Slaying dragons was a reality of life on Berk, only a few short years ago. In those days, bloodshed was ubiquitous, and Hiccup never flinched. One cheered it on and regarded it as a birthright. No amount of spilled dragon viscera was ever enough to settle the score. Dragons were creatures of terror. They brought loss and ruin to generations. Every downed beast was retribution for the Hooligans who paid for Berk's existence with their lives. Violence was the rule; it was the impartial equalizer.

But that was primitive justice generated from ignorance. The truth of the dragons' nature cut through the veil of self-deceit. Now there was before and after the truth, and the two could not be reconciled. Though Hiccup had lived it, and indeed aspired to be a part of that barbaric culture, he could no longer reflect on those days with anything other than detachment. His own past seemed a part of an archaic paradigm that held no place in their new peace. He separated it off in his mind like a malignancy.

Back in his tent, he stared up at the canopy billowing slightly in the icy wind. The image of the subdued Gronckle, struggling against its trance as it bled out on the temple floor, replayed in his mind, unbidden; he could not shake it. Once a scene that was commonplace in his childhood, he now felt only revulsion at the dragon's pointless execution. He wondered if his father felt it too, or if five decades of war and death had numbed him to such things. Stoick had not rendered an opinion either way. They had returned to their camp in silence once the ceremony ended; perhaps his father knew there was nothing really that could be said.

The first thing Hiccup had done was wash off the bloody, sacred runes painted on his face. Then, he shed all his ornamentation as fast as he could manage until he felt enough like himself.

Music swelled outside, and the persistent murmuring among the sea of tents built into a cacophony of song and laughter. Revelry so swift on the heels of sober worship was jarring. Then again, what did one dead dragon matter to anyone else on the island?

"Celebration often follows reverence," Stoick explained, "under the assumption the dísir have received our offerings and will continue to show us favor."

Hiccup simply nodded and retrieved a book from his travel chest; he did not feel much like joining in whatever festivities were happening outside. His father did not admonish him, and he dared to hope maybe he would enjoy some peace and quiet, long overdue. To Hiccup's surprise, the older man glanced at the book with a grunt of approval. If he had to guess, the fact that it was in another language quelled any potential criticism his father might have had about idleness; the book was written in the native language of Francia. Two more days remained on the itinerary—mostly politicking, since the religious obligations were met—and he would undoubtedly be required to attend those goings-on. So, while he could, he would retreat into more enjoyable pursuits. But he did not even have the chance to begin before the first interruption.

The flap of their tent flew open, blasting them with a sudden chill. Hiccup and Stoick both were both highly affronted. One of their oarsmen bowed his head in apology. He said, "Chief, you have a visitor."

Outside their tent stood a tall, solid woman. Her black hair, flecked with gray, was pulled into a tightly coiled plait atop her head. She wore ornate gold and ceramic beads around her neck, resting conspicuously across her ample bosom. Her hands were clasped in front of her, each finger adorned with a heavily jeweled ring. The angles of her face were long and sharp, but there was a tenderness in her eyes upon regarding Stoick as he stood at the threshold of the tent. Hiccup did not know the woman's name, but the brooch pinned on her cloak bore a sigil he remembered from his father's incessant quizzes on the voyage over. He also knew that look on her face: it was softness was unmistakable to any man. Suffice it to say, she was not there to talk politics with his father. She was not one of the jarls, but it was clear her status awarded her some proximity to them.

Stoick hesitated. He turned toward Hiccup, looking ill with an unspoken confession. His brow wrinkled in distress, opening his mouth for an explanation that his son thought was unnecessary. They were both men, and so they shared an innate understanding that need not manifest in words. Stoick spoke fondly of his late wife; and Hiccup had grown up knowing the deep love his father had for the mother he could not remember. But nineteen years was a long time; and the chieftain was still as much human at near-fifty as he was in his youth—there was no betrayal in Hiccup's eyes.

"It's fine, Dad," he said, before the man even uttered a syllable.

