The Ghost and His Shadow

They had two days to be ready, needing to be gone by the third. On the first day, Ghost spent most of the morning learning to communicate with Shadow through the Network, as he had started calling it in his head. He wrote about it furiously in his notes – what it felt like to talk to Shadow, how it was possible, and drew a picture of his bite mark scars, describing sensations and colors as well as he was able.

He could faintly detect two other groupings of minds, though there were faint impressions at the edge of his perception that Shadow steered him carefully away from. Maybe they were wild dragons that weren't attached to the Nest? One was a small, muffled group that he thought was the Ring – whose inhabitants Shadow had dubbed the Forsaken. He shuddered every time his own thoughts neared their own – it was like their colors had been leached away, leaving only a bleached bone white and stone-gray silence in its wake.

The other was a massive hive that he immediately recognized as the Nest, but he wasn't strong enough to reach out yet, and he was dissuaded by the massive sickly presence in a deep crusty red like tacky blood that seemed to smother the rest. He'd tried to ask Shadow what it was, but the dragon just snarled and shuddered and warned him away.

He grabbed his now finished helmet from the forge as well as his tools, a pack from the chief's home that he filled with medical supplies, food, blankets, and other necessities. He avoided being seen but doing so was so time-consuming and intensive with so many Vikings out and about – and more importantly, looking for him so they could celebrate – that he just gave it up and avoided the main square.

Tomorrow, he'd stay at the cove with Shadow, but he would have to come back to say goodbye to Gobber. He deserved a goodbye at least. Should… should he tell him about Shadow? It wouldn't change the fact that he was leaving, but perhaps if Gobber knew why, well, he didn't really know what to expect from the man. Ghost had always gone to Gobber with his problems. He was his only friend before Shadow. His mentor, more a father than the chief had ever been. Would Gobber treat him with the same sarcasm and exasperation, but understanding that he always did, or would fear of the Vikings' ancient enemy keep him away? Ghost didn't know, but it seemed worth a shot. He'd ask Shadow about it.

Ghost was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice the enraged blonde until her fist crashed against his mouth and she swept his legs out from under him. His back and left side hit the packed dirt of the path harshly, and his head smacked into something hard. Something warm rushed down his temple and cheek, and his lip stung. He felt a patch of starry black grow alert-wary-watchful and sent back a fumbled, inexperienced wave of peace-calm-restraint. Shadow would only be in danger if he tried to rescue him, and besides, Ghost could deal with his own attackers.

"I want to know what's going on. No one just gets as good as you do, especially you. Start talking! How?" she demanded, "How did you go from Useless to winning in the ring? Are you training with someone? Tell me how."

He shook his head to clear the spots from his vision and glared at the girl towering over him. His foot shot out and slammed into the side of her knee, toppling her with a yelp. He jumped to his feet with cat-like grace, using a careful finger to probe the edges of the cut on his head. It wasn't long or deep – the skin had split at the very edge of his cheekbone, between his ear and his temple – just a shallow cut about an inch wide.

Astrid staggered to her feet, favoring her right leg, and glared at him. Her hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists, and she was breathing sharply. Ghost stood calmly, though he was ready in case she wanted to attack again. He gave her an unimpressed look.

They were starting to collect a crowd, and the last thing he wanted was to be around another crowd. Eyes flicking to all the interested faces gathered around them both, Ghost picked up his bag and turned to walk away. He walked about three steps and had begun to actually think he'd get away without the confrontation that had been bubbling over. She'd only found him on the outskirts of the village. The forest was right there. Maybe he could make it without causing a scene.

"Don't walk away from me!" she ordered, but he put one step in front of the other, and his stride didn't falter when she shouted, "Coward!"

So what? He knew what she was doing. She was trying to goad him, but it wouldn't work. He'd developed skin thicker than dragon hide when it came to insults over the years and had heard much worse when he was younger and weaker and more insecure than he was now. He didn't need these people. He didn't need their admiration or their pride or their good graces. He'd survived long enough without it. He didn't even want it now that he had it. Besides that, he was leaving within days, and never coming back. This meant nothing.

