable shock of seeing our dragons.
The question though related to our taking of the Morning Dawn.
"All we have aboard the Fredericton are two four metre workboat RHIBs and one aging Sea King helicopter," the RCMP sergeant says over dinner this evening, his square jaw, dark hair and moustache making him look every bit a Mountie. Learning from our initial experience with DuFont, and having shared a quiet feast barbecue for both crews out on our ships' conjoined flight decks before the evening beach funeral yesterday, Spring and I choose to host this second, more private dinner in our cabins—without any chairs this time, especially as we had invited the ostensibly enlisted sergeant to dine with those of us who are senior officers and leaders. With all five of the humans present wearing similar dress casual uniforms or civilian attire, alongside three Night Furies wearing straps of office or epaulettes, hopefully honest and open discussions would take place. As RCMP Emergency Response Teams also handle VIP protection and domestic intelligence within Canada, I thought it important that our Berk leadership establish direct relations, even friendships, with one or more of their number.
"With the gunfire you've said you were taking from them," Sergeant Rogers continues, "it would have been extremely hazardous for our team to board the Morning Dawn."
"We would likely have had to sink the ship," the more unassuming and sandy haired Commander MacLean concurs next to him, "trying to rescue the hostages as she went down, hopefully not too fast, while still having to subdue the enemy crew," he added. "But with the weapons the crew had, we would have likely sustained some damage."
"We did," Spring quietly replies, "to our KJK. I reconsidering tactical priorities and standing orders."
"You really make command decisions?" the Fredericton's skipper wondered. "It's not some symbolic or affirmative action thing? Sorry," he quickly adds, "but I can't help being curious."
I look to Spring, allowing him to answer.
"My epaulettes mean what they indicate," he says, glancing at his right shoulder and then at Tyrah, as she takes another bite of her Reindyrstek, the last of our stock of it, which we had served up for this occasion among our small gathering, along with the usual raw fish for our dragons. "Tyrah is captain in situations where Outsiders on board—pilots, customs, those unapproved or without top-secret clearance. But otherwise, and above her, I am captain."
"And he has the full confidence of both the Berk and Norwegian governments to fulfill his responsibilities as such. Even business cards to that effect," I note, with Tyrah taking that as her cue to reach into Spring's epaulette pocket and hand them out to each of our guests.
"Den Kongelige Norske Marine. Royal Norwegian Navy," MacLean remarks reading the card she gives him, clearly impressed. "So you have citizenship, a birth certificate, and even a passport then?"
"Have no need for passport," Spring replies, "as I can't circulate on foreign shores, or in public ports of entry. Could get one though. Have photo I.D., but never use it. I am a Berk citizen, which includes Norwegian as well. I had to be issued special birth certificate, as adult, for navy paperwork however, even though we had no idea of my birth date by your calendar, or definition. Should it mean when my egg delivered, or when I hatch from it? So I assigned January One, Nineteen Sixty-Eight as birth date by default for record-keeping when I admitted to academy, even though it's all top secret. With my name though, I celebrate birthdays on first day of spring in Northern Hemisphere."
"Well," the Canadian skipper sighs, raising his eyebrows as he ponders the differences. "But most of the rest of your navy doesn't know you exist, correct?" he follows up.
"Those that have reason to, know," Spring answers. "Domestically, our responsibilities are to patrol among Berk's island territories, providing offshore security and protection, as well as dragon transport. We not often called on to work in task forces or joint exercises with others. In past we did it with naval and Coast Guard ships borrowed from Norway, where I worked my way up as mostly KJK Dragon Unit officer and then commander, as well as periodic aide de camp assignments with our flag commander. I not fit on bridges of other ships, any more than in yours on Fredericton. But I study navigation, ship handling, naval warfare and assault. Now, we have our own ship, where I do fit . . . just not in Engine Room. Dragons have no future there anyway, as we cannot handle tools. That we leave, gladly, to your kind."
We all briefly chuckle.
"Spring's senior thesis at the Norwegian Naval Academy, and work since then, led to our basic marine strategy for Berk, even to the creation of this ship," I continue, finishing my own Reindyrstek as I balance a plate on my crossed legs. "So it was a fairly natural follow-on that he became the Drekar's commander."
"But taking the Morning Dawn in just fifteen minutes," the RCMP team leader marvels, drawing us back to that topic. "It would have taken us longer, and with likely higher casualties and damage. With the kind of resistance you've described, the Fredericton would have likely had to rake and pound the Dawn's superstructure with shellfire to even allow our helicopter or small boats to get close enough to insert our commandos—who still would have been wide open to any remaining sniper fire until they would be able to take cover onboard. Descriptions are one thing, but I for one would like to see how you do what you did. I'd be truly grateful if you could give us a demonstration," he hints.
— — — — —
Day 32
" . . . Not if you vant zat rustbucket to reach Halifax," the grime-covered chief engineer of the Drekar responds the next morning to our request to re-enact our taking of the Morning Dawn, backed up in full by his counterpart from the Fredericton standing right beside him.
So we decide to do the next best thing . . . taking a nearby narrow and rocky islet in the fjord instead. Five of our KJK commandos will be acting as the island's 'enemy crew', while another team of five dragons and five deployable commandos will be seeking to quickly and smoothly take the island.
This time my family—Tyrah and Spring, Roana and Rökkr, and even myself on Substance—are getting into the act as our competing teams suit and tack up in both the Drekar's hangar and the Mission Space below.
"I lead," Spring decides as Árvekni gives him a seemingly annoyed turn of his head with large bandages still covering his eyes. While Kleluk remains in Sick Bay with his burns and wounds, our dragon KJK commander is already out of bed and up on his three remaining legs, almost seeming to shake off his injuries and limitations. Árvekni's brown-haired human Executive Officer, Løytnant Vidor Erikssen, Skelfa's former rider and companion, stands beside the maimed Night Fury, trying to unobtrusively support the dragon by leaning against him where Árvekni's missing leg would be. Clearly wishing he could be out there with us today, Árvekni will instead take Spring's role as something of a shipboard commander, coordinator and referee for our engagement, sensing us and the scenario but not seeing it.
"All due respect," Substance chimes in nearby however as I double check her saddle and other tack, "but allow your elders, last of old Dragon Knights, to keep our skills up." Spring now just silently bows his head towards her in concurrence and submission.
"Ve use paintballs, to mark casualties," one blonde male KJK commando, who will be defending the islet, insists as he hefts a paintball rifle onto one shoulder.
"Not paintballs," Tyrah whines with a sigh as she zips up her commando's snowsuit underneath her flak vest before donning her helmet. "Somehow, I always get that stuff in my hair, and it never comes out. It's bad enough that my dragon is dragging me back into combat again, even if it is an exercise."
"Pass me ze hostage," the KJK commando continues however, seeming to ignore the protestations of his superior officer.
"He standing next to you," Spring notes as one of our KJK boat team members who has volunteered for this stands ready to go, dressed in heavy green battle dress and flak vest to stand out from his 'captors'.
"Ze other one," the opposing commando presses however, holding out a hand.
"You be careful with that," Spring warns as Tyrah tosses the commando what is still Spring's most precious possession . . . his soccer ball.