He did not think he could stand the indignity of his father fumbling to justify his most personal business. Stoick the Vast did not need his permission, but Hiccup would give it anyway if the man really wanted it. As far as he was concerned, the less they talked about it, the better.

"Yes, son. But I —"

"It's fine."

Stoick gave a brief nod before disappearing with the woman, leaving Hiccup in blissful solitude. For an indistinct time, it appeared as though he would not have to be the Heir of Berk for anyone, and he was glad for it. With a beleaguered sigh, he collapsed flat on his bed, holding his book overhead. He had not realized the full weight of the façade he maintained until he dropped it. So many things that he had blocked from his mind for the sake of duty began flooding back in, making it more difficult to focus on an already foreign script.

He thought about the warmth of the Berk's mead hall and the enticing combined aroma of stewed meats, beer, and mulled wine that was typical of the season. How nice were those simple delights he took for granted now that he was on a frigid and barren rock in the middle of an unforgiving, gray sea. He missed the sound of dragons' roars and the thrill of brisk morning flights; he thought about Toothless and Sharpshot, trusting Fishlegs was taking care of them, but worried about their wellbeing all the same; he even missed his loudmouth cousin and the twins' antics out of need for friendly and familiar faces, if nothing else. Of course, he thought of Astrid too; and though their last few days together had been strained, his heart ached for her touch more than he cared to admit. His anger with her dulled in the inflated fondness brought on by her absence.

Even when he most desired peace, it appeared as though his busy mind would not grant it. Maybe Snotlout and Tuffnut could shut off their brains for a time, as they occasionally boasted to no one's admiration; but Hiccup rarely had the same luxury.

He snapped the book shut without finishing the first page. The words bled together, and he retained none of them. Setting the book on his stomach, he closed his eyes and embraced thoughts of home instead, hoping they would dissolve into tranquil nothingness. Time passed in daydreams. Maybe an hour or so. As the night dragged on, the celebration outside grew louder, with no signs of ebbing soon. He was resigned to a restless evening until a new distraction came for him.

"Hiccup?" he heard someone call from outside the tent.

The voice was feminine, and he sat up frowning, unsure his ears were working properly. He hesitated, listening against the greater ruckus beyond his camp.

"Hiccup? Are you in there?" The voice called again.

"Oh, aye. He's there," one of the oarsmen chuckled; and Hiccup felt a wave of unease at the suggestive tone in the other man's voice.

Grabbing his discarded cloak, he rose from his bed and fastened it around his shoulders in a hurry, leaving his book on the furs. Next, he blew out the candle, not wanting it unattended for long; he did not know how long this unexpected meeting would take.

Throwing back at flap of his tent, his stomach gave an involuntary leap to see Heather waiting for him. The snow was falling harder then, but she did not seem to mind it. Her smile generated plenty of warmth of its own as she laid eyes on him. Behind her, his crewmen exchanged knowing looks and stifled their laughter in mugs of mead or beer. They gave Hiccup quite the approving side-eye—it was as if Astrid no longer existed in their minds. Or, at the very least, she no longer counted on shores so far from Berk.

"Heather! Is everything okay?" he asked, stepping out into the snowfall.

"Much better now that I've found you again," she said.

He felt guilty, for reasons he could not articulate. Just standing there with her, and the way the crew misread the situation, felt much too indecent. He did not know what to say, staring at her blankly.

"Was there something you needed, or...?"

She laughed, high and tinkling clear. He hated that he found it so pleasant. She grasped him by the hand and fire raced up his arm, but he did not pull away as perhaps he should have. It might have seemed rude, and he felt that mattered for some reason.

"Come on!" she exclaimed, pulling him away from the relative safety of his tent toward the strange revelry of the night.

He did not want to go but could not find it in himself to deny her either. Sleep would not be had, no matter what course he chose.

"Have fun!" one of the oarsmen called after them, with a leading trill on his words.