He heard the villagers begin to mutter behind him, and her scream of rage behind him, but that didn't matter either. What did matter was the rush of enraged footsteps and how the frustrated snarl morphed into a resounding battle cry. He whirled and his eyes widened in shock seeing Astrid thundering at him with her axe in hand.

He dropped his bag against the side of a lodge and ducked her first wild swing, her anger overcoming her skill and technique and leaving him an opening to jam an elbow into her ribs. Allowing feelings to cloud judgement was a rookie mistake, and they both knew it, because she backed off and took a steadying breath as he unsheathed his swords in one quick fluid movement.

Apparently, Berk was going to see his skill after all. He'd count it as their goodbye and good riddance present. He could see other villagers beginning to stream in, and others following them to see what the fuss was about. Oh great.

Astrid began to circle, and he matched her step for step, both graceful and fluid. She made a few feints that didn't impress him before her shoulders bunched, giving up her surprise as she attacked with earnest only to have her axe batted away by the right sword and frantically dodged a warning swipe from the left. She backed off slightly, surprised by his move, and then they were circling again, and she was searching for another opening.

There was a crowd of Vikings surrounding them now, and cheers and bets being made. There was the chief, watching him with shock, and Gobber, leaning against the building and guarding his stuff. He had the broadest smirk across his proud face and gave him a thumbs up.

Ghost studied Astrid as they exchanged blows. She was used to her speed and small size being an advantage and being able to outlast the massive males that lacked endurance and stamina. But he was just the same. They were matched in speed, though Ghost proved to be slightly larger and taller and stronger. He had seen her fight and no one but Gobber had ever watched him train. He knew her style, and he'd fought against axes before, though Gobber was admittedly larger and slower than Astrid when they sparred. But the shieldmaiden had never fought against someone wielding two swords.

All in all, Ghost would say the advantage was his.

She attacked again, a downward stroke to split his skull open, and he braced his feet and held up crossed blades to catch her weapon by the shaft. Locked together in a contest of strength, he walked forward, pressing her back. He lifted one foot and kicked her in the abdomen, breaking their position. She managed to hold onto her axe and somersaulted backwards onto her feet, but this time Ghost was on the offense.

He feinted and jabbed, first with his left, then his right, nicking her once on the shoulder. She snarled and he smirked back, which seemed to send her into a blind rage. She hefted her axe high, and Ghost dropped his left sword. He caught the weapon by the shaft and wrenched it from her hands, shoving her backwards with the broad side of his right sword in her chest at the same time.

The cheering crowd seemed to freeze as Ghost stood over Astrid, one of his swords in his right hand and her axe in his left. He stared down at her and then around at the crowd, meeting as many eyes with his own cold gaze as he could. He sheathed his right sword, switched the axe to that hand, and sheathed his left sword as well. Then he turned and walked away. He wanted Shadow. He wanted Shadow and he wanted to leave these people forever. In his head, the silvery black of scales crooned-comforted-called and he fought a fond smile, adoring how kind and attentive his wonderful dragon was.

Astrid struggled to her feet holding her bleeding shoulder, face flaming red with humiliation, and called, "My axe."

Ghost stopped, turned, and raised his eyebrow. She couldn't be serious. She'd just attacked him. Him, the chief's son, though he didn't see himself that way, unprovoked and in front of witnesses. Then she'd badly lost, embarrassing her entire family, and now she wanted to demand something from him? She'd used his own work to attack him, and she wanted it back?

"That axe was made for me. Give it back," she demanded.

Gobber snorted, "Who do you think made it, lass?"

Astrid's eyes flew wide in surprise, but Ghost's mouth curled into a sneer, despite the way it pulled the just-clotting cut on his lower lip. Did she not think that the apprentice smith would have a hand in forging? He stared down at the axe in his hands. Then he gripped the butt of the axe head and the pommel and snapped the shaft over his knee. There were cries of shock and Astrid wailed, but he tossed both pieces in a nearby brazier, right in the middle, where it would remain until the head melted down to nothing.

Then he walked over to Gobber, ignoring the crowd entirely, grabbed his pack with a nod to his mentor, and walked away. He was going to see Shadow.