"Zis vill keep you from blasting me too forcefully," the commando smiles with almost a villainous glee. With the old and very well used ball tucked in his arm, he turns and hops up onto a Nadder as the other defenders, wearing white snowsuits and flak vests, mount and even double up on dragons as well. Along with the two hostages, they take off from the flight deck and open Mission Space below for the short flight to the islet lying about a kilometre off the sterns of the Drekar and Fredericton.
"Blast?" RCMP Sergeant Rogers openly queries however, dressed in his own unit's black combat kit and helmet, balancing on his knees as he attempts to enter the commando sling underneath Substance that she is wearing this time.
"You wanted a full demonstration," I smile as I help him into the sling.
"Don't worry," Substance assures above us. "I blast Lannce at times in exercises, even deliberately. He still here."
"It's only one of the things I'm worried about," Rogers sighs as I cinch the last strap tightly under his legs, "flying suspended underneath a dragon who—" he says, stopping himself however.
"Can't see?" Substance finishes as I rise to mount her saddle. "Lannce and I still best in the air. That why we invite you to ride with us."
"Not against us," Roana challenges, already astride Rökkr as the Fredericton's commander, wearing his arctic parka, is sitting more comfortably in Rökkr's saddle behind my mate, where I once sat eons ago. "Come on Rökkr, let's go!"
"Wait," Árvekni countermands though, raising his head towards the islet off our stern, sensing the situation off our stern. "Opponents not in position."
"Yes, Kapteinløytnant," my mate sighs. "I could order you back to bed."
"Only through Medical Officer, who approved limited release," the still partly-bandaged Night Fury almost smugly notes.
"Not limited enough," Roana retorts.
"Team ready?" the injured Night Fury questions nonetheless.
"Ready," Substance answers as the senior dragon present, assessing and even polling our team through sensing alone.
Along with our family of three Night Furies, there is the other KJK Night Fury who had distinguished herself in the attack on the Morning Dawn—a løytnant named Fathom by her female rider and companion, Løytnant Kari Stigen. All of our Dragons and Riders are now officers in the KJK, as any naval aviators would be. Only our two KJK boat teams have non-commissioned ratings among them, drawn from the ranks of Outside Berkers. But when I had asked about Fathom's English name earlier as I was getting to know our teammates, the blonde Løytnant Stigen replied, "If I named her in Norse, I'd have to choose between fathom as 'skilja' or understanding, or 'fatmur' as in ze length. But inspired by how you named Substance, vith 'Fathom' in English, I get both meanings. She is both a nautical and very understanding Night Fury. It is an elegant name for her—attractive to ze ear, the vay she is to za eyes. Ve hope she vill be za first female dragon ship captain some day." Fathom was looking down with uncharacteristic modesty as her rider was saying that.
"Being a leader, Fathom," I encouraged, "is being proud of what you want to achieve. You are already a very skilled guardian. Now you just need to be confident of both your abilities and your desires, and share that confidence with others, just like I am with you. Then I have no doubt you will earn command. I'll look forward to sailing on your ship someday."
Fathom bowed her slightly more slender and attractive head in deep gratitude, but was still saying nothing.
Then there is also one of our two KJK Gronkles, Løytnant Tankur or 'Tank', who is warmly named by his companion for the dragon's obvious similarity to the military vehicles.
We now all move however out onto the Drekar's flight deck, standing ready for launch. Crews from both ships are gathering out on the landing platforms of the Fredericton and Drekar as well to watch.
While soccer has become one of our primary games back on our home island, as well as dragon racing long before that—commando games like this are the sport we modern dragon guardians have come to truly relish, especially since the FSK, and later the KJK, have taken over the defence of our tribe. Testing Dragon and Rider to the fullest, even I have come to enjoy these exercises right along with Substance as demonstrations of our prowess and skill together in the air, even perhaps a primal assertion of our right to still lead our people and tribe.
Only Vikings might think this way, but I've been one for thirty-one of my sixty-five years now. Sixty-five? Yikes! Don't even think that, Ýsa, I counsel myself as I sit astride Substance, ready for take-off. Sergeant Rogers is suspended face down underneath us, having no choice but to basically stare at the black deck we stand ready upon that is less than a half metre in front of him.
Finally, the word comes. Having limped outside onto the Drekar's flight deck with the help of his X.O., Árvekni simply issues a sharp, loud bark that echoes across the fjord we're in. Launch or begin. Either way, it means the same thing in Dragon, and is one word I do not need a translation for.
Substance and I vault into the air together, with the somewhat nervous RCMP sergeant suspended underneath us in his commando's sling. Having done this for three decades now, Substance and I tune in, bringing our minds together and acting as one. I see for us, while she senses most everything else. It makes my vision perception go a little weird, almost tunnel-like. But I now perceive not only her thoughts, but through her, the thoughts of the others. I can even sense their presences and relative positions around us, as white, ghostly outlines in my mind.
As our team fans out and approaches the islet, sure enough, paintballs start flying towards us—not a lot of them, but some. Focus, Ýsa, I mentally tell myself, as it's been a while since I've done this. I find my visual acuity improving, now able to see the brightly-coloured little balls better than I normally would as they streak, arcing through the air towards us. The wings at our shoulders now help Substance and I to twist and dodge, rise and dip, avoiding these small projectiles. It is as easy as if I were twisting my outspread hands in the wind, contracting and spreading my fingers to control our flight.
Become one with the scene, Substance silently coaches me . . . and explain it to our guest.
It's a lot to keep track of—the rest of the team around us, dodging paintballs, the relative position of the islet, and locating its defenders that we have to subdue. Harmony, Substance reminds me.
That's the key, how it all becomes one, even inside me. I take a deep breath as I surrender to the chatter of thoughts, images and sensations around us in the air. I allow it to become one with myself—a unified, multi-faceted hum. It's another reason the dragons hum in prayer. The hum, this harmony, is the basis, even portal to everything among them, when they tap into it.
Speak to him, my Night Fury reminds me as we almost dance in the air around the occasional paintball. My eyes now automatically locate them without conscious thought while we mentally draw with the others into almost a unified hand or dome that begins to surround the islet. It is like we are a small orchestra now, with each Dragon and Rider having their own parts to play, even their own improvisations, within the overall harmony.
Not all riders and companions achieve this depth and disciplined unity with their dragons. But with Substance, and practice, I have.
"We are . . ." I struggle to say. It's almost like having to relearn how to walk and chew gum at the same time. I just naturally find myself wanting to simply echo the multifaceted yet concordant hum that is now coursing powerfully through both Substance and myself. While it's somewhat akin the static you hear on old dial-up modems of computers shaking hands and exchanging data, this harmony sounds and feels a heck of a lot nicer. It's soothing, melodious, even fluid.
"We are," I try to say again, going into translation mode as I piece together a narrative in English from all that is being conveyed and accomplished through the mental hum, " . . . some of us are going to distract and make strafing runs firing concussive blasts, while the first commandos are dropped and inserted at the most protected locations they can be on the islet."
As I speak, Fathom and Spring are already firing concussive blasts as they swoop low behind some large rocks at either end of the islet's high central ridge. The commandos who are riding and suspended beneath them, including Tyrah, smoothly detach and drop behind those same rocks, starting to fire their own paintballs in return. They take out one of the 'enemy crew' in the first volley, splattering day glow orange on his left shoulder, while other crew attempt to recover from the dragons' stunning blasts and continue firing at the rest of us.