Hiccup did not have the chance to assert that it was not what it looked like as Heather whisked him away into the sea of tents, banners, and campfires. Music filled his ears, various songs blending together into one discordant but joyous roar. Everywhere, people sang, danced, and imbibed. Some jarls still wore their blood runes. Thanks were shouted aloud to the gods and dísir, accompanied by mugs and horns held aloft and overflowing with all manner of drink. Assorted cuts of meat slow roasted on spits over burning coals hot enough that the gentle snowfall was a non-issue.

Spirits were high. The dried fungus passed around earlier by the völva seemed to be taking effect. Some men were lying down, propped against a pole or a tree, riding potent hallucinations, speaking of or grasping for things that were not there; while others celebrated with renewed fervor, entirely lost to the tide of the evening. Additionally, feats of strength were on full display amid passionate cheers and heckling; wrestling was the primary sport, but some still chose fisticuffs. Others played games and casted lots.

"This is so much more exciting than any festival in my village!" Heather explained, pulling Hiccup closer so he could hear above the crowd.

"This is like a typical holiday on Berk," he replied. "You know, plus the thralls and with a lot less dragons."

She beamed at him, holding onto one of his hands with both of hers. "Must be nice! You're lucky!"

"I am."

"And to think, you were going to waste a night like this alone in your tent!" she teased, wrinkling her nose in the same cute manner Astrid did; he hoped she would not do it again.

He sighed; she did not hear it. "Lately, it seems I've been spending a lot more time alone. But I'm used to it. I always have Toothless for company."

"You? Alone?" she asked. "What about your friends? What about...Astrid?"

He found the hesitation on his lover's name odd. As best he could remember, the two girls had parted ways on amicable terms; but Heather now spoke Astrid's name with undue wariness, as if merely saying it would conjure her.

"Astrid and me? That...that'll take a bit of unpacking," he replied flatly.

"Really?" She seemed a little too interested; and she had the glint of ambition in her eyes that Astrid so often did whenever she was bound and determined to have her way. The similarities between them were disconcerting.

Two drunk men bumped into them, sloshing their beers everywhere, but they were too distracted with each other's mouths to offer much of an apology. Hiccup was content enough to let it slide, since much of the alcohol landed on the ground instead of him. Heather was completely dry.

She watched the couple go, grinning to herself. She said, "There are some things that even dragons aren't good for!"

"I'm not sure I understand..." he replied.

Oh, but he did.

She just laughed, pulling him along past the great tent sea, past makeshift shops and stalls, now closed for the night. The tree line thickened, and it grew quieter. Their steps were hampered by deeper, undisturbed snow. Not too many people would see them, and those who ventured into the woods were not alone, preoccupied in all manner of ways with their own companions; far too busy to notice one more pair.

At least, on Berk, people had the decency to take their intimate business indoors.

"What was it like in the temple?" Heather asked eagerly, now that they had more privacy and she no longer needed to shout; Hiccup never expected to find privacy so uncomfortable.

"Bizarre," he answered. "The völva were chanting, and it was like the whole place was under some sort of spell—something ancient and powerful."

She finally released him, and his wrist relished the freedom but mourned the loss of another's touch. They walked together at equal pace.

"Did they draw the runes on you too?" she asked.

"Yes; but I cleaned them off."

She sighed, gazing up through the naked branches, deep in thought. "I wish I could've seen it—the Dísablót, I mean."

"Well, it was interesting—as long as ritualistic animal sacrifice is your thing..."

"Oh? Are you not the religious type?"

"I am, but not like that," he replied, gesturing back toward the temple in the distance.

"You really are a different breed entirely, aren't you, Hiccup Haddock?" she mused, nudging him.

"I'll take the compliment, thanks."

They took the next several paces in silence, breaths coming in puffs of smoke. Snow crunched beneath their feet, and there was not much light to guide them anymore; but with Toothless as a companion, Hiccup had long since grown accustomed to the night.

Heather stayed close to him, occasionally brushing her fingers against his in a manner he told himself was unintentional.

She was the first to speak again, her tone of voice softer than before. "Last time we saw each other—all that business with Alvin—I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Why is that?"

She looked at him, and he could not make out her full expression in the dark. "What reason would we have to cross paths after that?"

