Hi! Thank you for reading, and I hope you stay for the continuation of this story. Fair warning, English is not my first language, and I do not have a Beta reader, so any mistakes are on me. If you spot any of them, please let me know! Also, I hope to follow this story through the second and third movies and into all of the series' - Race to the Edge is a masterpiece, and no, I will not take criticism of this.
I do have one request from you, though; please do not be a silent reader. Please interact with this fic. Tell me what you love, tell me what you hate; critique is welcomed! (I mean, I'll cry about it, but I promise, I will get over it.) The internet raised me and left me with the endless quest of seeking validation online.
Without further ado, enjoy!
There was nothing quite as exciting as a dragon attack, Hela Haddock thought as she ran to the front door. Opening it quickly, the fifteen-year-old was met with a low flying Monstrous Nightmare chasing sheep, greeting her with a breath of fire.
She shut the door, leaning against it as she counted to five, barely containing her smile, listening to the screeches of the dragons and the battle cries of her people. The thud of a frozen sheep echoed through the wall.
Frantically anxious to join the fray, she ripped the door open and ran out again. Immediately, she was met with pure Viking chaos. It was like regular chaos, but in a specific Viking kind of way, men and women cursing dragons as if they could understand their language. The smell of burning wood invaded her senses, and the heat of the fire-eating at their village caused her eyes to dry as the flames licked the dark morning sky. One of the many positive things that came from dragon attacks was that it was the only time of year they would feel that pleasantly warm instead of the biting cold that always seemed to hang over Berk.
This is Berk. It's twelve days north of hopeless and a few degrees south of Freezing to Death. It's located solidly on the Meridian of Misery.
Hela giggled as she spots two older Vikings warming their rears as their house burned down.
My village. In a word, sturdy. And it's been here for seven generations, but every single building is new. We have fishing, hunting, and a charming view of the sunsets.
She had to fight to keep her amusement quiet when she saw one Viking lose his axe to a Gronkle as he was defending the barrel of fish behind him. He grabbed one of the longer fish and started fighting off the Grinkle with it, swinging left and right, never managing to hit the dragon as it kept its gaze on the fish dangling in front of it. The dragon lunged and swallowed the fish in one bite.
The only problems are the pests. You see, most places have mice or mosquitoes. We have, well, we have dragons.
A Deadly Nadder suddenly dove down, forcing Hela to duck, and grabbed one of the panicking sheep. Without hesitating, one of the other Vikings jumped to fight for it. However, it was a fight he lost as the Nadder took him along for a ride.
Most people would leave. Not us. We're Vikings. We have stubbornness issues.
Hela stopped, watching only for a moment, as the Viking kept fighting, before turning down the familiar route to the forge.
My name's Hela. Great name, I know. But, it's not the worst. Parents believe a hideous name will frighten off gnomes and trolls. Like our charming Viking demeanour wouldn't do that.
A dragon shot at a building, the explosion sending Hela tumbling around. She had just gotten her balance when she was tackled to the ground.
"Argh!" the Viking yelled, frightening Hela. She calmed down, recognising him as Ack the Ridiculously Clumsy but Still Rather Nice. As his given name suggested, he was ridiculously clumsy but still rather nice. Tackling her was probably an accident and had nothing to do with how Hela was responsible for some of his sheep only have wool on the front of on their bodies. "Morning!"
He leapt away. Hela lied there, willing her heart to calm down. She didn't get the chance as a Gronkle spewed next to her, sending her rolling away. Clumsily, she got to her feet and continued on, heading towards a group of Vikings.
It wasn't long before the ever-familiar complaints reached her ears as she ran towards her destination.
"What are you doing here?" came the shouting voice of Hoark the Haggard, looking quite haggard as he passed her.
"Get inside!"
"What are you doing out?"
Hela was tempted to reply, say something along the lines of, It's not like I'm the one fixing your weapons during the fight.
She didn't get the chance to, as Phlegma the Fierce, looking particularly fierce with her patented glare as she shouted, "Get back inside!"
Cowed, Hela smiled sheepishly at the scolding look the shieldmaiden shot her, shrugging her shoulders, before continuing her run.
She was just about to cross a path when a big hand grabbed her by the collar of her shirt, just in time to miss the Deadly Nadder spitting fire on the spot she just stood.
