Chapter 2

The line at the forge was long, and Nameless found himself hoarding a growing pile of weapons, especially spears. The line was composed mostly it seemed of Wingmaidens, who wanted their spears serviced. Spears were the main weapon of the Wingmaidens, for they were used like couched lances. However, nearly all of them did not seem to be content at dropping their weapons off (many of which seemed in perfect shape, not needing servicing) but also to engage in some general chit-chat with the smith. He was always polite, but never exceedingly conversational. Even so, the persistence of the Wingmaidens had to be commended. The smith recognised some, but the number of them that seemed to profess to remember him personally was a bit exaggerated. In addition, everyone seemed to want a glimpse of the smith, for he was not wearing a shirt, his lean but muscled and toned torso up for viewing.

Due to this, the line moved incredibly slowly.

It was all a boring systematic routine. Take weapon from pile. Sharpen and polish it while trying to politely ignore conversation from whomever was at the front of the line currently, and get them to go away so the next person could place their weapon in the pile. Once the current weapon he's working on is finished, put in 'done' pile. Rinse and repeat.

Some of the customers he actually knew personally. For example, Throk and Minden he all talked to quickly before shooing them off.

That is, until he saw a beautiful blonde woman reach the front of the queue, wearing clothes no one in that line had worn so far. The smith gasped, and could feel his breathing rate and heart quicken, as he saw her place a finely crafted axe on top of the pile.

She bore a bored expression, laced with discomfort, worry and frustration, looking at the masked smith, eyes wide through his helmet, before speaking wistfully. "I'd like my axe sharpened and polished. Please take care of it, it's the only connection I have to a dear friend; I'm not sure that I'll ever see him again."

The smith felt his face and neck grow red hot, and was glad of the mask hiding his deep blush. She knew she was talking about him – back when he was still… Hiccup. Hiccup the Useless. Not only that but she had called him a friend – but not even a friend but a dear friend.

The smith knew that they had been mere acquaintances, one having a big crush on the other, while the other wanted to have nothing to do with him; she never talked to him, that is, until he started doing obscenely well in dragon training, and interrogated him.

Still though, the fact that she had called him a dear friend made tears well up in his eyes, and he could see a sad expression mirrored on her face.

After a moment of silence and indecision, he stammered a reply. "Y-yes milady."

With a curt nod she was gone.

The smith stood still, breathing heavily and rubbing the back of his neck. He put down the weapon he was working on, and slowly made his way over to the axe at the top of the pile. Completely ignoring the Wingmaiden now trying to draw him into conversation, he grasped the handle with shaking hands.

It was beautifully crafted; it had carvings running down the wooden haft and on the axe head itself. The blade gleamed in the afternoon sun: a polished mirror of razor sharp iron, and a short spear point protruded from the top. The metal holding to the blade to the head was hollow, except for a supporting structure in the shape of an 'A'.

His work. The axe he had made for Astrid as a leaving gift, five years ago.

It was still in beautiful condition, clearly well looked after.

The Wingmaiden that had been trying to converse with him gave up, stomping away in anger for he had not even seemed to notice her.

The smith didn't care, for her action had not even registered in his brain. He wouldn't have cared if it had.

Clutching the axe to him, he ran his fingers down the slightly worn runes across the haft. He bowed his head, shaking gently as tears ran down his masked cheeks, and tried not to sob aloud.

After a while of staying still in that position, the smith moved slowly to quench the forge's fire, before exiting to his personal room in the back of the building. Locking the door, he removed his helmet, before flinging himself onto the bed, tear covered face shoved into the covers.

He wished he could have the comfort of Toothless, but right now he was alone.

The line outside shortened considerably when they saw the smith leave.


Astrid walked away from the forge, unsure of what to do. She could head to the arena to watch some bouts, or she could go to the great hall, join the drinking. What was she saying, socialising was never her thing.

Walking over to the arena, she thought about the weird encounter with Nameless. When he had seen her, he had suddenly seemed overly nervous and surprised. She had no idea what that had been about.

Maybe, instead, it was when he had seen her axe? She did notice him drop what he was doing to examine it as she had been leaving. Sure, it was an extremely fine weapon, forged by an extremely skilled smith, who had undoubtedly poured his love into the axe. Even when he had been fifteen, he was more skilled than Gobber. Her expression changed to longing and sadness when she thought of Hiccup, and she suddenly missed the comforting weight of the axe. It was her only link to him, besides the letter he had given her, which she had kept hidden in her room in Berk.