"You are a friend to dragons; so, you are a friend to Berk."

She glanced down at the snow for a moment, then replied, "Mn. Yes. Friends."

The trees began to thin once more, and they heard the rush of the ocean, rolling into Helgafell's rocky shore. The island was not large, and so they had wandered upon another edge of it. In the faint light of the full moon, bleeding through patches in the clouds above, they could see the white caps on the sea. The water was one inky black expanse, stretching out beyond the horizon until it spilled off the edge of the world to nourish the roots of Yggdrasil. Just before the land sloped down to the waves below, a couple of small cairns had been stacked with great care. The stones would have been easy to miss were they not dusted with snow.

"What do you think is out there?" Heather asked, nodding at the endless darkness.

Hiccup thought about the foreign books he possessed and the Anglo-Saxon brooch he had purchased; he thought about the raids on faraway lands and the politics there, which reached him still. Names of kingdoms his father had drilled into him echoed in his brain: Northumbria, the Danelaw, Mercia, East Anglia, and Francia. The other jarls knew all about them, of course. He suddenly felt small and ignorant, like a child who stumbled into a room of adults conversing.

He muttered, "A much bigger world that is very different from Berk. I'm just starting to understand it."

Heather moved in close, until they were standing face-to-face. She asked, "And what do you see, right here, in front of you?"

Hiccup's throat went dry. He felt the back of his neck prickle and grow hot. Her question was dangerous, and he was not sure there was a correct answer—but there was most certainly an incorrect one; and he suspected that was what she wanted to hear. He could not give it. Even if she had asked him the question when they were younger and unattached, his answer would have been the same.

"Heather. I don't—"

She grasped him by the front of his cloak, pulling him down as she rocked up on her toes, crushing their lips together. He froze, grasping weakly at her shoulders. She mistook the gesture for affection, because she leaned into him, kissing deeper and trying to coax a response in kind. His brain was yelling at him to get over the shock and come to his senses. His heart seized in protest of a wrong set of lips on his own. But his body was confused; it remembered being kissed in such a way and it missed the feeling. He was not repulsed.

Still—many things, though he was—Hiccup was not a fool.

He pulled away, leaving Heather clutching his clothes and teetering on the spot. She came back down, feet flat against the earth.

"No," he said. "I can't."

"No?" she asked, tilting her head in confusion.

He pried her hands loose from him in as polite a manner as he could. She tried to interlock their fingers but he broke contact entirely. "No," he repeated. "Heather, I'm with Astrid."

She recoiled. "But you said things were...and I-I thought—"

"I'm sorry," was all he could think to say, stupidly.

A heavy silence fell between them. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared determinedly at the trees. Only a few minutes ago she had been a bright spot like in a miserable wilderness, like the first evening star; but she turned cold and lifeless as the surrounding woods. Hiccup hated himself, for being there in that moment, and letting her get too close. His heart was racing, and every second that passed without further explaining—defending—was painful.

"I thought things had soured between you two. You didn't tell me otherwise," she mumbled, still not looking at him; and that brought the total count of women who now hated him to two.

Maybe he just needed to throw himself into the sea for everyone's betterment?

He said, "I'm sorry if I gave you that impression."

Looking back on how he had spoken of his relationship, and how vague and sullen he had been—the fault was his. But he had not invited the kiss; it was something he neither asked nor hoped for. Even his frustrations with his lover could not twist his words into untruths and allow him a moment's secret pleasure in the affections of another.

He went on to explain, "No matter what she and I are going through right now, I still love Astrid."

Heather did not seem convinced; or maybe she was pushing against his resolve to see if it would break.

She asked, "Really? Do you?"

He did not hesitate. "I have only ever loved Astrid," he asserted.

After a moment's pause, she gave a wry laugh. She dropped her arms to her sides in full resignation.

"Well, I guess that makes me quite the dumbass."

He shook his head. "I don't think it does."

She sniffed, and he chose to believe it was from the cold. The wind whipped their hair around enough that it was plausible, and far more dignified than the alternative. He could grant her that.