"Hela!" came the deep voice of the Berkian Chief, Stoick the Vast. Still keeping her collar in his hand, he picked her up and turned her to face him. It was a testament to how often this happened: Hela didn't even feel uncomfortable facing the chief up close with her feet dangling in the air. "What are you doing out? Get inside!"
Stoick set her down gently, pushing her slightly, a silent command to go and turned away. Hela walked a few steps before stopping to stare as Stoick threw a cart into the air.
They say that when he was a baby, he popped a dragon's head clean off of its shoulders. Do I believe it?
A dragon spiralled to the ground.
Yes, I do.
Awed and driven, Hela sped up, dodging between angry axe swinging Vikings and angry fire breathing dragons. It was a constant toss-up who Hela thought was going to kill her first. Her foot caught on a rock, and she fell once again.
"Ah, gods," she hissed, sitting up and rubbing at her knees. "I must be the only Viking that gets more bruises from the ground than from fighting a dragon."
Hela was just about to stand up straight when a muscular arm wrapped around her middle, dragging her to the ground.
The air rushed from her lungs as she fell onto her back, scrunching her eyes shut at the sudden explosion erupting a few meters away from her. A heavyweight kept her down, a boy's body curling protectively towards her. They stayed there until the fire died down before opening her eyes.
The boy above her was watching the flames but Hela didn't need to see all of him to know who he was. The particular jawline and side profile had been one of her favourite things the draw ever since she turned thirteen.
She blushed, the redness of her cheeks having nothing to do with the heat of the burning buildings and allowed her mind to drift, imagining him looking at her with worried blue eyes – like the sky, particularly the shade of blue that came around midday during the rare summer days they got – and asking her softly "Are you okay?"
Instead, all she got was an irritated glare. "Are you out of your Thor forsaken mind? Why are you outside?"
Her fantasy shattered into a thousand pieces. Or maybe that was a nearby window breaking.
"I would have already been inside if you people," Hela glared pointedly to where he kept her down, "would stop knocking me down."
As if he had she was poisonous, Aron Hofferson took his hands off her, leaping gracefully to his feet. Hela shot him a baleful look; oh how she wished she could move the way he did.
"If I hadn't, you would have been a dragon snack," Aron said, holding out a hand to help her out.
Hela ignored it, knees shaking as she got up, grumbling about how she would be a dragon meal, not a snack, thank you very much. In a very Viking way, she stubbornly ignored that he was right and dusted herself off. Not that it helped much, with all the dirt being kicked up into the air and the soot raining down.
Aron didn't give her a chance to continue. With an unimpressed look on his face, he pointed towards the forge. "Inside now! Gods forbid I have to tell your dad you've been killed!"
The boy ran off just in time to miss the way Hela scrunched her nose at his command. He was just as old as she was! He had no rank to command her of anything.
"Gods forbid I have to tell your dad you've been killed!" she mocked to his fading back. Like a dragon would be the thing to kill her. It was farr more likely that Hela would trip off a cliff before a dragon got anywhere near her. Her father had saved her from that multiple times.
Another house burst into fire, startling Hela into moving.
Within a few turns, Hela was at her destination.
She rushed to it and was immediately welcomed to the warmth of the forge. It was different from the dry heat of a burning village, resembling the low fire of a dying campfire.
"Ah! Nice of you to join the party! I thought you'd been carried off!" said Gobber, beating away at a sword.
Gobber had no beard but his moustache was as long as one whilst braided, one that was constantly swinging around yet was never caught in the fire of his forging. He was a one-legged, one-armed Viking with the ability to change his chosen hand on his amputated arm. He preferred a hook, said it was easier to gut disobedient children with it. Hela didn't get it; she was the only child he spent any of his time with. At the moment, however; he was using one of his many hammers to bend the glowing metal to his will.
Hela set to work, putting on the apron with quick and practised fingers before walking to her station. "What, who me?" Hela waved his question away. "Nah, come on! I'm waaaay too muscular for their taste. They wouldn't know what to do with all…" She gestured towards her skinny, unassuming, and decidedly unmuscular frame. "This!"
Gobber was amused. "Well, they need toothpicks, don't they?"