"Amazing," Sergeant Rogers quietly enthuses beneath me. "Four inserted, one enemy eliminated, and the rest briefly stunned . . . just like that." Substance and I take our own strafing run while he is saying this, with my dragon firing as we bank and quickly rise away from the islet.
Seeming to up the stakes, a larger paintball is now fired near us, towards the two ships. Through Substance, I can sense heat from this one. Before I can even think to say anything, we react together, firing a tight blast that destroys it with a splash of orange paint and fire in the air.
"Rocket paintballs?" I quickly wonder afterwards as we turn again.
"Thought you knew about those," my dragon replies under me. "Paintballs taped on flares. Enemy uses them to endanger ships. They only rigged up a few though for this simulation."
"Duck!" I say out loud as we sense the heat from another rocket paintball rapidly nearing us from the side. As one, we dip and turn, firing another tight blast that destroys that paintball as well.
"Wow!" Rogers continues to enthuse from underneath Substance's neck as we turn again, gaining some more altitude now. "But I'd like to give this a try and insert. You just pull this strap to release, right?"
"Careful—" I began to caution. But with a panicked yell, the sergeant is already dropping away from us, falling right towards some particularly nasty-looking rocks amid the fjord below. Making a strong beat of our wings before I can even sigh, I just twist Substance's whole body into a sharp dive. We draw her wings in tightly as we pass the flailing and more wind-resisting RCMP sergeant. Substance and I then arc into level flight once more as the sergeant falls right into my arms. We swoop away, just a couple metres above the rocks.
"You wanna jump?" I forcefully tell our astonished guest as I cradle him. "You do it when we tell you to!" Gripping my legs around Substance's saddle and neck tightly, I have her powerfully flip her neck upwards, helping me to toss the sergeant back into the air. My dragon and I then take a lightning-fast dip and half snap roll underneath him. Substance grabs Rogers again by the shoulders between her front paws while also grabbing his legs with her hind paws as we do another half snap roll to bring ourselves upright once more.
I sense Rökkr and Roana swooping nearby. Without even pausing to think, Distract! I mentally direct Rökkr. Having us gain altitude once more with powerful beats of her wings, I take Substance into a sharp corkscrew turn and then an attack dive towards the circle of rocks on the islet's top that is the 'bridge' or heart of the enemy's position. Rökkr takes Roana and MacLean into a swift, sweeping arc past the islet's far side, dipping and rolling to dodge several paintballs fired at them. Substance and I attack from behind, giving the sergeant his wish as we drop him right against the enemy's backs, causing Spring's soccer ball to suddenly pop upwards from among the surprised enemy team.
Taking Substance into a tight quarter roll less than two metres above the ridge beside the enemy's position, I grab the ball as we then bank sharply to the right, while also agreeing with Rökkr to have him grab the human 'hostage' as the remaining four enemy try to scramble back upright from beneath Sergeant Rogers.
I can sense Árvekni in the background within the harmony, but he is choosing not to intervene or give orders.
As Rökkr smoothly grabs the KJK volunteer behind us, peeling off in the other direction with him, Got hostages, I then mind-call through the harmony to the other dragons around us. Let 'em have it.
All of our dragons then turn in the air. Having inserted his rider onto the islet as well, Tankur now circles beyond, not able to safely fire concussive blasts himself directly against our opponents as we gave up using hand-held wooden shields ages ago. Our Night Furies though swoop down towards the island in screaming attack dives from all four points of the compass, firing slightly stronger concussive blasts that stun the enemy team once more—including the visiting sergeant this time—as they collapse against the rocks that had been shielding them.
One, two, three, four in quick succession, we soar low right over the enemy's position in opposite directions, intersecting like a crack jet fighter demonstration team as we then brake in the air and turn 'round again, all coordinated with thought.
Landing Substance atop the islet's highest grassy knoll facing the circle, I hold the ball high aloft, signifying our victory for all to see. The rest of our dragon and human team surrounds the enemy, paintball rifles aimed and dragon mouths opened, causing our opponents to raise their hands in surrender as they come to again.
"That is how we Berkers play ball," I smile to the sergeant as he strains to rise to his feet again in front of us amid our opponents.
Tucking the ball back in my right arm, Substance and I come off the intensity of simulated combat, and the power of the communal link. For a moment, I feel a disorienting dizziness as I sit in Substance's saddle. Even as I endeavour to mentally disengage from the link, I can feel Substance turning her head back towards me with concern.
"It's nothing," I try to assure as I blink and refocus my eyes, looking around while maintaining a steadying grip on the saddle with my left hand. "Just the harmony."
"Maybe fully engaging is too powerful for humans, as some say in our past," my dragon seems to agree. "Amund occasionally have similar symptoms. Sorry I push you so hard into it, over time."
"I pushed you, originally," I remind her as I soothe my brow with my left hand, "when I took us both for a swim off the carrier years ago, remember?"
"You alright?" Substance replies though.
"It's clearing," I say as the dizziness and moderate pain with it seem to ease.
"No more linking for present," my dragon prescribes though. "Take you back for nap."
"Substance," I quietly groan in protest as my left hand continues to massage my brow though.
"Either that, or Sick Bay exam," she threatens.
"No," I clearly countermand. "You know how concerned Roana already is about my health, and the staff in Sick Bay have enough other patients to deal with in the aftermath of our real battle."
"Nap," Substance maintains. "I just as concerned about you as Roana, and I not sense you having headache and dizzy spell like this before," she continues, obviously mind-probing me to an extent.
"Just a nap, please," I finally give in. "Besides, Sick Bay already has some new patients to deal with," I note, seeing Tankur now having brought a field medic to treat at least one sprained or broken arm incurred among our KJK who had been posing as the enemy crew on the islet.
"Next time, ze rest of you play opposition," the once cocky KJK commando team leader groans as he rises to his feet amid the circle of rocks, removing his white, fabric-covered helmet as he rubs the back of his neck.
"Amazing . . ." the RCMP sergeant says once more as he stands beside the commando, still seeming to recover his equilibrium as well.
See, Substance? I mentally note to her as I look at Sergeant Rogers. He's even more roughed up than I am.
"Nap," she maintains anyway, causing me to weakly gesture with my left hand to the sergeant to rejoin us for the trip back to our ships . . . just in the saddle behind me this time.
— — — — —
Substance and I then fly Rogers back to the Drekar and Fredericton, and are soon bidding him adieu as he seems quite ready for a nap as well.
"Sorry we blasted you," I apologise as we part for the afternoon at the gangway between our two ships, "and that I was a little short with you."
"Being stun-blasted by a dragon," he now subtly smiles, rubbing his own head with his black commando's helmet off. "It's one thing I'll never forget now, along with flying. You might want to work on those hair-trigger release straps though."
"We'll look into that," I smile as my dragon begins quietly steering me towards the Drekar's large hangar doorway and rest with her right wing gently extended around my back.
"Nice piece of flying," my mate is soon complimenting Substance and I as we step inside the hangar. She is already relieving Rökkr of his saddle while other riders are doing the same for their dragon companions as well. "But maybe let Rökkr and I handle the daredevils next time. You okay?" she invariably queries though, even with just a glance towards me.