Hands on her hips, still avoiding his gaze, she said, "Well, now that I've utterly embarrassed myself, you should probably head back."

He might find it laughable that she would dismiss him, if he did not also want to flee from the last few minutes and forget they ever happened. Heather was proud and fiery, like Astrid. That was one of the things that had endeared Heather to him when they first met. In so many ways, she reminded him of the young woman who commanded his fantasies. But in too many ways, she was also like him; enough so that nothing more than friendship could ever transpire between them, no matter how she might wish for it. He hoped, after the embarrassment subsided, she would come to realize it too.

"I'm not leaving you out here in the woods, in the dark, by yourself," he said, refusing to return to the camps without her.

She scoffed. "I don't need looking after, Hiccup."

"I know you don't," he said, and he meant it. Still, he stepped aside only to clear her way. "After you."

One crewmember had stayed behind to watch the camp. Undoubtedly, the others had wandered off for more entertainment. Hiccup was relieved that he was greeted with only a nod and not a bevy of questions. The night was too cold, and his patience was scarce. He sought refuge in his tent, and vowed not to set foot outside again, no matter who came calling-even if it were Odin himself. The gods surely enjoyed their laugh for the evening, they had no need to bother him further.

Hiccup did not bother to reignite his candle, feeling even that simple task to be a chore at the late hour. The dark was not bothersome; the tent was easy to navigate. He shrugged off his cloak and set it neatly atop the heavy travel chest among his things. His father's bed was conspicuously empty, and Hiccup did not expect he would see the man until the morning.

That suited him just fine.

He needed the solitude to think—or rather, not to think. It was debatable which was the greater labor: processing what had happened with Heather or trying to clear his mind of it altogether. Perhaps the more prudent question was whether or not he could, since he had never been successful in quieting his louder, more persistent thoughts to begin with. The clearest his mind would ever be, was flying his dragon and performing all manner of stunts to boost the adrenaline; or else it was lying beside Astrid, drunk off her body and the taste of her lips. At that moment, he had neither to pacify his brain.

Burying his face in his hands, he sat down on the end of his bed. Every fiber of his being was spent. Heather's kiss haunted him: how nice it had felt and how deeply the knife of guilt twisted because of it.

Women were so godsdamned confusing.

Now he had a new dilemma. He would have to tell Astrid everything, which was a prospect that brought the bile to his throat. How remarkably unfair. He was not sure, in their current state, that she would believe he had neither solicited nor enjoyed the kiss. What she might do or say to him was not something he had any energy left to think about.

Were relationships supposed to be so painful? Why had no one warned him?

He had enough. Sleep beckoned sweetly. His eyes itched, and his blanket of furs was inviting. A good night's rest might smooth over a lot of life's current wrinkles. At the very least, he could consider his problems with renewed emotional fortitude; something he desperately needed, since he felt as powerless and bewildered as a rabbit in a snare. The one perk of exhaustion was that it overtook any buzzing in his mind.

He kicked off his snow-caked boot and removed his icy prosthesis, storing in within arm's length should he have sudden need for it. His leather bracers came off next, followed by his belt and top, with a dull ache in his right shoulder as he pulled his tunic over his head. He climbed into bed in just his pants and thinner linen undershirt, burrowing deep into the covers, leaving no part of his body vulnerable to the cold, save for enough of his face as needed to breathe. The furs were heavy too, but it was like a long-anticipated embrace.

His whole being was unburdened. The relief was instantaneous, the moment he closed his tired eyes. Not even the ongoing festivities troubled him anymore. He could feel sleep dragging him down into warm, blissful oblivion.

Down. Down. Down...into towering white clouds and vibrant blue skies. The wind rushed in his ears, and gulls cried out to the tune of sea rolling far below. Rocky stacks loomed to one side of him or another. He sat upon a vague, scaly shape, that swooped and dove. Maybe it was Toothless.

The spray of the waves as he grazed the water felt real. He could smell the brine. The sun was glaring bright, almost blinding. At the same time, everything seemed softer.