Astrid wished for him to return. For many reasons. She wanted to apologise, and give him the recognition and respect he had always deserved, but was never given. She was curious about what kind of a man he had become; he was small and skinny when he had left, but surely he had grown: he was the son of Stoick the Vast, after all. And not just that, but if he was still the kind, stubborn boy she had known. Astrid also wondered what had come of his friendship with his night fury friend. What had he named it? Toothless, if she remembered correctly.

But most importantly, Astrid needed him back. For a reason she had never hoped, or even thought would come into fruition. It was her worst nightmare, in a sense.

Closing her eyes and offering a quick prayer to the gods, Astrid approached the arena. Seeing Dagur's sister, Heather was too watching the fights, Astrid decided to try to get to know her.


Heather watched the two fighters walk into the ring. Throk, Mala's second-in-command, against a Wingmaiden, whose name she did not know. They approached each other, both dressed in simple tunics, without weapons. It was a fistfight, and people were rushing around to place their bets. Heather didn't hesitate to put her money on Throk. The Wingmaiden was supposed to be one of their stronger warriors, but Throk was Throk. He was capable of seemingly inhuman feats of athleticism, and aside from Dagur, Mala, possibly Atali – and of course Nameless – she could not see anyone else beating him. Perhaps Stoick the Vast could, who was a legendary warrior in his own right, but Heather had never seen him in battle.

When she sat down again, she watched the figure of Astrid approach. Astrid sat beside her, a troubled expression on her face.

They engaged in general conversation as the bout started. The Wingmaiden was indeed a strong fighter, but Throk was on another level, and quickly one the fight by knockout, an crescent kick to the head.

Astrid seemed to brighten up as the chatted, obviously distracted from what her mind had been dwelling on, and Heather found that she really liked the young woman. She then decided to ask a question that had been on her mind, out of curiosity, but also for Nameless.

"So, do you have a boyfriend? Or are you betrothed?" Astrid clearly wasn't married – her hairstyle, clothes, and lack of ring signified that.

Astrid's brows furrowed, expression turning to a mix of anger and sadness. Clearly she had struck a chord. Her reply, however both worried Heather and made her happy at the same time; Astrid spoke with a sad tone, but Heather could sense an almost desperate quality to her voice.

"Since I was a little girl I've always wanted to be a shieldmaiden. I've trained with an axe from a very young age, and was by far the best warrior in my age group. I won dragon training, though my old friend Hiccup, the absent heir of our village, interrupted that slightly. Since then, I've remained a shieldmaiden, one of the best warriors in Berk. I've never been interested in anyone from Berk, or elsewhere, so I never even thought of marrying. However, my parents always wanted me to, and when Snotlout Jorgenson," whose name she spat out with utter contempt, "and his family offered to marry us, my parents accepted. I tried and tried with everything I had, but they refused to listen to me, so I am his betrothed." She finished with a sigh, and her head bowed.

Heather could see her lightly shaking in anger and desperation.

"So you don't want to marry Snotlout?"

"No!" Astrid shouted a little too loudly; many other spectators' heads turned towards them. Then she spoke again, desperation and sadness abundant in her tone, "But there's nothing I can do."

"I'm sorry about that, Astrid." Heather put an arm around the blond woman to comfort her. "When's the wedding?"

"It hasn't been decided, I've managed to put that off at least."

Heather nodded slowly. She truly felt sorry for Astrid. As Dagur's sister, being the sister of the chief, she could easily elude such offers, especially when she had no parents remaining. Being bound to a life like that would be unimaginable, and Heather shivered at the mere thought.

She really wanted to comfort Astrid now and make her feel better, and she felt guilty about Astrid's depressed state, for she had brought the matter up. "Astrid, how 'bout you and I have a friendly fight in the ring? It will take your mind off this stuff, and we can have some fun. Also, I'll get to test my skills against one of Berk's finest fighters."

Astrid nodded glumly, and they waited for the current fight to finish.

Vorg, a Berserker captain faced off against a warrior from the Defenders of the Wing that Heather did not know. This was an armed duel, both members wearing light armour. Vorg wielded a wooden greatsword while the other warrior fought with two shortswords.

The fight wasn't even close, the Berserker captain would have cleaved his opponent into two in the first five seconds, had the sword been real.

As this match was applauded, Heather signalled the matchmaker, before she and Astrid headed down to the ring. More spectators came to watch, for the beautiful sister of Dagur would face off against one of Berk's greatest warriors; it should truly be a match to behold.

Heather and Astrid made their way into the area where combatants got ready. "Do you want to fight armed or unarmed?"

"Armed, I'm good with my fists but an axe is what I've trained since I was a little girl."

Heather found the double headed axe, a replica of her real weapon kept just for her, while Astrid chose a long, single edged greataxe.

Patting each other on the back, they walked into the ring, cheers sounding as they did so. Heather noted that already Astrid seemed a bit brighter.