"Fine," I assure, finding myself rubbing my still somewhat dizzy head with my left hand while realizing my right arm is still cradling Spring's soccer ball. "Just a little out of shape. Haven't flown or linked like that in a while."
"That's all it is?" she says, coming up to me with Rökkr's saddle on her arm, her eyes already scanning my face for any other symptoms.
"All it is," I assure, quietly rebelling against even the hint of any further signs of aging besides my greying hair. "Substance has already prescribed a nap for me, and I have our family 'heirloom' to get back onto its pillow beside Spring's bedding.
"Wouldn't want to interfere with that," my mate now smiles as we share a brief kiss. "I just pledged to put in a late lunch relief shift in Sick Bay for the Medical Officer, and I'll join you for a nap myself before long. Keep a spot warm for me."
"I will," I reply as we part, my head still a little dizzy. I don't think to even take Substance's saddle off however until we're inside our quarters.
— — — — —
Day 33
The nap on the afternoon of Day 32 turns into a full-on sleep for at least me. Even Roana and Rökkr joining us doesn't wake me. We wind up sleeping through any kind of dinner though, and when I wake up for a bathroom break later, everyone else is asleep, and dinner can just become breakfast. Even though we are truly in the land of 'midnight sun' now, with the sun above the horizon around us twenty-four hours a day, the window polarization in our quarters makes it nicely dark and feeling like the 1 AM local time it is.
There's not that much to look at out the windows anyway at the moment however. With the two ships moored together, the Drekar's starboard bridge deck, where our cabins are, is only a few metres from the Fredericton's port bridge deck. Our view is thusly divided between a blank charthouse bulkhead abaft the Fredericton's bridge, and a gap forward of her dominating, square grey funnel, its flat front edge generously grilled with a large air intake. Mountain views or seascapes can be viewed through this gap though, depending on which direction our ships are swinging at anchor.
As I tiptoe back to my own spot among the sleeping mass of human and dragon family from my midnight bathroom break though, it's nice to see Spring once more sleeping curled up around Tyrah, with even a foreleg draped across her.
Waking again later, rested and at peace, I sit up against a quietly snoring Substance and catch up on this journal for a while before the others begin stirring. I've never minded my dragon snoring, as it's really more like purring—very soothing. I rarely have trouble sleeping against her as that deep purring, resonating through her large body, just gently vibrates me to sleep. Once everyone is up, during breakfast, Roana seems to remain concerned that I would sleep so heavily through the afternoon and night. I remind her though I've always been a heavy sleeper, and it's been a busy few days.
Today goes quietly though as another Arctic storm passes around our sheltered Baffin Island fjord, and our combined crews from both the Drekar and Fredericton finish making the Morning Dawn ready for her tow to Halifax.
Roana, Rökkr, Tyrah, Spring, Substance and I pay another visit amid the falling snow however to what I now think of as Skelfa's beach, laying a final bouquet of flowers upon the ashen spot where he and his two KJK teammates were cremated.
"Let's install a plaque somewhere on the Drekar," I decide as Roana and I extend an arm around one another, "complete with their images and stories, remembering them for who they were. There's no real point in laying a marker here. They died miles away, and never saw this spot in life. No one would likely visit here anyway . . . at least who could probably know anything about Skelfa," I sigh as I look around the seemingly lifeless and barren shore. "Log this location though, Spring, down to the metre . . . for posterity."
"Yes, Father," he replies, soberly gazing upon this new piece of hallowed ground for us alongside me.
— — — — —
Day 34
The sun is now shining on this cold, crisp morning as our two crews finally bid farewell to one another.
"I hope you will be regular visitors around these parts," Commander MacLean warmly says to me as we shake hands a final time at the gangway between our two flight decks. "With what you all can do, we could certainly use the help."
"The Morning Dawn's crew is now drugged onboard your ship, right?" I double-check.
"Your Medical Officer was supervising the injections a short while ago himself," the skipper confirms, "saying something about pushing it with the tripled doses, but doing it nonetheless. Two of your Outside Guardians are now onboard with us to give the Morning Dawn's crew explanations as they wake up as to how they came to be onboard our ship, involving stun grenades apparently. We've had to clear out an enlisted berthing area for them and post 'Do Not Disturb' signs, all according to their instructions, but we'll make it work."
"Under my team's guard," Sergeant Rogers adds beside us.
"Our ambassador and a team with her will meet you in Halifax to work with you in processing the crew, and the ship," I assure.
"With dragons though, the term Mounted Police could take on a whole new meaning," the sergeant smiles as I now shake hands with him as well. "Might have to have a word with my inspector, maybe even the Commissioner about this."
"Please go through DuFont," I quietly urge though. "Actually," I decide, "please let my ambassador handle such an idea. It might eventually be useful for both our interests, but it will have to be handled carefully . . . very carefully. We will keep you in mind though for such a joint MSERT unit with us, Sergeant, I promise."
"Thank you, sir," Rogers accepts. "But Bernard DuFont, the Deputy Prime Minister?" he picks up however.
"He is our primary contact within Canada," I reply.
"More than the Prime Minister?" the sergeant adds in almost disbelief.
"The P.M. is not cleared," I quietly emphasize.
"Politics and the old, 'loose lips,' eh?" Rogers surmises.
"You got it," I confirm. "We've had similar problems with a few Norwegian prime ministers at times. That's why we tend to go through civil service channels. They know how to keep secrets, across multiple governments. It avoids the possibility of dragons becoming political pawns or weapons for any side in inter-party squabbles, or during campaigns. Here's my card," I add, belatedly passing both Rogers and MacLean my own business cards. "Just email me as you want, to keep in touch . . . perhaps rather than talking with DuFont?" I hint.
"Hmmm," the sergeant muses looking at my card, "never had a direct channel like this to the top at Ottawa before."
"Use it wisely, and only for the dragons. Because," I soberly request, glancing back at some of our saurian brethren, "if any of us screws up . . . they could die."
That seems to get the attentions of both the commander and the sergeant as they quietly nod to me.
"And that reminds me," I add, "please tell your crew again, no dragon pictures. I am sure our Outside Guardians will be fairly insistent about that as well, both with you, and upon arrival in Halifax."
"We'll take good care of your ship, and your secret," MacLean assures me. "Just wish you could spare an engineer or two to help keep the Morning Dawn afloat during the voyage."
"Vorking the vay we have been, I could spare my junior," the Drekar's Chief Engineer chimes in near us, having evidently just been dropped off on the flight deck with his toolbox by dragon after performing a final check of our captured ship.
"Clear it with the captain—" I begin towards our Chief Engineer. "Never mind, I'll do it," I countermand however, briefly closing my eyes as I mind-message Spring directly, not seeing him at the moment. "Sorry," I then apologise, "I'm not close enough to my own dragon to sense a reply from him," as MacLean and Rogers both give me slightly strange looks.
Spring catches my message though. "You may take Vassen," he replies, coming up behind us. "We want him back though . . . Vassen!" Spring then calls as our red-headed, junior engineering officer is conveniently crossing the flight deck behind us towards the hangar with his own toolbox, having also just been brought back by dragon from the rusty ship in question not far off our stern.
"Ja, Kaptein?" he replies in Bokmål.