"You're so funny Gobber," Hela said. "Ever consider comedy?" Leaning heavily on the wooden window coverings, Hela opened her station and saw the line of anxious Vikings – some were holding broken weapons, while other's fidgeted uncomfortably without theirs. Obviously, they had been lost. Hela hoped for their sake that it had gone missing during the current raid rather than any of the previous one or due to any acts of stupidity: Gobber was strict about his weapon distribution. If people didn't follow his rules, well – Hela winced – it's a known thing that he took late payments and punishment in the form of teeth.
Quickly she set to work. She took the broken and blunt weapons first and gave them replacements. As they ran off to join the fray, Hela was quick to help the weaponless Vikings – every one of them were all too quick to reassure her of when they had lost it – and gave them new ones. When the line diminished, Hela was set to fix the given weapons, mainly consisting of axes and hammers bigger than she was.
Another building exploded.
With it came the one chosen to set the fires out, and Hela couldn't help but linger at the smithing window to watch them work. One by one, they stepped forward to throw their buckets of water to extinguish the fire.
Fishlegs Ingerman ran first, carrying the largest bucket of them all. He was the biggest of the bunch, tall enough to look most adults in the eyes if he didn't insist on slouching the way he did. Aside from his size, Fishlegs was the least threatening of them all with his blonde hair, chubby cheeks, lack of neck, and intelligent eyes. If you ever needed information about dragons, then he was the one to ask. Once there was a time Hela would've considered him a friend, but that was back when they were seven.
Snotlout Jorgensen followed. He was her cousin, a short and beefy boy with dark hair and hard fists. His father always bragged to her father that Snotlout was everything a Viking should ever be. It always to everything in her to keep her snickers quiet at the constipated look on her father's face; the one that said 'I disagree, but I'm not going to say it.' The assessment that her father agreed with was hers: Snotlout was mean and stupid most of the time. While she never told her father of it, Snotlout was also a bully, and Hela was his all-time favourite victim.
Hela couldn't help but groan as the Thornston Twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, stepped forward. If there ever was someone who did more damage to the village she did, then it was them. The biggest difference was that Hela did it accidentally while they set out to destroy it. Ruffnut was a girl, and Tuffnut was a boy, but it was easy to see that they were twins. They wore their hair long in distinctive styles – Ruffnut wore hers in three thick braids while Tuffnut wore his loose in a not yet matted style. Devious and sneaky, they used their limited intelligence in the name of mischief. A popular rumour was that Loki chose them as his apprentices, which the twins were delighted by.
Then there was Aron Hofferson. The world seemed to slow down as he threw his bucket in a much more elegant way than the others. Hela couldn't help but sigh dreamily.
Now, he, Hela thought, was everything a Viking needed to be.
Brave and intelligent, Aron was the most popular boy of their age. He was only nine when he was allowed to work during the dragon attacks, instead of remaining in the Great Hall like the rest of the children, old, and the selected shieldmaidens to protect them. It also didn't help that he was beautiful. It wasn't a word Hela would use to describe a Viking man, but it suited him with his braided blonde hair and muscular shoulders that lead to muscular arms – arms that were around her just a few minutes ago! – that seemed to shine in the dancing firelight, and his steady brow that was always set in a determined glare, and Hela didn't think he even knew that he pouted when he did that –
"You're not going anywhere." Gobber's voice broke through her admiration, lifting her by the collar of her shirt. She really wished people would stop doing that. Unknowingly, she had been leaning out of the smithing window as she watched the only other kids her age run away.
"Oh, come on." Hela groaned, feet dangling in the air. "Let me out, please? I need to make my mark!"
Gobber dropped her on the ground, lifting his brows as she stumbled to stay upright. "Oh," he drawled. "You've made plenty of marks. All in the wrong places!"
"Please, Gobber," she said, widening her eyes and linking her fingers in front of her chest. "Two minutes. I'll kill a dragon and my life will instantly get better. People might actually start to like me. Hel, I might even make a friend." Gobber looked offended at her last sentence. "You know what I mean. A friend my own age."
"Look, kid," Gobber said. "You can't lift a hammer, you can't swing a sword, never mind an axe."
"Actually," Hela interrupted. "I can lift a hammer. I've worked in the smithy since I was ten. I wouldn't have lasted this long if I couldn't."
