I feel myself nestled amid the softest, warmest nook or crevice I could ever ask to be. The left side of my head is surrounded by the sounds, even the sensations of steady breathing and a beating heart.

Am I starting all over again? From the beginning? My awareness seems in flux . . . like such a thing might just be happening.

Don't I deserve at least a little respite in some sort of paradise or heaven before launching into yet another life?

I'm feeling gypped.

"Roanna . . . Roanna," I hear a deep voice say near my head, "Lannce is waking."

The warmth I'm laying against now stretches. I even feel toes pressing against my feet. Bare arms then carefully enfold me as I am ever so gently rocked, even treasured. I relax.

My life as Lance Ýsa, Husa or Hyse is not over yet.

Nothing more is said however as I feel lips kissing my forehead at the edge of some bandaging while I continue to be held and rocked against a bared feminine body.

I am definitely receiving the 'Hope' treatment here—the same physical, nurturing care my mate and I gave our daughter during her 'preemie' stage, even for a good while after that.

"Rrroaaa . . ." is all I can seem to almost croak out of my mouth though, even though the rest of my mind seems fully present and accounted for.

"Shhhhh . . ." I am gently soothed as my gentle rocking continues.

I begin to subtly smile with accepting contentment as I enjoy a relaxed sigh, at least still being able to do these things. But since my mouth won't seem to engage, I reach for Substance behind me with my mind. She can do my talking for now.

But I feel nothing this time. Just blankness.

"What do you want, Lannce?" my dragon wonders however.

I try again, closing my eyes even more tightly in concentration. But my head continues to feel empty, unconnected.

"I sense you just fine, Lannce," Substance assures, moving to wrap her large head behind my shoulders, even giving my back a reassuring nudge with the side of her snout.

I can't feel you, I think with growing distress to my dragon. The harmony . . . it's not there.

I now open my eyes. Blurs of light and dark slowly begin to come into focus. I first see what seems like a light beige cliff filling the left corner of my vision, before I remember I'm lying horizontally. At least I can see across Roana's bared shoulders in full, right from some blurry light freckles or blemishes near my left eye to her far shoulder and beyond to the bulkhead of our cabin, which fortunately comes into sharp relief.

My vision has been restored.

"I feel you," my dragon continues to comfort, continuing to gently nudge my right shoulder and upper arm now with her chin. "Every word you think."

Tell Roana I'm not linking, I mentally request. That I can't feel you or the harmony like I'm used to doing.

"Lannce says he can't connect or feel me with his mind, like he's used to," Substance conveys aloud for me.

"Science hasn't mapped the psychic or even really the language centres of the brain yet," my mate notes as she continues to cradle me against her. "There was a small amount of dead tissue in your Right Occipital Lobe, and I likely had to cut through more than a few neurons. The brain can reroute and rewire itself though, so just rest and maybe give it some time."

"He can see in full again," my dragon reports, having picked up my thoughts, perceptions and even relief. "Thinks your bare shoulders are wonderful sight."

I smile, closing my eyes once more as I nestle even closer against the right shoulder my head is resting upon. My mate's arms, shoulder, and body gently tighten around me in a further embrace. She even quietly chuckles around me.

"How is he otherwise, Substance?" Roana then asks.

"Mouth not talk well," my dragon answers behind me. "But otherwise he seem fully cognizant, relaxed. Feel no aches, pains or numbness within him."

I'm just blind to the harmony now, I can't help mentally chiming in.

"Lannce . . ." my dragon now says seemingly with care. "I sense every thought from you. I hear you. Keep thinking to me. Keep reaching. Keep trying. Our link not broken. Not at all. I'm just bearing it for us right now."

Suddenly, I can't help feeling a deep but silent sadness, closing my eyes more tightly again as I lie against Roana. I feel just a man once more . . . an old man, when I used to be more—able to reach into, even through dragons, at least mine. Almost be one of them.

"He sad, over loss of link," Substance reports.

"I've never been able to do with Rökkr what you say you have with Substance," my mate now soothes. "I know he can sense my every thought and wish. But it's always been one way, not two."

I'm blind though, I can't help thinking as I blink my eyes open once more. Psychicly blind . . . and mute.

"You not mute," my dragon now gently but firmly challenges behind me. "Speak. Exercise brain and mouth. Summon back your abilities. Rebuild them, and grow stronger, like me. Try, and do."

"Aaiiigghhh . . ." I struggle to say. But I can't coherently utter even a single-lettered personal pronoun! I clench my right hand into a fist in frustration, about to pound what it was resting upon.