"You are needed aboard Morning Dawn," my dragon son directs. "Pack your gear and be ready for return by dragon in fifteen minutes. If you need assistant, pick rating from your department," he adds, glancing towards the Drekar's Chief Engineer who merely nods in concurrence. "Congratulations, Fenrik, Morning Dawn is now your first command. Your mission is to see her safely to Halifax behind Fredericton. Good luck, Captain."
"Sir . . ." the astonished junior engineer now responds in English. "I . . . It's just like Horatio Hornblower!" he exclaims, having obviously been a fan of the C. S. Forester stories.
"Go. Pack," my dragon son has to remind the eager junior officer, with a smile however. "We're waiting."
"Y-Yes, sir!" the junior engineer salutes as Spring nods deeply in reply, before Vassen rushes off towards the hangar.
"Always wanted to do that," Spring notes with amusement as we watch the newly-minted captain go. "Tyrah!" he then calls to his companion not far away. "I just appoint Vassen as captain of Morning Dawn. Note it in log and give him spare Berk standard to hoist, so Canadians don't seize our prize from us," he then jokes, looking towards MacLean.
"Yes sir," Tyrah smiles nearby as she also turns to head for the hangar, and presumably the ship's flag locker.
"Humour, too?" the Fredericton's skipper almost marvels.
"I everything you are, Commander," my dragon son replies, "just with black scales and wings. Both our species have tails—yours has just unfortunately shrunk. We dragons try not to pity your kind over it though."
"Captain," the Fredericton's skipper smiles as he gives a farewell salute, given that Spring has half a gold stripe more on his epaulettes than MacLean does. My dragon son then nods deeply again in return. "We will rendezvous with you on your return transit," MacLean proposes though, "whether you have to put into Halifax, or we have to divert at sea, agreed?"
"Agreed," Spring gladly concurs. "Our ships and crews now kindred. Keepers of a common secret, even vision."
Exchanging ships' crests and small national ensigns for display in each other's mess spaces as a final act of fraternity, the gangway is finally removed from between our two flight decks, and the Fredericton slips her mooring lines from the Drekar. As the large rubber fenders are pulled up along her port side, the Canadian frigate slowly moves away, taking up the slack on the Morning Dawn's tow lines behind her.
Spring and I move to the Drekar's bridge, and with the window polarizing off, we waive to the Fredericton's skipper and the RCMP sergeant as firm friends now. Then, as the Morning Dawn begins to pass us, we hear that ship's single midrange horn belt out three long if uneven blasts, followed by one short one, in salute while her proud young skipper waives from the port bridge wing.
"Return salute," Spring orders with a subtle smile. Tyrah then hits the large red button on the centre panel, causing the Drekar's far more melodious quintet of horns to sound three long blasts, and one short as well, in reply.
As the second ship in our 'fleet' slowly moves in front of us toward the open sea, a brand new Berk standard can now be seen waiving over her rust-covered stern, even though the ship's home port beneath still says 'Monrovia', referring to her supposed Liberian identity.
"We should pick port of registry for our fleet," my son notes, seeing the same thing I am.
"How 'bout I just leave that to you," I sigh with raised eyebrows. "I don't have the foggiest on that score."
— — — — —
Soon raising our anchor, we also get underway once more. As the Drekar begins to move forward again for the first time in almost a week, I find myself acutely aware of what, or rather who, we are leaving behind. There is perhaps an ingrained Berker sense in me that we don't leave our dead alone. Back home, they remain close to our island and even village, both spiritually and even physically. Yet in this case we are leaving three of our own here, far from New Berk or the Barony and anyone who would remember them.
I move across the bridge to the glass-enclosed port wing, facing Skelfa's beach as I lower my head in prayer, almost apologising that we are indeed leaving him and his two companions behind. Maybe we should have gathered their ashes, kept them with us, even scattering them back at home sometime later, I consider.
"You very dragon, Father," Spring notes as he comes next to me, having clearly sensed what was on my mind.
"Thank you," I quietly appreciate, as it is a high compliment among the dragons. "I still talk with the old Árvekni and Roald at times, out at the cliff beyond the village," I then say as we both gaze at the beach. "A sort of counselling among chiefs and elders, even across time. I even say hi to Tvö Höffut as I pass his field. I can do that because I know they are there. Acknowledging, even communing with our ancestors, those who came before us, is part of who we are.
"But we won't be doing that with Skelfa, Olsen or Torgesen," I continue as a tear unavoidably falls from my eye, " . . . because we're leaving them here."
"You know where Baffin is from home, don't you?" My dragon son asks.
"Yeah?" I cautiously reply.
"You simply have to look at horizon, instead of down into sea," he continues as we both look at the passing shore. "They just as close, really. To Spirit, distance is an illusion, not real."
"You sure you're not Substance's offspring?" I wonder. "Because that's just what she'd advise."
"Family is greatest reality of all," Spring says as he now looks at the beach with me, "especially one of choice and adoption, as you never take them for granted. I am of Substance, and I am of you . . . because you both, you all, love me.
"That, more than anything," he quietly notes, "prepare me to be Tyrah's true companion, to see her and I for what we are together. But," Spring adds, "I keep Skelfa, Olsen and Torgesen among our crew. They just on patrol, above us, keeping watch. I will listen for their reports, just as you listen for guidance from previous Árvekni, Roald, and others. All we leave behind here is ash from a fire, not who they are. That, and they, continue with us."
"Thank you . . . Son," I sniff, laying my right hand upon his large head with profound gratitude. Together, we watch as that beach now disappears behind a steep mountainside, being allowed to return to the quiet, ageless wilderness it has long been part of.
— — — — —
Once we're out in the relatively calm open ocean once more, the Drekar is gradually turned north by northwest as the Fredericton and Morning Dawn disappear over the horizon behind us to the south. Spring orders the Drekar secured for sea as a new bridge watch takes over.
There is one piece of business we could really use the advice of Skelfa and his comrades on however, as my dragon son then convenes a meeting to review our assault on the Morning Dawn. Unlike what is done onboard Outsider warships, Spring chooses to hold this gathering in the ship's large lower berthing area forward, now that our captives from the Morning Dawn have left onboard the Fredericton, inviting anyone who wants to attend.
"I been thinking about what happened with Morning Dawn," he opens as the rest of us sit on floor mattresses and bunks around him. "I know our KJK motto is, 'Nothing gets past us.' Even I not want to see Drekar so much as dented.
"But I not sure that dragon and human cost of that motto and attitude is worth it," Spring notes. "Ship can be repaired, even take pounding, far more easily than crew can. Skelfa . . . he treat rocket as if he was deflecting ball. I mind-urge him not to engage, not to fire so close, after Árvekni already been stricken. But Skelfa was treating it both as sport, and absolute rule that nothing touch Drekar. He surprised at how much he was hurt as he fell into sea after rocket exploded. Our drills not prepare or warn him of severity of such weapons.
"Maybe it time we allow ship to protect us, as much as we protect ship. What you think?" he asks everyone else, regardless of rank. "As at least one of us present only speak English," he added, referring to Lieutenant Kleluk, "I appreciate if that language used."
"We know risks," Árvekni responds.