"Fine." Gobber conceded, shaking his head. "But you can't even throw one of these." The older man lifted a bola from his working table. Another Viking leaned in from the smithy window, grabbed it and threw it at the nearest dragon. Both Gobber and Hela watched as the man hit his target, the dragon landing on the ground.
"Ok, ok, I admit, I can't do that," Hela said. "But this could do it for me." She gestured to a covered contraption, one of her own designs, and removed the dusty sheet to show him her machine.
"Impressive," Gobber said, unimpressed.
Hela ignored him.
"I call it the Pitching Bola," she said, patting it proudly.
Suddenly, the machine opens and shoots a bola, hitting an approaching Viking.
"See, this is what I'm talking about," Gobber said, watching the crying Viking with disgust.
"Mild calibration issue-"
Gobber shook his head. "No, Hela." He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his one good hand. "If you ever want to get out there to fight dragons, you need to stop all... this." He wave his hands over her figure.
Hela's heart sank. She knew that most people didn't like her as she was, but she never expected Gobber to be one of them. "But, you," she stammered, "you just pointed to all of me."
The older man nodded, seemingly satisfied that they were on the same page. "Yes," he cheered. "That's it! Stop being all of you!"
What Hela wouldn't give to stop this sick feeling in her stomach. It was disappointing to realise that not even her only friend – an uncle who had just as much of a hand in raising her as her father did – accepted her for who she is.
"Oooh." She tried to play it off, her smile shaky at best.
"Ohh, yes," Gobber hummed.
"You sir, are playing a dangerous game". She pointed to him, hands flailing through the air as she continued, "Keeping this much, raw Viking-ness contained? There will be consequences!"
Gobber rolled his eyes. "I'll take my chances. Sword. Sharpen. Now."
Casually he threw a sword towards Hela before turning away. She caught it, knees buckling under the sudden weight and went to get started.
The metal sparked as she held it to the grinding wheel, the familiar motions making it easy for her mind to drift.
One day, she thought, one day I'll be out there.
Killing a dragon was everything on Berk. There were rituals and rites build around it, and even if it didn't involve the actual killing of a dragon, either the blood, bones, scales, horns, or teeth were involved. It was an action that commanded respect, and if it was done memorably, then it might even result in admiration. And to Hela, who was the only person in her age group to be kept inside during the raids, it was the thing she wanted most.
In her mind's eye, Hela could see it: the Berkians cheering her name and impressed Aron fighting his way through the crowd just to see her, as she presented her father, smiling down on her with pride, with the heart of the dragon she had killed. Of which dragon, she didn't know. It constantly changed as she had no actual idea of what a dragon's heart looked like. Nor a human one, for that matter.
Something sharp whistled through the air; the familiar shouting of Vikings telling each other to get down accompanied it.
A large explosion followed, the very earth shaking as the dragon hit its mark.
It shot a spike of excitement through Hela's body.
"A Night Fury!" she whispered, heard by none but herself.
It was a dragon that caused great confusion amongst the people of Berk. The beast never showed itself, never stole food, and had proved time and again that it never misses. It was the ultimate test of strength. No one had ever seen a Night Fury before, never mind kill it.
That's why Hela was determined to be the first.
The previous fantasy shifted; instead of presenting an unknown dragon's heart pt her father, Hela gave him the Night Fury's black pelt. (She assumed it was black, as, unlike the other more colourful dragons, it seemed to blend in with the night sky. Also, it had the word 'night' in it.)
Gobber's voice broke through her reverie. "Man the fort, Hela. They need me out there!" He frantically changed his current extension into an axe. He runs to the doorway, only to stop before he exited, remembering who he was talking to. "Stay. Put. There." He frowned, "You know what I mean." And with a fierce battle cry, and a maniacal grin on a face only a mother could love, Gobber charged into battle.
Hela watched him disappear into the crowd, feeling offended at his orders. What did he think she was, a mindless yak? And really, she intended to stay in the forge; honestly, she swears on the goddess Freya, but now that Gobber told her she should, she didn't feel like staying there any longer.