I stop myself however, realizing that fist is about to pound my wife's bare stomach. I flatten my hand out once more, rubbing Roana's abdomen instead . . . just fairly firmly.

Substance, I now mentally direct, you're speaking for me.

"I speak for you sometimes, Lannce," my dragon replies, allowing Roana an insight into our silent dialogue. "But you keep trying."

I hate the sound I make! This accent! I think in frustration to her. With even my first word, I sound stupid!

"Say it, aloud," my dragon dispassionately challenges.

"AAIIGH HHGHAATE THGHISS ACCGHENNT!" I say with a forcefulness that surprises all of us . . . especially me.

"Well, your voice still works," my mate replies with a degree of understatement.

"Everything okay in here?" Tyrah now wonders, sliding our cabin partition open partway before poking her head around it.

"Ssssorrgh—" I try to apologise, before just turning it over to Substance.

"He says he's sorry," my dragon son, Spring, chimes in however as Tyrah reopens the partition in full between our cabins.

I just sigh, collapsing against Roana under our covers even though I've been lying flat, nestled against her the whole time.

What time is it? I mentally wonder to whichever dragon cares to answer me.

"It Oh Three Thirty," Spring answers as he takes a big yawn from the bedding he shares with Tyrah beyond my feet. "You hungry, Dad?"

I just remain silent this time, even in my thoughts. I hate my body now, how it has betrayed me . . . at least from the neck up. I don't feel like giving it a thing at the moment.

"He would like light meal," Substance decides for me however. "I think midnight snack be good for all of us, as family." Her black head subtly turns towards me above my right side though, quietly challenging me to voice my strong disagreement with her highly inaccurate interpretation of my true wishes.

I just take another sigh, letting everything go as I rest against Roana.

"Be right back," Tyrah cheerily responds. "And Mom—I mean Roana—you and everyone else just stay put. I'll just grab a galley steward to help with the delivery."

"Tyrah," my mate says, briefly stopping the redhead as our new daughter-in-law quickly dons a casual pair of grey crew sweats, "we're going to enjoy having you in this family. I love hearing, 'Mom.' Never heard it enough from my own daughter. Just don't tell her that though."

Tyrah can't help but smile as she now quickly puts on a pair of socks and gym shoes as well for the short trek down to the ship's Crew Mess.

"But just chicken soup, oatmeal and orange juice for Lance at the moment, please," Roana quickly adds. "Make that for me, too—so he doesn't feel deprived."

That forces me to ruefully crack a smile amid my quiet frustration as my mate warmly kisses my forehead.

"You're going on a Mediterranean diet for now, Lance," my mate notes, continuing to cradle me as Tyrah heads out the cabin door, closing it behind her.

"Mehh . . . ?" I wonder. I'm not even going to try pronouncing Mediterranean in full at the moment.

"Plenty of fish and fish oil, to help lubricate those arteries and thin out your blood," she replies. "No more Reindyrstek—thankfully we're out if it anyway—or much of any red meats, gravy, or fats, and light on the salt for right now. Just whole grains, veggies, fruits and fish, with maybe a little red wine now and then."

I just give out another resigned sigh as my reply.

"Hey, I'll do it with you," she assures though. "Just like I am now. You're not alone in this, Lance. Any of it."

"Aaiiigghh . . ." I try to say, before just giving up in frustration, turning and burying my face against her shoulder, with my nose ending up right at her armpit. After thirty-one years, Roana's natural scents are so familiar to me though that I find them comforting. At least I can still smell, along with the other stuff that works within me.

"I love you, too," my mate replies, holding me warmly amid our bedding, even stroking the back of my head. It wasn't what I had intended to say, but right now it'll work. Works just fine, actually.

"It was hell though, doing brain surgery on you for hours more," she continues as her right hand caresses the back of my bandaged head. "It was something seeing inside that brilliant, loving, caring mind of yours. But I couldn't help knowing that I was delving right inside your life . . . even you. One wrong move or a bad slice, and there goes a piece of you. Lost. Maybe even all of you. I just had to keep refocusing on it all as veins, arteries and delicate surrounding tissue.

"But all the while," she sniffs, "those words of yours kept echoing in my head, 'What if I'm not here next year?'

"Lance," she continues, "I know you're just a couple hours out of surgery, and we both need relaxation and rest. But I gotta say it. Those few words of yours . . . they were the most frightening, terrible, even hurtful thing I have ever heard you say."

