Clouds gathered beneath Hela's feet as she skipped back to the village. The sun was setting in the same way it usually did, but if Hela was asked, she would say that the sunset had never looked as vibrant as it did now. The sky was bluer, the sun brighter, and the annoying singing of birds were suddenly the best melodies she's ever heard.

Hela befriended a Night Fury.

The most elusive and dangerous dragon known to Berk, a Night Fury, has chosen to trust her.

The world seemed lighter than it did before.

Toothless, she decided to name the dragon because, for all his growls and snarls, glaring eyes, and his overall mysteriously beautiful appearance, it was his soft toothless gummy smile that was his most appealing feature. An awkward and untrained smile, but breathtaking nonetheless.

For the first time in a long time, Hela was truly anticipating the next day.

She was passing by the blacksmith when a voice called her name.

"Hela!" came Aron's voice.

Like the dragon she downed, her mood plummeted to the ground.

The experience with Toothless had made her forget about why she had run from the Arena in the first place.

Yet, she stopped, allowing Aron to stand beside her. It didn't escape her notice that he stood an arm's length away from her.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said, and Hela immediately knew.

"Look," she scrambled to say, "It was an accident. I get it, I -"

"No," Aron interrupted. "You didn't overreact. Yes, it was an accident. I didn't mean to touch you that way, but that doesn't change the fact that I did touch you. I'm sorry."

Hela was stumped. Aron's blue eyes pierced her's with shame. Her cheeks flushed, but unlike before, there was no external heat to blame it on. Words clogged her throat as a game of tug-and-war begun playing within her.

On one end, Aron's apology was satisfying. Of course, she knew he didn't intend to cause any discomfort, but hearing him admit it was relieving.

(On the other end, she was crying because, of course, Aron wouldn't want to touch her in any way.)

She really needed to sort that out.

Seeing her silence as hesitance, Aron was quick to say, "I'll take whatever consequence you think I deserve."

Oh, Hela's jaw dropped. He was willing to stand trial.

It was rare that such trials took place on Berk, Hela herself had only attended one before, and even then, people had gasped at how long ago something similar had happened. Long ago, before they settled on Berk before they even knew of dragons, her people had lived on the Big Lands outside of the Archipelago. The earth was hard, and surviving was a day to day struggle. Instead of relying on ungiving soil, her people had to rely on raiding other settlements.

It was a part of their history Hela wasn't proud of.

The raids resulted in violence and slavery; if there weren't enough for the settlements to buy them their safety, their women and children would be taken.

This practice died long before they had set sail for new lands and discovered Berk, but they still kept some customs of that time. From the stories Hela were told, Viking women were treated far better than any of the other women on the Big Lands ever were. Free women were educated to the level of their station; they could choose their profession, had as much claim to inherit as men did, and had much more freedom than even the queens of the Big Land kingdoms.

(Her father used to say that was because their god was afraid of free women, why else would he subjugate her to the hands of men?)

One of the customs was a woman's right to punishment.

Aron had touched her breast without her permission.

And by law, Hela, as a free woman, could demand retribution in combat. As the daughter of the Chief, Hela could demand his head.

"Gods, Aron!" she yelped, hands waving frantically between them. "I forgive you, okay? No need for trial or decapitation. It was an accident!"

It didn't escape her notice that he never apologised for his words.

That unsettled her more than she wanted to admit

Aron raised his brows questioningly, shuffling slightly on his feet. "Are you sure?"

Hela nodded, strands of hair loosening from her braids. "All is forgiven!"

"Okay." Aron nodded, squinting at her.

"Yeah."

"But only if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

"Really."

"Uh-hm."

Hela would rather be swallow by Jorghumand than continue this awkward conversation.

As if the gods had heard her prayers, Gobber shouted for them.

"Aron! Hela!" The older man shuffled towards them. Not seeing the tension, Gobber kept on talking. "I hope everything's been sorted?"

The teenagers shared an uncomfortable look before nodding.

"Good," said Gobber. "That's great for you, heh, Aron. Stoick has one mean swing, but I've heard deception hurt more when the first cut doesn't do the trick." Aron and Hela paled.