"I knew what I was doing, when I led that squad down inside the Morning Dawn," Kleluk adds as he lies upon a mobile bed beside Árvekni. "Death? If it came, I pretty much knew it would be quick. Living like this," he said, holding up and looking at his heavily bandaged left hand, "that's the tough part right now. I'm accepting what happened though, not regretting it. If I was Skelfa . . . I'd still fire on, even catch that rocket. Because it'd be just me, not a dozen or more of you, on the bridge or anywhere else on this ship. Having suggested what became our motto the day we caught that torpedo . . . I still believe in that motto. It's something no other ship or team I've served with has. It makes us unique."
"Us," I muse to Anuun. "You want citizenship? A permanent transfer?"
"Knowing what I look like under these bandages . . . I don't want to go home, sir," he openly replies. "I know that no matter how I emerge from this, the dragons and crew here will accept me. I'll work supply, even the galley if I can't do anything more. But heck, the way Árvekni and I both are, I think we will make a pretty good team. Even though I am Iñupiaq, proudly so . . . this is one team, and tribe, I just don't want to leave now. If my burns and scars are my ticket in, well, that would make this worthwhile."
"Captain?" I invite.
"We discuss details later," Spring replies. "But welcome on board, Løytnant. Árvekni?"
"Our two broken halves make one strong whole," the maimed Night Fury affirms. "He my rider, and companion . . . if you want, Anuun."
Kleluk just reaches his bandaged right hand as Árvekni turns his head to meet it with his snout. Somehow, Anuun already seems to know how inseparable, even sacred, such a bonding is among us.
"You are Berker," I quietly proclaim, rising to my feet as chief, "and Dragon and Rider. Welcome," as respectful and admiring applause, along with gentle, approving dragon roars resonate around us.
As the brief celebratory recognition quiets down once more, "Anyone else?" Spring finally invites. "Should our KJK motto stand?"
"Yes," . . . "Já," and affirmative dragon replies are the unvarying response.
"Very well. Motto stands," Spring accepts, seeming to be a more democratic and inclusive leader than even I am. "That leaves one more issue. While Árvekni will eventually return to full duties, we need new KJK dragon field leader, in Skelfa's place."
"I request Tankur as field leader," Árvekni responds. "He senior dragon under me. He due."
"Mmee?" the Gronkle responds with a deep but astonished voice. "My kind always support, never lead."
"Leading, change," the KJK dragon commander notes. "Captain lead from bridge, not at head of force. Even I cannot keep track of all, and fight at same time. Our leaders could resist arrows and spears at front in past, but not cannon or rocket. Leaders sometimes lead best when they see all, both sides engaging, not just what's in front of them. Tankur can lead in field without being fastest, or always in front."
I can see that such thinking would likely have been heresy in prior Berk generations—even mine, really, as Substance and I had led from the front in our counter-assault against the Soviets years ago. Perhaps that would be the last time it was done, I now reflect, also thinking of old newsreel footage I'd once seen of Polish cavalry officers charging on warhorses at the heads of their brigades as they were mown down by Nazi machine guns and Panzer tanks at the start of World War II.
I feel a gentle nudge from Substance beside me.
"Sorry," I quietly apologise as the orderly discussion continues around us. "Shouldn't be dwelling there," knowing she is sensing those same thoughts and images within me.
"You know I love you, and our people, enough to not regret doing that," she murmurs, her clouded, blind eyes staring in no particular direction. "At time, there was no other option. If ours was the final charge of the old order, the old ways . . . I could not be more gratified."
I press beside my dragon tightly, even briefly burying my face against her neck. This will always be a raw, emotional wound for the two of us.
— — — — —
Day 35
We begin our westward transit of the Northwest Passage, entering forty mile wide Lancaster Sound this morning. There are icebergs and sheets of ice in places, but nothing blocking our intended course. Current satellite images confirm the passage is easily clear enough for us to traverse. The Drekar still flies the Canadian flag from the starboard yardarm of her one mast as a courtesy in our recognition of their sovereignty over this somewhat disputed waterway.
The dragons though collectively sense a large school of Arctic Cod off our starboard side. So the ship is slowed, and fish runs are on in earnest. Both the hangar as well as stern and starboard Mission Space portals are opened as most all the dragons stream out in pursuit of fresh fish, and this chance to add to our food stocks as well. I am just grateful that I remembered to ask Sergeant Rogers by radio after we parted yesterday to fax us a commercial fishing permit, given how much fish I realized we might be taking at times within Canadian waters to keep our dragons properly fed.
"Glad to," he radioed back when I suggested he have it processed through DuFont's office, to avoid questions from the Canadian Ministry of Fisheries and Oceans as to why a supposedly Norwegian naval patrol ship needs a commercial fishing license. "Gives me a chance to pitch DuFont for bigger RHIBs, like yours."
I just let him run with it. The permit was faxed to us within hours.
"No," Substance tells me though as I offer to go with her on this fish run amid the excitement, not even letting me put her saddle on her. "Water too cold. Too much of a shock for you . . . even with survival suit," she catches as I just begin to form an image of one in my mind.
Rökkr roars outside on the flight deck though, beckoning with his head if she's coming. He isn't wearing his saddle either, just his Guardian's strap around his neck. This seems to be a 'dragons only' affair as all of us riders are being left behind.
Our family's two senior Night Furies then take off from the flight deck amid the small swarm of other dragons intent on catching fish.
Only Árvekni is remaining on the flight deck near the open hangar portal, looking with a degree of longing, even seemingly through his eye bandages, as others do what he cannot right now. Roana is rolling out his rider and companion beside him on a mobile bed once again though, which seems to temper the dragon's melancholy. Árvekni turns his large, black head as he carefully nudges his companion's bandaged upper arm and shoulder.
As even Spring takes off past us without Tyrah aboard, Roana just comes around, nestling close as she extends both arms around me from the side amid our thick parkas this cold, overcast morning.
"Well, I finally get you dragon-free for a moment," she quips as I extend an arm warmly around her as well. "First time since Halifax."
"It's what we do in life," I sigh. Unexpectedly, I now experience a momentary twinge of dizziness, even though I'm not mind-linked into the harmony. But with Roana peacefully enjoying a moment, relaxing against me, the last thing I want to do is upset it all and have her haul me off to Sick Bay for another exam. She's been whipping out her med kit, at least her stethoscope, at most every ache I've been confessing for practically the last decade now.
Probably another T.I.A., or Trans Ischemic Attack, I dismiss. It's a stroke-like but temporary disturbance within the brain, and usually a minor issue. I once had a more serious form of dizziness a few years ago when just Roana and I were stopping over at Gunnar's farm for a couple days on our way to Oslo for both affairs of state and pleasure. No sooner had I put my hand to my head, wobbled even a little, and admitted to Roana what was going on as she turned towards me however, than I was finding myself packed into the back seat of a car and subsequently laid out horizontally inside a CAT Scan machine at the Ørland base hospital. Sure enough, they could find nothing wrong and it was ruled to be a T.I.A. I was discharged a few hours later from the hospital with prescriptions that made me feel even more wonky than I had been when I went in. That, and many other seemingly pointless episodes caused me to start just shutting up about the minor things I was feeling.
It can be a mixed blessing having a physician in the family at times, especially as one ages. But I refuse to be treated like an old codger, stuffed with never-ending supplies of multi-coloured pills, any sooner than absolutely necessary! Even then, I'm of half a mind to ask Substance to just run us both into a cliff if she's ready to go as well.
Fortunately right now, Substance is focused on flying beside Rökkr, and Árvekni doesn't know to tune in as he sits on the flight deck beside me . . . I hope.