"Go easy on him, Mom," I hear Spring chime in from beyond my feet.

"You hurt Spring, me, everyone in our family," my wife quietly maintains, her own pain, even subtle anger coming through as she nonetheless holds me. "Spring was even shedding tears as he left."

"He says, 'You're right, I'm sorry,'" Substance responds, conveying my thoughts practically as fast as I can think them.

"Say it with your own mouth," Roana replies somewhat coolly however.

I take a deep breath as I continue lying against my wife. "Aaiigghh'mm sorrrygh," I manage to reply on my own. "Didn'ght waghnnt missshion to faihll becghause ovv mmhee."

"We know you didn't," my mate calmly responds. "But we're not ready to let you go, okay? Even if we have to hollow out the rest of the mountains or build highrise condos for the dragons on New Berk.

"Now I'm the one who's sorry though," she relents to my surprise. "Wanting to keep you alive so I could chew you out over this. It was one of the things that kept me going and focused though as I finally removed that clot blinding you around Twenty-Three Hundred hours, then stinting that small artery closed and carefully backing everything out from inside that thick skull of yours, on top of ultra-sounding virtually your entire brain one more time to ensure we didn't miss any more clots.

"I just wanted to keep having someone to hold in bed at night," she sniffs. "I don't know how I'd sleep otherwise."

Struggling to a degree as Roana's arms loosen around me, I carefully raise myself to eye level beside her in our bedding as she turns her head to look at me. I then just bring my mate into an embrace against my shoulder.

It's the easiest way to apologise to her.

"Dad . . ." Spring now says, moving up along the right side of my legs. I turn my head, straining to raise it a little so I can look down along the quilt at him. He seems like the frightened young dragon I had to comfort so many years ago after I was injured in the snow with Substance during my first winter at New Berk.

"Whhaght hhappenned to balll?" I weakly ask, laying a hand upon the front of his snout.

"It right here," my dragon son replies, briefly backing away as he turns his head to gently pick it up with his mouth, teeth momentarily retracted, from against the bulkhead and windows beside him. Rising and bringing it to me, he lays it with care against my back as I shift, rolling somewhat to take it into the crook of my right arm. "Rökkr find it for us," he adds as Rökkr chimes in with a few mumbled grunts on Roana's far side.

"He says losing ball bigger threat to mission than even your stroke," my dragon son translates. "You keep it safe though, Dad, for both of us," Spring then sniffs however, " . . . until you kick it back to me. It your turn."

With difficulty, I reach past that scuffed and faded white ball dotted with black pentagons. Finally, I touch my dragon son's large head with at least my right hand as he moves himself further toward and even partly over me.

I will be damned if I am taken from him yet . . . from any of my family.

"Aaiigh'm sorrrygh," I repeat once more as Tyrah now reenters with a galley steward carrying our midnight meals on trays.

"Kan du hjelpe meg med ham?" my mate asks in Bokmål, glancing at Tyrah, as Substance moves her head and neck away from me so that our daughter-in-law can kneel down to reach, take hold and assist me from my right side.

Suddenly I feel so useless as I am helped by the two women to sit up and slide back against the side of my dragon. Tyrah even keeps the soccer ball tucked amid the quilting beside me, knowing how important it is to both Spring and myself.

"Aiiigghh . . ." I begin. But I am too embarrassed to finish.

"He needs to go," my dragon finishes for me.

I just look down, dropping my head in further shame.

"Just put a hand under his thigh," my mate gently directs in English, presumably to better let me know what's coming, as I feel Tyrah's hand reach under my right leg. "Let's pick him up on three. Ready?" she pauses as Tyrah nods. "One, two, three."

Still wearing just a hospital gown, I am picked up in a sitting position, my arms spread across the shoulders of the women supporting me as their arms brace my back. They pick my five foot, ten inch frame up with ease. But with both of them being Viking women, I shouldn't be surprised.

I allow my head to droop forward though, subtly shaking it in resignation as I am carried into the head or bathroom that is shared between our two cabins. It's large enough for a dragon—a Night Fury or Gronkle anyway . . . maybe a Nightmare if its tail is curled up. Fitted with sliding doors at opposite ends of the side facing our cabins, the seamless, cream-coloured fibreglass space also doubles as a shower for both dragons and humans. I should feel fortunate, even privileged, that I don't have to be carried along the corridor to the communal heads aft on this deck that occupants of the more junior cabins use . . . but I don't. Only a few days ago, I was riding my dragon in a combat exercise and game, even catching a falling Canadian constable. Now I have to be carried to use a bathroom.