"Where did you hear that from?" Hela couldn't help but ask.

Gobber shrugged. "Some or other survivor."

"You know a decapitated survivor?" Aron was just as sceptical as Hela was.

"Man of many talents, isn't he?" Hela mumbled, too soft for anyone but Aron to hear it.

Aron coughed.

Gobber waved their questions away. "We're gathering on the watchtower." He pointed to the set destination. "Bit of class bonding. It's no use going into battle with your fellow Vikings with you don't know each other." The large man wrapped an arm over each of the teenagers' shoulders, tugging them towards his torso.

Hela gagged at the scent that could only be Gobber's sweat.

He whistled a jaunty tune as both Hela and Aron fought their way out of his arms, their legs trailing behind them as they swung. Laughter followed their path as Gobber dragged them through the village.

Finally, he released them.

Immediately, Hela took deep, gulping breaths, seeing Aron the same. Thankfully, Gobber hadn't embarrassed them by letting them go in front of their classmates.

After a few moments of fresh air – seriously, the unmistakable smell of wet grass had never been better – Aron followed Gobber to the watchtower surface, where Snotlout and Fishlegs jeering on as the twins began to fight with their fists.

Only they would start fighting near a fire pit.

Reluctantly, Hela joined the rest of her classmates surrounding the fire. She was overtly aware of where she sat, not even considering joining Aron on his empty log. Instead, she hovered at the edge of the watchtower, close to the exit and far away from everyone else.

She didn't dare join them in their inner circle.

Hela's mind was absent as she cooked her piece of chicken, not able to stomach any sort of fish, leaning as close to the fire as she dared. She had left her warmer coat at home, and the roaring flame was the only thing that kept the biting cold away.

Her thoughts wandered to the dragon, Toothless. Was he cold in that cove she had left him?

"And with one twist," Gobber's loud voice snapped her back to the present. He was telling one of his most famous stories. The Tales of the Missing Limbs, he called it. "He took my hand and swallowed it whole. And I saw the look on his face: I was delicious." His beard twitched with pride. "He must have passed the word because it wasn't a month before another one of them took my leg."

The content of the story was how one measured Gobber's sobriety. Sometimes, the Boneknapper took his leg and pirates he had chased away from Berk took his hand. Once, he had claimed that Loki had taken his hand in exchange for the gift of weapon melding. However, from the slightly more truthful – if not exaggerated – storytelling, it was clear that he wasn't drowning in mead. Yet. The man was tipsy, more so from the wide eyes of his audience gaping at him in awe. Sometimes, Stoick would sneak in more mead into Gobber's cup during the monthly council meeting just to keep the attendees awake and slightly entertained.

The tradition stopped as soon as Hela started sitting in.

"Isn't it weird to think that your hand was inside a dragon?" Fishlegs asked excitedly. "Like if your mind was still in control of it, you could have killed the dragon from the inside by crushing his heart or something."

Well, if there were any Viking mad enough to try it, then it would definitely be Gobber. Hela was convinced that was why he had taken on a dragon alone in the first place.

"I swear, I'm so angry right now!" Snotlout growled, crushing the chicken bone in his fist. "I'll avenge your beautiful hand and your beautiful foot." Beautiful and Gobber shouldn't be associated with each other. "I'll chop off the legs of every dragon I fight. With my face!"

Hela wasn't sure how that would work, but she would pay good money to see that.

"Uh-huh," Gobber drawled, unimpressed but intrigued. What would he give to see Snotlout use his face to amputate dragons, Hela wondered. "It's the wings and the tails you really want. If it can't fly, it can't get away."

All of Hela's amusement evaporated.

"A downed dragon is a dead dragon."

The mournful cry Toothless screamed out as he fell echoed in her ears. Hela thought back to her encounter with him; he struggled to fly, his constant discomfort, his lacklustre attempts at fishing for food.

"Alright. I'm off to bed. You should be, too. Tomorrow we get to the big boys. Slowly but surely making our way up to the Monstrous Nightmare. But who'll win the honour of killing it?" Gobber trailed off dramatically before wobbling off the watchtower.

A few moments of silence passed.

Then the twins began talking.