Taking their positions, they circled each other, wooden axes held confidently, watching for a moment to strike. Suddenly, with a cry that embodied the Berserkers, Heather charged forwards, axe leading the way. Astrid blocked easily, and cheers roared as the fight began. Heather went on the offensive, both sides of her weapon hammering blows at Astrid, but each one was confidently blocked, or dodged. Heather twirled the axe in her hands, wooden blades whirling, and Astrid sidestepped nimbly, putting the butt of her axe in the way. Heather was beginning to worry. She was strong, being a Berserker and having trained for a few years, but each of her blows were blocked or dodged with such ease and agility. And Astrid hadn't even attacked once, her confident hands calmly reaching to parry a swing from above. The way Heather's axe bounced off astounded her, for the strength of the block and Astrid's stance was solid, an unwavering wall.

Then Astrid started to attack, axe a blur, swinging with utter precision and assurity. The blows were so fast yet they each struck like an iron hammer; every attack was only just blocked by Heather, and they knocked her back. Astrid advanced, steely determination set in her eyes, axe hammering into Heather's crumbling defence again and again. At this point, Heather knew Astrid was a warrior way beyond her. Her arms tired, and could no longer keep up with Astrid's fast, hard strikes. A sweep to the legs caught her off guard, and Heather found herself falling onto her back, landing with an oof, before a wooden axe blade was pressing into her neck, the young woman smiling smugly above her.

"I win."

The crowed was silent for a moment, in shock of how this Berkian had crushed a mighty warrior, before they erupted into cheers, chanting Astrid's name over and over again. Heather was still too stunned to speak, and glanced at the vastly superior warrior above her with awe and newfound respect.


The smith was working away at the pile of weapons, the grinding wheel throwing off a shower of sparks. He turned when he heard the door open behind him, and saw an annoyed-looking Heather standing in the doorway, before she stomped in, almost slamming the door behind her. He laughed aloud at her state, for he had heard already many a time the crushing defeat she had been dealt in the ring. By Astrid.

"That Astrid of yours…"

His Astrid.

"Heard you got quite the beating."

"You didn't have the decency to tell me that the girl you've had a crush on forever is as strong as a Valkyrie?"

The smith laughed aloud again. "I haven't seen her for five years! Sure, she was always an amazing warrior but to crush the mighty Heather that easily? Come on I expected better from you."

She pouted in annoyance at his teasing tone, before her expression turned serious.

"On a different note though, I chatted to her, and I thought you might like to know some things."

Immediately, the smith stopped working on the spear, and listened intently. Heather told him of their general conversation, and a more detailed account of their bout in the ring. However, when she hesitantly told him of Astrid's predicament with Snotlout, she could see his eyes narrow in anger through the visor.

"So Astrid hates Snotlout?"

Heather nodded.

"And he doesn't care?!"

"Seemingly not, but he probably thinks he can 'rock her world' and make her come around or something stupid like that."

She could hear his deep breaths as he tried to calm himself, before all of a sudden he strapped Inferno to his leg, and stood up, moving towards the door.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"To save Astrid from a lifetime of unhappiness."

"But wait! It will be really suspicious if you suddenly seem to want to help her! No one knows who you are, you have barely met her."

"I don't care. You're right, Heather: I never got over her, seeing her today has made me finally admit that. And if now she is on a course to a life of misery, and I can do something about that, I will."

"Don't do anything rash! What are you planning to do?"

Heather only heard the forge's door open, and the clinking of a metallic leg. Spinning around quickly, she saw the retreating form of the smith walk outside, determination in his stride.

She was worried. Desperately so, and almost frightened by his unexpected show of confidence. Usually, whenever the topic of Astrid was brought up, he was incredibly nervous, and she could see that in him when he saw her again earlier that morning. He was normally calm and composed, and could think of a decent plan very quickly with that amazing mind of his. She hoped that he had a good one now. Even so, how could he pull anything off without creating great suspicion about himself? No one knew who he was except her, so why would he suddenly try to help Astrid? Unless, of course, his plan involved some discretion, but he preferred not to use those kinds of tactics.

After a moment, Heather sprinted out of the door after him, praying to the gods he would not do something he would later regret.


Obviously our dear friend here is quite smitten with Astrid. I know I'm mostly ignoring Hiccup's relationships with the others, especially Gobber and his father, but he is able to keep his facade more easily with them, and since this story is not really told from his perspective, it is not obvious to the others how he feels in that regard. Do not worry, he has not forgotten them, and it will be explored later

Also, I have always found writing fight scenes to be a bit difficult, but I guess practice makes perfect. Any constructive criticism on the matter is much welcomed.