Giving me a little dignity, Roana and Tyrah withdraw, closing the sliding door, and I am left alone for the first time with my own thoughts for a moment. I can't help feeling handicapped now. Invalid, helpless . . . like I've never been before. I don't know if this stroke—these combined strokes really—will heal like the broken bones I've suffered in the past. If I could retire, withdraw, permanently hide, I think I would.

But I know I can't. My family, all of them, won't allow me to. Funny, but that actually makes me smile for the first time amid all I am facing.

As I am ready, even about to call for help again, my dragon reopens the power sliding door with a push of her snout against the handle that actuates it. Even though I mentally cannot feel her, Substance is still tuned into me . . . almost too much so. I just turn my head to look at her as I sit upon a throne in a corner that is anything but regal.

I am gently smiling though. My dragon's face breaks into a subtle, approving smile as well. The first step in my recovery.

Everyone should have a dragon in their lives, not to mention a close family, to keep them on track.

— — — — —

Food. It's a wonderful thing. Even if it's bland and supposedly Mediterranean.

It is the middle of the day now. Substance alone is keeping watch over me as I finish a small midday meal, this time a cup-sized bowl of tomato vegetable soup along with whole wheat toast, sitting up against her side. My hands and arms are working fine for the most part, even though the grip of my left hand was found to be somewhat weak when Roana had me perform a squeeze test a short while ago.

My mate is now down in Sick Bay, assessing the blood samples that she's drawn from me with the lab technician. Spring is on the bridge at the moment, Tyrah is supervising elsewhere around the ship, and I think Rökkr may even be on aerial patrol. Yep, he is. Just saw him wearing his strap, flying by in the distance outside the window.

What day is this? I silently wonder to Substance, setting aside my lunch tray as I pick up my laptop again to resume chronicling my brush with death, or at least with a couple of strokes.

"Don't know," she responds. "Remember, dragons don't count."

Spring does, I mentally note. As captain, he has to at times.

"Takes after you," she snarks. "You infect him."

You know, I continue, I'd give anything, even to silently sense your insults once more.

"Amund didn't very much," she more quietly responds. "When I got irritated with him, I often silently think all sorts of dragon invectives."

You? Get mad at Amund? I silently wonder, casting a glance her way.

"Part of love," my black dragon companion responds, almost with a shrug. "Everything open to one another, inside and out. 'Why they not see it my way?' you wonder. 'Why my love not think like me?' That your heart open—it make both good and bad come out easily. Amund love me, even my irritated self. My irritations, even insults . . . they just made him smile.

"He was man of infinite patience," she sighs. "He calmed me, even held me back from myself—which is why I 'lost it' so bad as you say, after he die.

"But I won't do it," Substance then notes out of the blue.

Do what? I think as I continue reviewing my electronic journal here on the laptop.

"Run you and I into a cliff," she replies. "I won't do it . . . ever."

Well, rules that out then, I silently note with a sigh. Care to tell me why?

"Amund never get chance to grow old with me," she answers. "He talk of actually looking forward to becoming infirm, being cared for amid family, as our ancestors have always been. That was heaven he wanted, even more than Asgard. Simple expressions of love. That is heaven you have, Lannce. No grandchildren yet, but they come, one way or another. You cannot throw away gift he desire so much. I won't let you."

It's Day 36, I realize, splitting my screen as I scroll back to the most recent reference.

"This why dragons not count," Substance almost snorts with irritation.

— — — — —

Roana soon returns though, along with Spring and Tyrah to my surprise, considering it's early afternoon according to the clock on my laptop. All of them have somewhat subdued, even serious looks on their faces, which gives me some concern.

"I take over, Mom," Spring offers aloud to Substance.

Moving my meal tray further to the side on the quilt bedding, and my laptop out of the way as well for a moment, Roana takes me into an embrace to gently pull my upper body forward from Substance's side. I can't help once more feeling like a lifesize human rag doll.

"Thannks," Substance almost grunts in English, rising onto her legs, stretching and flexing her body to a degree behind me. "Been in that position since last night."

"Go," my dragon son encourages. "Rökkr waiting for you at hangar. Take you for exercise flight."

That causes Substance to pause amid her first step to move around and away from me however. Even yesterday, I could just tune in and understand the reasoning behind anything my dragon did. Now, my mind is quiet, even silent. Yet somehow, the reason and understanding are still there.

"We will fly again," my dragon companion assures.