Another dragon came into view. He was not sure who was riding it: the person's features were somewhat blurred like water droplets over ink. The mysterious rider laughed; it was feminine. The sunlight flashed off golden hair.

Then they were driving into the sea on their dragons. It was cold, but not unpleasant. All sound stopped, except for the muffled pulse of an underwater world. They ventured deeper, without slowing.

Down. Down. Down...

Then everything was black and still behind his eyelids, which he refused to open yet. Sleep had been too well-deserved to give up so easily. He could smell burning wood and a savory concoction, wafting through the air to entice him to wake. The murmur of voices sounded too far away for him to care.

But something was amiss.

He stirred with a small groan. Someone was applying gentle pressure to his chest. Maybe his father trying to rouse him? He took a deep breath in spite of it; the sensation was bearable, and he tried to ignore it in favor of sleep's wonderful, lingering comfort.

But then the pressure started to shift around, scuttling about on top of him like little feet. That was strange enough to warrant half a care.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

A yellow, bulbous pair blinked back at him—and something wet and slimy grazed the side of his face, rousing him fully.

With a shout of panic, he bolted upright, retreating as far and as quickly from the yellow eyes as he could—until he toppled off his pallet, onto the frozen hard ground, upside down. He grasped futilely for his prosthetic limb, hidden somewhere beneath the scattered furs.

The tent flew open, bathing him and the intruder in the pale light of the early morning.

"Hiccup!" Stoick called, standing there with his sword drawn, ready to strike down any enemy that dared to attack his son.

The man's expression changed to one of bemusement, laced with exasperation to find Hiccup in such a state. Two of their crewmen appeared at the chief's side, brandishing their weapons. All three men looked down at Hiccup, perplexed to find the Heir of Berk strewn out on the ground, underdressed and upside down, twisted in his covers.

"I'm...good," he told them feebly, trying to untangle himself-but not to salvage his dignity, of which none remained.

"Is that a dragon?" one of the men asked, pointing toward the pallet with his axe.

In the commotion, Hiccup had nearly forgotten. He craned his neck up as he freed his leg, spotting a blue and rather unbothered-looking Terrible Terror on his bed.

"Sneaky?" he asked, incredulous—but of course, it was.

"Is that one of Berk's dragons?" his father asked, eyes narrowed; and the accusation was plain in his voice.

"Yeah. It's Sneaky," Hiccup sighed, finally able to right himself. He stood, hopping a little until he caught his balance on his one, good leg. When he saw his father lacked any noticeable comprehension, he added, "Astrid's dragon."

"What's it doing here?" Stoick demanded, as if it was Hiccup's fault.

Because it was his son. And a dragon. Astrid's name was thrown in there too, for good measure. Naturally it was his fault. Guilt by association and dragon obsession.

"Is she writing you love letters now?" one of the other men spoke up, face cracked into a grin.

"Couldn't even make it a week, could you?" the second man teased.

Hiccup rolled his eyes and bit back the choice words he had for the two of them. He then found his metal leg by gathering up the furs and dumping them back on his bed. His prosthetic fell out and rolled across the surface. Sneaky scurried out of the way.

"Get that dragon out of here," Stoick demanded. "Send it off, before it's seen! I warned you of the consequences if it is."

"Sneaky won't be seen—that's kind of the point."

"Son-"

Hiccup held up a hand to placate him. "Yeah. Okay, Dad. I'll handle it." When his father just continued to stare with heavy skepticism, he insisted, "I'll handle it!"

Stoick sheathed his sword with a nod, and the other two men turned back to camp, snickering.

The chief instructed, "Get dressed. Come outside when you're ready. Busy day ahead; lots of meetings."

"Sure. Got it."

His father left abruptly, and Hiccup frowned, feeling as though the man sucked all the air out of the tent with him as he went. Resigned to a miserable day of abject boredom, he quickly changed clothes, dressing to moderately impress any other jarls they might encounter. That was the assignment, after all. He was there to listen, stay quiet, and look wealthy: a living testament to the Haddock bloodline.