As quickly as she could, she assembled the Pitching Bola and ran out of the forge, once again falling into the rhythm of dodging Vikings and dragons. This time, however, she was met with the challenge of keeping the Pitching Bola upright. To many, it would be easy, but Hela had the added problem of keeping herself upright most of the time.
Some people spotted her as she ran past them.
"Hela! Where are you going?"
"Come back here now!"
Hela ran faster, hoping to escape any of the Vikings before they gave chase.
"Yeah, yeah," she shouted back. "I'll be right back!"
With that, she escaped into the night, heading towards one of the quieter clearings she knew of.
Contrary to many of the Viking's popular beliefs, they were pretty predictable. Dragons kept mostly to similar spots where it was easier to steal food, such as the coast where they kept their fish, and the village surroundings of farms, where they kept just about any animal they ate: sheep, chicken, and yak. And wherever the dragons go, the Vikings followed. This was how Hela knew the small hill surrounding the village would be clear of any Vikings and buildings, and with the fire of the town lighting up the night sky, it would be the perfect place for shooting down a dragon.
Granted, if they flew by.
Hela rushed to get the Pitching Bola ready, listening to the distant sounds of fighting from Berk. As she crouched down to aim, keeping her eyes peels on the empty sky, she couldn't help but remark how it would've made a beautiful painting if the village wasn't under attack. Hela made a note to ask her father to order new paints and inks from Trader Johann.
"Come on," she wshipered impatiently. "Give me something to shoot at. Thor, please give me something to shoot at."
A shadow moved through the sky, barely noticeable against the backdrop of blackness. Hela wouldn't have seen it if didn't hide the star she had been eyeing. She pulled the Pitching Bola into position. Aimed. Shoot!
The Pitching Bola bounced back at the sudden tension, hitting Hela in the stomach hard enough to fall onto the back. But not before she saw the shadow plummeting down into a forest with a screech.
"Yes!" she cried with a wheeze, getting up slowly as a bruise formed on the spot the contraption had hit her. When she was standing, she threw her hands in the air and rejoiced. "I hit it! I did it! Did anybody see that?"
She turned around, hoping that one of the Vikings that saw her escape the forge might have followed her. Seeing no one, she turned back to the sky only to see a Monstrous Nightmare crawling up the cliff, head hanging dangerously close to her.
"Except for you," she whimpered.
The dragon seemed amused but Hela wasn't going to give herself time to analyse that. She turned swiftly and ran away.
The beast followed, lumbering behind her deftly, moving in a way that Hela thought was much too light-footed for a being of its size.
Oh, gods, she prayed, Thor when I meant something to shoot at, I clearly emphasised thing, as in singular, not plural!
She jumped away from his firey breath, barely keeping herself steady as she ran down the hill and towards the village. A high-pitched scream escaped her lips when she tumbled, seeing how close the dragon was to her.
There wasn't time to think, just run.
A sense of relief overwhelmed her as she reached the village, lungs screaming for air as she searched for shelter. Seeing a thick wooden pole, wide enough for her to hide behind, she scrambled towards it, leaning against it as her chest heaved.
Fire burst from the dragon's maw, surrounding her on both sides. She folded into herself, pulling her shoulders forward to avoid being roasted alive. She didn't want to be here. She wanted to go home! Unlike most Vikings, Hela did think she was too young to die.
She could practically hear her father's sigh of disappointment.
She leaned towards one side cautiously, nearly crying in relief when she didn't see the dragon. This was one incident of disobedience her father never had to find out about.
A puff of warm breath hit her back.
Hela didn't hesitate and ran in the opposite direction, turning around just in time to see Stoick the Vast fighting the beast. She stopped, frozen in fear. However, this time it was because of the Viking and not because of the dragon.
Fuck!
The phantom sensation of Gobber cuffing her head always followed when she cursed, even mentally.
The dragon flew away, and Hela wished it would come back and take her with it. She would rather be a dragon snack or toothpick than experience what she knew was to come.
Stoick turned to her, unaffected by the fire and the dragon he just beat the life out of. Strangely enough, with the sweat dripping down her back, soaking her shirt and the way she was breathing, it was Hela that look liked she had just come from a dragon fight.
The torch pole she was hiding behind finally caved in and rolled away, leaving a path of destruction in its wake. Hela didn't even look at it.
An angry scowl was all it took,
"Sorry, Dad."