"Aiigh knough," I quietly reply, finding what I can only call a peaceful resignation with my situation and condition now.

Substance then carefully steps her large body around me, tapping into me, perhaps even others, so she can confidently place her large legs and paws along my right side, knowing that she won't be stepping on me, or even the soccer ball. My son then moves in between the rear bulkhead and myself right behind her. Substance even orients herself towards the door to the corridor, but then pauses again.

Surmising she is waiting for the offer of a sighted escort down to the hangar, I just glance towards Tyrah and then tip my head with a glance back towards Substance.

"Let me take you down to Rökkr," our daughter-in-law offers.

"Thannks," Substance simply accepts as Tyrah then steps forward, opening the door and leading her out. Tyrah moves back past Substance in the corridor though as the rest of us see her head briefly smiling before she shuts the cabin door behind my dragon.

Still wearing his naval epaulettes, Spring is now lying down behind me as Roana eases me against him. Having a family of dragons to recline against, even the captain of this ship . . . I find myself quietly moved with a surprising degree of gratitude.

"Shhurre yough donn't hhavve mmorre immportant thhings to bhe doinngh?" I wonder, turning my head towards my son.

"Just returning favour," he warmly assures, "for you taking care of me while Tyrah absent."

I briefly smile.

"Besides," he then adds in a seemingly more serious tone though, "we have something to discuss, and prepare you for."

"Preghpare . . . ?" I wonder, wanting to say more but finding it just not worth the effort.

"Lance," Roana says carefully as she also sits back against Spring beside me, "Jarldis . . . she has died, just hours ago." My mate then takes a cautious breath, which surprises me as the baroness' death had not been all that unexpected, given both her advanced age and recent infirmity. "Spring came and got me from Sick Bay so that Oleg could advise me personally, via videolink in the radio alcove."

"Whhaght's problehm?" I ask, using a minimal amount of words, but guessing something is still not right amid the sad news.

"Although she had naturally tried," my wife continues, "as you know, Jarldis never had any offspring . . . any heirs. It's probably why she treated both me, and later Hope, as family—close family.

"Her will," Roana carefully resumes, "lays out a requested succession, but a faction of the Baronial hierarchy and administration are opposing it."

"Bureaucraghts," I sigh. "Wgho izz tghe heirr, and wgho izz challenghing?"

"Hope is Jarldis' requested heir and successor," my mate replies to my inward shock, " . . . and the challenger is your son."

"Rhonahld," I sigh, looking out a window, now dismayed as well as surprised.

Another Ýsa succession conflict. This time it's worse than that of my great-grandfather because it's affecting the whole of the Barony, and our nation's future. It is just what I least wanted. But I am the cause of it, even its father.

Ronald. I could pose the same question concerning him that I did in trying to summarize Spring's progress several chapters ago in this journal . . . where do I begin?

Only this time, it's not so good.

A parent can't help but love most any child they bring into the world. Perhaps I should have snatched Ronald away when he was little from Melanie and Douglas that day three decades ago in the Kafé Berk at Wønur, consequences be damned. Even Melanie might have been grateful in the end.

Ronald had continued to be raised after that, knowing he was not Douglas' son. His family having moved with Baronial help to Sweden, he grew up with the oversight, even periodic involvement of our Outside Guardians. Melanie however, always chasing status and image, became enamoured with the European upper class ideal of boarding schools, at least and especially among boys. Since the Barony itself had no such schools, and didn't really believe in breaking children from their families for education or any other reason until adulthood, Ronald was sent to a succession of boarding or 'public' schools as the British call them from just the fourth grade, while Melanie and Douglas doted on his younger half-sister Alexandra, keeping her at home with them in Sweden throughout her youth.

I should have taken Ronald, brought him to New Berk at fourth grade. He would likely have had a wonderful childhood with the dragons.

But I didn't. Melanie was Ronald's custodial parent, and part of me didn't want to tear him between two still fairly separate worlds, especially at such a young age.

I should have fought for him though. I should have fought for him.

Roana and I did make periodic trips to see Ronald however, even at Britain's prestigious Eton College for Boys. We would take him out for weekends away from school, try to give him a semblance of close family life and talk with him to see where he was.

Each time we saw him though, he was becoming more and more distant, feeling he had no one to trust to always be with him—no one to rely on but himself amid the rivalry and hazing that can occur in such schools.

He masked it to Melanie through being a brilliant student, as both of his parents had been. That was all my ex-wife seemed to care about. But over time, and in hindsight, I could see a darker side emerging.