I try to put it all out of my mind, just focusing on the feel of Roana's braided blonde and silver head against my cheek as we peacefully watch the dragons swarm and dive for fish. Curiously however, I see Rökkr pulling out of a dive with Substance, just as they start it, barking at her.
"He doesn't want her diving for fish," I surmise aloud as my mate and I watch.
Roana just closes her eyes though. "Let her fish," she quietly breathes to Rökkr with both her mouth and mind. "She can sense them, too."
It makes me wonder how much Roana can tune into the harmony as I can't help glancing down at her closed eyes.
I just kiss the side of her forehead though as she instinctively tightens her embrace of me. "Roana . . ." I murmur amid my kiss on her temple, almost ready to confess my mild dizziness.
"What . . . ?" she softly replies.
The dizziness is gone now though. "I love you," I simply say instead.
"I love you, too," she warmly says. Her hand reaches up for the side of my face as we draw one another into a kiss. I find myself opening, even to the harmony, amid that kiss. Through Substance, perhaps through Árvekni beside us for all I know, I can sense, even see Roana's beating heart and life essence inside my mind, with vague, ghostly impressions of the blood coursing out through her veins. My perception and skills are continuing to grow, deepening my appreciation and love of her all the more.
"Substance has fish," I quietly smile as our lips remain connected. Roana just sighs warmly as she takes us into a deeper, second round of kissing.
This is life.
— — — — —
A short while later, with the dragons well-sated and our fish lockers filled, "Chief Ýsa, your presence requested on flight deck. Chief Ýsa, flight deck," Spring pages me himself via the ship's PA. Roana and I are down below, helping to pack the cod away in the cold lockers ourselves, even though we don't have to. It's just another wonderful thing about life in Berk. Ashore or at sea, we all share in at least some communal chores, regardless of rank or status.
"Go," my mate encourages me after the page, loosely embracing me as we're both wearing yellow crew bibs and raincoats for handling the cold, slimy fish. "I've volunteered for another shift in Sick Bay anyway. Kleluk's bandages are due for changing."
"Oh," I finally remember, "remind the Barony to send some of the topical ointments with my patented active ingredients in them. They certainly grew skin in my lab cultures in Houston, years ago."
"Already did," she assures as we part. "They should be included in the next supply rendezvous, set for Prudhoe Bay, Alaska."
"Glad something came of all that work," I reminisce.
"A lot of good comes from you," Roana warmly assures, coming back to give me an extra kiss.
"I do love you," I sigh in appreciation as we give each other one more good squeeze. "And Roana," I decide to admit, "I've been having a couple more little dizzy spells the last couple days."
"I'm that much of a pain and worrywart, huh?" she gently questions in my arms.
"I'm sorry," I say as we embrace one another again.
"Date night, later," she simply invites however. "Cabin partition closed. My turn to host and spoil this time."
"I am there, Lady," I assure.
"Mind if we play just a little 'doctor' though?" she hints.
"Under those conditions? You can do whatever you like," I sigh with a smile, barely remembering even why we are parting now as we let go of one another.
"See you for dinner and a house call," she smiles as well, already shedding her yellow raincoat as she goes.
Now why would I want to hide things from her when she turns around and pampers me like that?
Because she wasn't offering exams like that before, the other side of me chimes in.
Roana and I are still growing together. I find myself offering a quick but profound thanks to Spirit as I shed my yellow rubber fishing garb and boots, soon hanging it all in a nearby wash rack for hosing down along with other rubber gear later by crewmembers.
Donning my olive green winter parka hung on a peg, as well as warmer, lined black leather gloves and casual shoes once more, I walk aft along the wide corridor from the storage spaces above and behind the Aft Engine Room, pressing a large red button to one side which opens a broad pair of watertight doors in front of me. Stepping through and re-closing the doors behind me with the press of a button on the other side, I briefly pass through a now mostly vacant and garage-like Mission Space where the cod was initially brought. Its two portals are still open to the sea beyond as several human crewmembers finish hosing down its deck. Even if it wasn't being cleaned at the moment, with the Morning Dawn's crew gone, the dragons and their human companions naturally prefer congregating in the warmer and more desirable large forward lower and main deck berthing areas, or in the main deck crew mess, over having to bed down beside the two eleven-metre RHIBs stored on cradles one in front of the other along the port side of this space.
Turning to ascend the opened ramp up to the hangar, I then turn again and walk out through the large, halfway rolled-up hangar door to the flight deck. Amid a light, whitish-grey sleet that is now falling almost horizontally, I see just Spring . . . and his soccer ball.
"Haven't done this with you in longest time," he invites, standing ready on three paws as he poises with the ball under his fourth. "You defend hangar doorway as your goal, me the stern."
Even though the safety netting and stanchions are locked in their upright positions around the edge of the flight deck, and should catch the ball as long as I kick it low . . . "Get ready to go fishing," I smile as I crouch down at the hangar portal as the Drekar carries us all along at a comfortable eighteen knots.
"You wish!" he challenges, kicking the ball towards me . . . just not all that fast.
"Come on! I'm not that old," I sigh, catching the well-worn soccer ball with my right foot all too easily.
"Just taking it easy on ball," he excuses in jest.
"Well I think it can take a little more than that," I reply, kicking it back harder towards him across the rubbery Neoprene surface. Spring easily catches it under his left forepaw and kicks it back along the surface once more.
"If that's the best you can do," I smile, catching the ball again with my right foot, "you're getting rusty yourself." I now kick the ball harder and higher, sending it headed above the railing. My dragon son catches it with his extended left wing however, smoothly scooping it right back down to his paw. He then kicks it back without delay above the deck as well this time.
"Now that's more like it!" I accept, having to reach to my right to catch the ball with my hands before it sails inside the hangar. "That's the dragon I remember!" I say, kicking it back at him hard, fondly recalling the first time I did this with Spring in the valley fields above our village, back when he was a young Night Fury with no name—at least that I could speak.
He is my son. I find that truth surging throughout my being, bringing a tear of deep appreciation and gratitude to my eye. So much time has passed, so much love has grown. Part of me can't help thinking of being parted from him once more at the end of this mission however, as I go back to New Berk while he remains onboard the Drekar.
I find myself wishing it didn't have to be so. That we could always be father and son . . . together.
That young dragon now morphs back into a grown ship's captain, epaulettes and all, as he kicks the ball up and to my left this time.
Even though it's set to miss the hangar door itself, I rush to the starboard edge of the ship. Raising my arms to catch the ball to avoid it bouncing overboard off the bulkhead, I lean against the upright safety netting stanchions at the edge of the flight deck. Success! The worn ball is tightly gripped between my upraised hands in almost a victory pose.
Suddenly though, a disorienting vertigo floods my head as the world begins spinning around me. "Whoa . . ." I say. My grip unconsciously loosens around the ball as my hands drop. My left hand grips the railing to steady myself. Bouncing once on the railing beside me, the soccer ball falls away, down the side of the ship and into the foaming sea passing beneath.
Even though I am hardly moving, it feels as if I'm spinning faster than a figure skater at the Winter Olympics. I find myself staggering. My left hand shudders, still gripping the railing beside me.
Then, as if inside a dream, I fall over the deck edge rail and netting.