Words were said, but none of them were heard. Hela didn't hesitate to run off, leaving her uneaten chicken on its stick. Her classmates rambled on about destinies, tattoos, and birthmarks as she stumbled down the watchtower stairs.

Completely unaware of the pair of blue eyes watching.

It wasn't long before Hela reached the blacksmith. She was a tornado twirling around the secluded place as she lit it up and got the fire started. It would take some time before the fire would burn hot enough to weld with, but Hela wouldn't let it slow her down. She sat down at her working station and begun.

Within minutes, the floor was covered with crumpled papers with half-drawn ideas. Lines were too light, too sharp, too long, too thick, and too thin. Some shapes weren't round enough, not sharp enough. Nothing was going right. Frustration bled through her sketching hand; fingers smudged black with charcoal.

Finally, after who knows how long, Hela's sketch was finished. Sweat had begun to gather under her armpits and forehead, clinging uncomfortably to her skin as her clothes soaked it in. The fire was ready, but Hela had another hurdle to jump over before she could begin with that part of her project.

Her entire being twitched with the need to make something; her fingers practically tingled with the urge to meld, to create the vision she was seeing in her mind's eye. But nothing was working. Hela didn't think to take measurements of Toothless' wingtails, and without it, she was stuck.

Hela wanted to scream.

Why couldn't she do anything right?

Emotions warred inside her. She needed to build this wing. She had to make things right!

But she couldn't, because Hela being Hela didn't do it right!

Her scalp itched. She wanted to scratch it, wanted to pick at the skin until it bled out all of her ideas stuck in her head. Do something! Make something! Anger burned in her chest.

She hadn't felt this in years.

Unwillingly, Hela remembered how some of her tutors would slap her on the wrist as she tried and failed to concentrate, hands busier with tugging at her roots than learning how to write. Once, in a fit of rage, her tutor had hit her knuckles until they burst to get her to stop. Hela had run to her father that night, crying about the cruelty she had experienced. The next day Stoick had sent the tutor away from Berk and had gotten her her first set of painting supplies.

Knock! Knock!

Somebody knocked at the door. The sound was jarring, loud enough to distract her from her memories. Remembering her project, Hela scurried to hide her drawings before walking towards the door. She took her deep breath before opening it.

On the other side stood Aron.

"Hi!" she blurted out before she could stop. Her heart raced.

Aron didn't immediately reply. Instead, his gaze lowered to her feet before slowly trailing up. "Working on something?"

"No!" Hela was quick to say. "Nothing at all."

"Then why is the forge burning?"

"It's not."

Hela squeezed her eyes shut.

"Right," Aron drawled. "So, I suppose the building is burning with you inside it."

"Let's go with that, yeah." Hela nodded with confidence she didn't have.

Aron huffed, rolling his eyes while shaking his head. "Whatever." He shrugged. "Whether you're forging or attempting to reach Valhalla, I thought you might want this." He looked at his hands.

Hela followed his gaze, pleasantly surprised to find Aron holding a plate of food. It was still hot, steaming in the cold air of the night, and looked good. Still, Hela was suspicious.

"Did you make this?" Hela asked, very hesitant to take it.

"No," Aron said, clenching his jaw. "I got it from the Hall."

Hela had to resist snickering. Being reminded of his failure always touched the bruise on his ego.

"Thank you." She took the plate. "Just had to make sure, you know? The last time you cooked, you poiso - "

Aron didn't bother listening anymore, turning on his heels before stomping away. Hela giggled his tense shoulders, ears straining to hear what he was grumbling about.

She was somewhat thankful for the lack of light; otherwise, she would repeat the embarrassing event the previous day.

Besides, the moonlight wasn't bright enough to truly shine on the magnificence that was Aron.

Forget art; Hela should be a poet.

Shaken from her frustration, cheeks red from her thoughts, Hela headed towards her work table. With new eyes, she examined her drawings and decided to say screw it.

Mistakes can be fixed. Iron can be reheated.

Hela didn't care how many nights she had to spend before she got it right; she was going to get Toothless flying again.

Giddy with the prospect, Hela began making something no one had ever done before.

A dragon prosthetic.

Couldn't be too hard, right?