When I finally sent for Ronald, had Outside Guardians bring him to New Berk at the customary age of seventeen, to reveal his other heritage and lineage in full, he seemed to react surprisingly like Ran had . . . stand-offish, untrusting of the dragons. He wasn't surprised by them however.

"I can do more for them on the Outside," he had calmly said to me, "like Hope." Being on the Outside herself through the latter part of her adolescence, and in a top-tier private school as well—Hope, ever the bridge-builder, had already made it her job, her mission, to keep Ronald connected to our family . . . more than a little like Ebeneezer Scrooge's younger sister, Fan. I had read Dickens' classic 'A Christmas Carol' aloud to our family during a number of Yules over the years while Hope was growing up with us at New Berk. She had always felt for young Ebeneezer in that story when his sister came to rescue him from school, later telling me she was doing just the same thing for Ronald. Hope even convinced the baroness to take him in and see that he was schooled in Oslo with her for his final year before university—just in different classes as they were a year apart.

I gave my daughter my full blessing and encouragement. I even wished I could tear myself away from a growing and changing New Berk to do part of the work myself in giving Ronald the stable and comforting sense of family that even Substance perceived he had long been lacking. But I felt Hope would do an even better job than I could.

Part of me was at a loss though as to why Ronald's other family wasn't seeming to relate well to him. My other half cynically chalked it up to being a double-standard and favouritism—perhaps even animus from Douglas towards a son that wasn't his. But Melanie had never been one for closeness and empathy—Alexandra was certainly not very warm and empathetic as she grew up like our Hope was—and Melanie's brief exposure to dragons could only bring her that way so far, likely just temporarily. At least she was remaining loyal to the Barony and our tribe. We were providing my ex and her family with a good life and career, after all—not that she and Douglas weren't also serving to enrich Gerhard Industries with their technical work and innovations in return.

Living for just a year in the Oslo region though, via the baroness, Ronald was exposed to all the workings of the Barony, and the Gerhard conglomerate of companies that supported it all. While Hope decided that diplomacy for the Barony and our tribe was her calling, Ronald decided that business was his. He founded his first venture, two of them actually, while he was still in university—Oxford, because he had come to prefer the English language. While both his ventures were in high tech, developing proprietary algorithms he later sold at a tremendous, even perhaps obscene profit, Ronald was the master strategist and deal-maker . . . a charming 'diplomat' of business, not unlike his half-sister Hope in that regard. He merely hired engineers and technical talent from among his fellow students for everything else.

That he didn't pay or share much of the spoils with his associates though should have further tipped me off.

No sooner had he graduated with a Masters degree in Business than he effortlessly stepped into the chairmanship and presidency of a small, but multi-faceted and rapidly growing conglomerate that he created from the proceeds of his first two ventures. He established his headquarters in Stockholm, along with having a lavish house built on several hectares of land out in the nearby Swedish countryside, all for himself alone. "More space than the Netherlands offers," he once told me on a visit, "despite the higher taxes. But I'm working around that." He had acquired his mother's taste for living well, and was by then very un-Berker in outlook and attitude.

Seeing his then new house on our last visit with him, Roana and I quietly decided that we couldn't stand to be there for more than a single afternoon—despite being annual, even semi-annual guests at the far more opulent royal palace in Oslo for many years, at the regular invitation of the Norwegian king and queen. It was the energy, the atmosphere in Ronald's house that served to repel my mate and I. Cold, abstract black and white art lined its sterile white walls along echoing corridors, and there wasn't much of any carpeting over the black marble floors. His small household staff of a valet, housekeeper and cook—presumably some of whom also had security training and qualifications—never seemed very happy. The furniture in the house was beyond stylish and trendy, but quite uncomfortable to actually use—except for the single large armchairs Ronald would use himself. All of it just caused me to largely write my human son off at that point. Hope could deal with him, especially as she still wanted to. She had also assured me he would not betray the dragons or their secret, and that she would ensure he continued to do so.

The ending of that afternoon at his house just became very uncomfortable. "I'm frankly disappointed with the direction, the path, you have chosen in life, Ronald," I quietly told him as Roana waited with our Outside Guardian security contingent just beyond the front door. That he was now my height, and even looked a fair bit like me, complete with medium-length wavy brown hair, was further chilling.

"Why?" my grown human son asked with the mild, upper-crust British accent he had acquired over his years of schooling there. "I am simply doing in business what you have done out there in the wilderness—assemble an empire."

"That's not what I've done," I replied, shaking my head.