"DAAADD . . . !" I hear Spring's terrified roar echoing as the world turns almost upside down.
The back of my head hits the surprisingly hard and cold seawater while the grey hull of the Drekar speeds by . . .
— — — — —
"Legene . . ." I hear said in Bokmål as I awake, seemingly surrounded by blinding light—but only towards the right though for some reason. "Chief, can you understand me?" the female corpsman then says in English. I see only her head. She is still wearing a surgical mask across her face as she leans over me from the left, flashing a penlight across each of my eyes.
"Yesss . . ." I find myself quietly slurring as I see Roana and Doctor Pedersen, the Drekar's Medical Officer, now appearing over me from the right in blue surgical scrubs as well.
"Ze left pupil is still more dilated than za right," the female corpsman reports. Roana now takes the penlight, flashing it across my eyes a second time to confirm things for herself.
"Wh-What goesss onn?" I now weakly ask.
"Lance," my mate says slowly as she finishes examining my eyes, "you've had a Thrombotic Stroke in your Cerebellum, at the base of your brain. You've been sedated for hours . . . and through surgery, to remove the clot."
"Your wife was lead surgeon," Doctor Pedersen almost smiles in admiration with his mild Norwegian accent.
"Pedersen has just never performed brain surgery," my mate replies, glancing at him, "while I have. Fortunately, I think I did better this time than with Alexi years ago. Looks like pursuing that further medical degree in stages, and some surgical training on the Outside, paid off."
"Wasn't jussst falling offff ship?" I wonder, still fighting off delirium as I blink my eyes.
"Your loss of equilibrium that is controlled from the Cerebellum caused you to fall overboard," my mate answers. "Fortunately Spring dove and caught you, he says practically as soon as you hit the water. You had lost consciousness, but his description of seeing you totter and faint as you fell over the side caused me to scan your Cerebellum, and we found the clot. So our son saved you, in more ways than one."
That briefly causes me to smile. But . . . "Cann't sssee . . . leffft," I then strain to say, looking at her almost at the right edge of my field of vision as I try to see the whole of her face.
"That can't be right," Roana notes with concern, holding up a finger in front of my face. "Look straight up and tell me when this finger disappears," she then instructs, moving her hand and extended index finger across my face towards the left as I strain to focus on them.
"Noww," I say as it disappears into a blackness that now occupies far more of my vision than I can ever remember. I turn my head to see where she is still holding her finger. It is a little ways to the left above my nose.
On the right side of my field of vision, I see Roana pursing her lips, almost subtly grimacing with sad concern. "There is stroke damage to your right Occipital Lobe as well," she says with reluctance. "But I didn't touch that during surgery, and it shouldn't have been affected by the clot we found. Doctor, sonogram. Lance, turn your head to the left," she now directs in quick succession.
She places her hand on the bandages from the prior surgery wrapped about my head as I can vaguely feel the small, rectangular head of an instrument placed against the back of my skull. Moments seem to pass as Roana slowly traces the head of the instrument back and forth against the bandages. While I can't see or sense it, I surmise that she is carefully watching a greatly magnified display of the high-resolution sonogram on an adjacent video monitor.
"There it is," she finally says. "Another clot, and brain damage . . . roughly two centimetres inside the right Occipital Lobe. We're going to have to go back in."
"Should we turn ship around?" I now hear Spring query from beyond the foot of the medical bed I am lying upon. "Head for at least Saint John, Newfoundland?"
"No," I say with all the firmness I can muster as my head still faces to the left.
"Lance, with a second clot," my wife responds, "this is now serious. Very serious. There could be more in your system, headed for gods know where. Our one lab tech can do some of the blood analysis, and we have a basic blood thinner onboard to dose you with . . . but you should be in a hospital, one with advanced facilities. Marta and I would be sending you to at least Ørland's base hospital, even Oslo, if we were back home."
"Morre dragonsss hatch evv'ry day we delay," I slur, still looking off to the side.
"We reach British Columbia, even next year if necessary," my son tries to assure.
"What iff I'm nnot herre next yearr?" I find myself coldly posing, feeling the need to use a trump card to prevent the others from turning us back.
"Lannce be crucial to this journey," I hear Substance say from my left side. Unsteadily, I reach my hand for her, and feel her head meeting it. "His word, his selection of place, carry respect among all. To turn back would show us uncertain, easily dissuaded, less than resolute."
"But if we lose you . . ." my wife quietly tears up, putting her curled knuckles to her mouth, almost trying to muzzle the words.
"Hope onnce did betterr with uss thann inn incubator," I try to assure, slowly turning my head back towards her, also extending my right hand to Roana as she takes it in both of hers. "I do betterr with all you 'round me, thann inn any Outside hospital," I continue, speaking with almost the economy of a dragon now amid my fog of stroke and drugs.
My wife briefly closes her eyes, likely in prayer just as I would be, while holding my hand. "Captain," she finally says, reopening her eyes and staring vacantly downwards at the bulkhead or wall beside me, " . . . maintain course, towards British Columbia. My call. My responsibility."
"That'ss my chief," I gently whisper. "I wannt 'housse call' . . . laterr," I add though.
That causes Roana to smile as she looks at me, even quietly chuckle, grimacing though as some tears trickle from her eyes. She then lowers herself to carefully embrace me, allowing the mate and lover to come through ahead of the surgeon for a brief moment.
"I amm ssso proud of you," I whisper as I weakly bring my arms about her upper back as well. Part of me is now scared of my own mortality, just as I know she is . . . which is why I want her to hear those words, so much.
She moves to share a soft kiss with me on the lips as her tears fall on my closed eyelids. Then, slowly pulling her head back and giving my left cheek a caress with the fingers of her right hand, she and I gaze into each other's eyes, saying everything now without uttering a word, even though I can only see half of her.
Finally, rising upright once more and recomposing herself, "Prepare for surgery," Roana directs.
"Shouldn't you have a break?" Pedersen cautions beside her.
"I've just had one," she calmly replies, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I want to save my husband's eyesight, while we still can. And I want his principal veins and arteries sonogrammed for more clots, along with the rest of his brain."
"That will take time," the Medical Officer cautions.
"Then let's get to it," Roana says, assuming an all-business air. "Corpsmen, move him back to the surgical bay, and get us fresh scrubs."
"Yes m'am," I hear one male corpsman reply.
"We should inform Barony, even Oslo," I hear Spring say as he turns to leave.
"Go ahead," Roana answers as an assistant stands in front, helping her don a fresh surgical gown. "Also, inform them I am now acting chief, until further notice."
"Yes, m'am," my son replies as he exits back into the main deck's central corridor, with Substance following him.
"If they need to talk to me," my mate adds, "it can wait until after the surgery. Tell them in perhaps eight hours."
"Yes, Mom," I think I hear Spring reply from the corridor, with somewhat more concern this time.
My mobile bed is then wheeled back into the ship's fairly compact surgical space. I find myself continuing to quietly smile in admiration at my mate and wife as I am gently rolled over by three pairs of hands onto my stomach upon the padded operating table. My face is positioned to rest within a padded ring poised at a slight downward angle at the table's end, so that the back of my cranium can be worked on once more.
As an oxygen mask is soon placed over my nose and mouth from underneath and the anaesthesia gradually applied, my only thought is, I can't be this old . . .