Sneaky brushed up against him as he sat on the bed, attaching his prosthetic.

"You've got to stop scaring the living daylights out of me," Hiccup chided. He stroked the dragon, who arched into his touch and then rolled onto his back, exposing his stomach. "But, all things considered, I am glad to see a dragon around here."

As he rubbed the dragon's belly, he noticed the small parchment scroll fastened to its leg. He began to untie it.

"Once I take this off you, it's time for you to go home," he told the dragon. "You can't be seen, understand? I know that's not really a problem for you, though."

Sneaky, newly unburdened, took off at once, disappearing between the pallet and the canvas of the tent. Even though Hiccup scrambled across the bed to catch a glimpse of the departing dragon's tail, it was as if Sneaky had simply evaporated. Astrid would have been proud.

"Good dragon."

Turning his attention back to the parchment in his hand, he noticed various notes from Dragon Academy days on one side. The page was a rejected collection of observations that never made it into the Dragon Manual. He and Astrid had exercised their authority to veto any proposed additions from the others.

He smiled as he read Fishlegs's excited scrawl: When riding a Monstrous Nightmare, a rider must either fireproof his saddle or training method. Beneath his note, Snotlout had added: Fireproofing the saddle is easier. My training style is perfect. Monstrous Nightmares are stubborn pains in the ass. Literally. Always carry burn ointment-but none that smell too flowery or people will think you've shoved a bouquet down your backside. Astrid had crossed through all of the writing with a single line, leaving it legible, and simple reply of her own: No.

As amusing as the trip down memory lane was, Hiccup did not think that was Astrid's intent when she sent Sneaky all the way to Helgafell to find him. He turned the parchment over and found a much longer note, written in cramped, albeit tidy handwriting.

It read:

Hiccup,

I'm at a loss of what to do. We're in trouble, and I think you can feel it. This isn't a problem you can ignore or fly away from. If things continue this way, then I don't see a future for us. That was not something I would have thought was even possible a couple months ago, but here we are. I do not want the naysayers to be right. Did we make a mistake? I do not want to believe it is true, but I am running out of arguments against it. Make me believe that you and I are still the right choice, and the heartache and scandal were worth it.

This was supposed to be easy. I feel like I am carrying this relationship. It's like I'm guiding you along and you are just sleepwalking. Am I wrong? Then prove it to me, when you get back. I'm drawing a line in the sand. Show me that I am not an afterthought, and you actually care about something or someone other than your own selfish hobbies. If you can't do that, better we end it sooner than drag out the matter, for everyone's sake.

-A.

Hiccup just stared down and the letter, feeling his heart sink into the pit of his stomach. The words stung, and he read it twice to make sure she was not actually breaking up with him by dragon mail and he had simply misread it.

As far as he could tell, she still considered their relationship intact, but hanging on by a quickly fraying thread. He supposed, in his absence, she felt she had no other recourse but to issue an ultimatum.

For one week, he was trapped on this political and spiritual trip of which he wanted no part, while his lover sat at home stewing over his supposed faults. He could not fix it. Sneaky was sent away for protection, and he could not respond to Astrid, he could not defend himself.

He was numb, and contemplated instead what he should do with the letter—for what else could reasonably be done, given the circumstances?

Then his father called for him, and he remembered what the itinerary held for next two days before sailing for home. He felt impossibly worse. It was no more likely that he could find some sliver of enjoyment on Helgafell than it was that he could mend his relationship from afar. All the while, he was torn between miserable duty and worrying about a mounting problem waiting for him on Berk. His time was spoken for; he was stuck. For the first time in a while, he felt truly defeated.

With a sigh, he rose to his feet. He put on his cloak before venturing out into the bitter cold, where his father and his breakfast waited for him.

"Everything okay?" Stoick asked, eyeing the parchment clutched tightly in his hand. The man then offered him a bowl of porridge.

With a terse nod, Hiccup dropped the letter into the campfire, watching it curl and burn.

"Everything is just fine."