"Of course it is," he countered. "You fought off enemies to establish your leadership. You control the world's largest tribal sovereign wealth fund and syndicate. You are personal friends with royalty, as well as military leaders across a number of countries. Plus you have it all for life, Father. I envy you, I truly do. Mother is satisfied with her moderate wealth and accomplishments at work. But you, Dad—you have real wealth, and power. Power and respect that can never be taken from you. That's what I want in life . . . especially after what I've been through to get where I am," he finished more quietly, briefly looking down.

I should have hugged him.

I should have hugged him . . . even plunged a syringe into his neck and taken him away drugged back to New Berk with me, right in that moment.

But I didn't. All I did was to shake his hand with a tear of regret in my eye.

After Roana and I left him, his own conglomerate, his corporate empire grew, rapidly. Naming it Ýsa Industrier or 'Ýsa Industries' in Swedish—I couldn't legally stop him in time from reserving and using the family name, especially once he took it as his own—I should have seen where he was heading with that as well. His corporation took over company after company though, across both Scandinavia and Europe, almost like a spreading cancer—with surprisingly little resistance from the boards of directors of the enterprises he was targeting.

All he had to do was show them money. Lots of it. Principle, even nationality, as well as the welfare of the employees and communities that counted on those companies . . . none of it seemed to matter in the face of the almighty krone, euro, pound or dollar.

"Oleg wants to speak with you," Spring now says next to me, jerking me back to the present.

"Mmghee?" I slur, but with my eyes widened in further surprise.

"Lance," my mate echoes, "you're needed back on the job. Now. You're the one who needs to counter your son among the Barony. They'll listen to you, far more than they will to me."

"Aighh cghann't sspeaghk lighke thhiss," I object, looking down.

"You must be Guardian for us once more," my dragon son also urges. "Our tribe, our people need you, as much as we did thirty years ago. Only you can counter money and allure my stepbrother tempts Outside Berkers with.

"That why I support you now," he adds with quiet pride. "It most important thing I can be doing today."

"It is," Substance agrees, reopening the cabin door, obviously never having taken her flight.

I close my eyes, summoning a strength to me by force of will alone, even though my mind cannot feel it the way I'm used to.

I cannot let my family or people down . . . any of them.

— — — — —

"Chief on the bridge," I hear as both Substance and Roana support my shoulders, helping me enter that space barely on my feet. Even though ace bandaging is still wrapped around my head and partway down the back of my neck, covering my closed surgical incision, I am once again in full village clothing, even wearing a flying jacket and my strap and badge of office. Spring is at the other corner of my back, pressed close beside Substance. The tip of his snout is pressing firmly against me just above my hips as my legs and feet take halting steps.

We stop at my mental command and a visible nod of my head as every crew member on the bridge turns toward me.

"Evvryghonne . . ." I begin to say. I then silently break down though, dropping my head, grimacing at the hideous speech my mouth is making.

"It's alright," Tyrah assures, stepping in front of me in her customary khaki uniform and black sweater with gold-striped epaulettes. "You're still our chief . . . and we need you."

As I look around beyond her, I can see uncertainty in the eyes of the other crew members, even fear. Rumours have obviously already been flying in the wake of the baroness' death, even reaching the Drekar an ocean away.

As Roana, Substance and Spring continue supporting my sides and even back, I raise my arms to draw Tyrah into an embrace, a tight embrace. I quietly weep now, knowing what everyone expects of me, even needs me to do for them . . . for all of us.

"Rrghadio, phlease . . ." I now direct though, recomposing myself as even Tyrah helps to turn and orient me towards the alcove abaft the bridge where the radio console is. Substance, I then mentally order, be ready to speak my thoughts without interruption if I need it. No debate this time.

"Yes, Chief," she replies, following closely behind me.

Carefully, I am helped to sit down upon a chair at the radio panel as the radioman on duty makes way for me.

"Minn herr," he radios, looking at the small camera above a video monitor as he switches that monitor on, "her er sjef." The radioman then takes off his headset, putting it on my bandaged head, even positioning its small microphone in front of my mouth. I glance uncertainly between Roana and Substance on either side of me, wishing one of them would take the headset. But it won't fit on Substance, and Roana has already likely spoken with whom I'm being connected with.

"Chief!" Oleg's videoed image now smiles at me as the screen comes to life.

"Aighh'vve hghad a stroghke," I warn as best I can, trying to sit more upright in the chair.

"I know, sir," Oleg swiftly responds. "We all do. But you do not know how strong you still are among us—how much weight whatever you say will still carry with our people."

"Sitchuasshion," I direct, asking him to get to the point, and skip past all the personal encouragement for the moment.

"Your son, Ronald, sir," Oleg now carefully says, "he is openly contesting the baroness' will and designated successor, legally in Norwegian courts, claiming to be fighting on behalf of the tribe to give them the opportunity to choose a successor through open nomination at the upcoming tribal ting or assembly. At the same time, he is also making an unexpected buyout offer . . . for all of Gerhard Industries. He appears to be leveraging much of his bid, but he's offering one and a half times the corporation's value. He's even promising a bonus dividend—a sizeable one—to every tribal citizen, once he acquires control.

"He has gone on television," my Outside Guardian continues, "both through interviews, and paid air time—carefully doing so even prior to the baroness' death. He has been expertly capitalizing on his Ýsa lineage, saying he is your true heir, and that our Berk nation needs strong leadership that has fought battles in the arena of international commerce. He is also claiming that both the Barony and Gerhard Industries have been managed inefficiently, stating that assets have been hoarded by tribal leadership, rather than shared broadly with all the citizens they're supposed to benefit.

"He has allies and admirers, even within the administration," Oleg now notes more quietly, his eyes briefly darting off to the sides. "I am quietly rallying support for your side as well, sir. But it's already the most divided I've ever seen us. We should have done more, prepared more, while the baroness was alive.

"I take partial blame, sir," he offers. "You can fire me, if you want."

"Nough," I reply, clearly shaking my head as I look at the camera and screen. "Aighh nneed yough."

"Know then that Ronald is taking off by air tonight . . . to meet with you," my Guardian continues. "He intends to rendezvous with the Drekar by helicopter when you call at Prudhoe Bay, the day after tomorrow. He will likely—"

"Claighm hhe hass mghy blessingh," I interrupt, "whether Aighh ghivve iht ohr nought, ihntenghding to cahpitalize ohn mhy cuhrrent cohndition. Aighh knough mhy sohnn.

"Havve broadcahst capabighlities stanndingh bhy forr mghe iff neehded, fromm herre," I then direct with a slight struggle, both to Oleg and even to Spring and the radioman around me. "Staygh ihn Ohslo, Ohlegg. Aighh wihll issue a letter ovv oppositiohn to ahny sahle ovv Gerhard Ihnduhstries by Bahrony. Azz chief in fahct, Aighh forbhid iht. Ahnyohne wgho disahgrees cahn tahke iht to courht."

"Yes, sir," Oleg now smiles. "I hope you don't mind, but I've been recording our conversation here, and will be selectively releasing it to encourage, even embolden our allies across the Barony."

"Aighh'mm nnot surhprised," I subtly smile.

"You don't mind?" he double-checked.

"Assuhre everyghone this chief ihs nought ghonne, juhst strohked," I reply. "Aighh whill fight forr ourr peohple. Aighh sweahr."

I am now practically mobbed with hugs and nudges on all sides by the rest of my family.

Even though my mouth doesn't work very well, I can only know of rather than feel my link with the dragons in my life, and my left side is still weak . . . I'm me again.

I'm me.

— — — — —

It's later and I'm back in our family's quarters now, typing this all out on my laptop before there's any chance of my forgetting it. I don't feel any holes in my memory, but I don't entirely trust it at the moment. If all else fails, I want this journal to be an official record and expression of my wishes if I should be further incapacitated.

I have a new pillow though as I relax, semi-reclining, typing this . . . Roana herself, who is relaxing against Rökkr this time. We humans are just warmly wrapped in quilts, nothing else. Roana is still hugging me, occasionally rubbing my shoulders, upper body, even my bandaged head . . . just carefully. She hasn't let go of me though since I talked with Oleg in the radio alcove.

She's even kissing my ear again as she reads this over my shoulder.

"Ahll Aighh dihd whas tallk," I remind her as we both look at this screen.

She just joyously rocks us both side to side, hugging me tightly. "You have never looked, or sounded, more determined," she assures. "As weak as you may have thought you were, you have never been stronger."

"Aighh see Rhonahld ihn two dayghs though," I sigh, just relaxing and savouring my wife's embrace of me. "Aighh dohn't knough howw Aighh cahn stop hhim iff hhe remaihns deterrmined. Hhe cahn ouhtmahnoeuvre mhe ohn the Ouhtside, lehgahlly, evehn tahcticahlly."

"A way will be found," my mate quietly assures as she continues gently rocking me from behind. "A way will be found."