Note
Another unintentionally long gap in this story has resulted from a big life change. After selling my old house in America, I moved overseas across the Pacific, rather than across the Atlantic as I had once been aiming to. Couch, or rather bed-surfing, in a series of hotels, I had to make not one but two efforts to fly out of the US across the span of six months during the height of the COVID Pandemic in 2020. Settling into a comfortable rented home in the northern Philippines, and most importantly, marrying into a big family—I find myself with a wife and four dogs now. But none of these dogs make for good writing companions the way my elderly dogs back in the US did.
So, understandably, my writing muse has been overwhelmed, shoved aside, and all but drowned out over the past two years by everything else that has been going on. Some quiet days though are finally allowing me to try to get back into this story for the first time in quite a while. Even though I have reread previous chapters as my reading at bedtimes and other spare moments, adding titles for each chapter now to make rereading favourite ones in this long saga easier—getting into the right frame of mind (and good writing does appear to be meditation), has proven elusive. What's spurring the completion of this chapter now though is the debut of 'Dragons: The Nine Realms' on a pay streaming channel, reviving the movies' story in the modern day, just with kids once more.
While I am enjoying life in my new tropical surroundings and equally warm clan while coming from a tiny family myself, I miss the solitude and quiet of my old home in an American forest, where I could more easily return to the changing situation, even changing world, that Lance, Substance and their family find themselves in . . .
— Norwesterner
"Prepare for landing at Eielson. All on board are reminded that this is a quick refueling stop, and a classified flight. So, no external doors are to be opened, or covers removed from ports. Again, prepare for landing. Flight deck out."
That announcement, which wakes us from our sleep, was definitely intended for we six guests or passengers, as there is no flight crew visible around us on the main cargo deck of the C-17 U.S. Air Force cargo jet we are flying aboard.
The lights above us brighten, causing me to wince as I awaken. Instinctively beginning to sit up, "Nno point getting up," I hear a deep dragon voice say as Substance shifts herself beside me.
"Still . . ." I almost grunt, now attempting to turn myself over from my back to my stomach, even towards my dragon, to get away from those bright lights, "a change ov position would bhe nice."
"It only been two hours."
"Aigh thought dragons couldn't count or tehll time," I reply, trying to bury my head within or underneath the spare military arctic parka I had been using as a pillow.
"Flight crew think in nothing but time. At least one of them seem to note every fifteen minutes that pass. Was tuning into their monotonous thinking to try and get myself to sleep. But when I realize we soon land again, what the point?"
"How ihs everyone else doing?" I call out, now facing my dragon's black side.
"Still blind . . . Still gimpy," come the responses from the two human females among us, positioned ahead of and behind me on cargo padding along the bay we are all strapped to the floor of.
Not hearing the one member of our party I was most concerned about though, "How's ouhr V.I.P. or V.I.D. doing?"
"Not great, Dad," Tyrah replies back, speaking for her silent dragon companion. "In fact, I'd say he's crushed."
Despite still recovering from a stroke, and knowing Tyrah sometimes used sarcasm to snap Spring out of his funks—that makes me want to squirm out from or otherwise release the cargo straps that are restraining both Substance and me tight beside her. "Stay put!" the order comes from my dragon, however. The plane around us begins rocking, even careening a bit as we can feel it descend.
"The ohne time I wouldn't mind sitting upright, even having a window," I grump.
"We could fly home ourselves," Substance notes.
"Over the couhrse of a month," I retort. "But weh're not exactly going home."
That is the problem. We are not going home to New Berk, at least right away, or even via Flystasjon Ørland as we usually do. Instead, we are headed right to Oslo, seemingly to officially be called on the carpet at no less than the Slottet or Royal Palace for our recent excesses and misdeeds—at least Spring's, perhaps mine as well.
Now I am in a funk, too.
— — — — —
After a fairly careening, up-down approach, we finally landed with a thud at Eielson Air Force Base near Fairbanks. I'd love to share what it looks like, whether the surrounding scenery is mountainous or tundra, but I can't see a thing, and as the landing announcement had noted, even the tiny window ports in the single crew door on the starboard side, or near the door on the port side of the aircraft, are covered over for our security and secrecy.
I can feel the plane turning right about ninety degrees and soon coming to a stop.
Shortly thereafter, "Attention. Fueling operations commencing. No smoking or open lights. Repeat, no smoking or open lights," comes the announcement.
"Especially from dragons," I snarkily finish for them, rolling once more onto my back, figuring I might as well remain awake rather than trying to get back to the sleep I had evidently entered not long ago.
Substance doesn't bother to chime in this time. It seems all six of us are in a depressed or foul mood.
"Dad . . . I'm sorry." It's not being said by Tyrah, however. It's Spring.
That's it. I'm getting up.
Reaching and releasing two of the three straps that restrained Substance and myself at our shoulders and middles, I sit upright. Grabbing my crutches while bracing one hand against Substance's side, I unsteadily rise to my feet. Feeling, even knowing I'm being looked at by my mate Roana ahead of me, strapped in beside Rökkr, I briefly return her gaze. She is saying nothing though, just sharing her concern and giving her support with just a look, the way folks sometimes do having been mated or married thirty-one years.
Taking a breath, I hobble on my crutches along Substance's side towards Spring and Tyrah behind us.
"Sprihng," I say, carefully kneeling down in front of his broad head. His eyes are closed—not in sleep though, but in depression, even pain. "Youh are an admiral now. One star, but an admiral. Youh're a leader of our people, right alongside mhe. Youh and Aigh don't have the luxury of self-doubt. Or self-pity. We have to fight, even go down fighting if necessary. But, we have to fight. 'We're Vikings. Iht's an occupational hazard,' as ouhr ancestors, a couple of them, were famous for saying—and they are youhr ancestors, too.
"We have to take command of this situation, just like youh've commanded youhr ship. Project strength and certainty, even when we have no idea what the hell we're doing, or what to do next."
That at least draws a knowing subtle smile from my dragon son.
"Youhr crew, our crew, will be all who are watching us. Aigh for one don't want to see you ever let down your crew. They'll probably be watching on closed-circuit TV from the Drekar anyway."
Spring now silently surges himself forward into my arms and firmly against the rest of me, snapping two of his three restraining straps around his shoulders and back. The one over his tail just goes limp.
"Is there really any point in these restraints?" I ask.
"Nope," my dragon son replies. "But military regs call for them just the same. Quite used to that."
"Feeling better?" I couldn't help wondering as we separate a little and look at each other.
"I am me," Spring answers, "and all that means." He even seems to take a little pride in his depressive nature. "I will not apologize for rescuing Tyrah, or anything else. You been rubbing off on me this voyage."
"You are my sohn."
"Get new straps."
"Yes, sir," I reply with a smile.
I was talking with an admiral, after all. Even with just one star.
— — — — —
Soon, and strapped down once more, we are refueled and taking off again. I still have no idea what Eielson looks like.
We learned from the enlisted loadmaster who strapped us down again that would be no further stops en route, but there would be an unrep in flight, as our C-17 didn't quite have the range to make it all the way to Oslo from Fairbanks on one tank of gas.
Once in flight and at cruising altitude, I sit up against Substance—this time against her belly among her thick, outstretched legs. She is now lying strapped down on her side. "More comfortable," she says, even though she usually sleeps upright on her stomach. Everyone else now seems asleep. For my part, I am doing the one thing that takes my mind off my troubles: journalling on my laptop, telling this story.
I pause though, reflecting on all that has been, and is, going on. Going to Oslo now—while ostensibly going home, it feels like we are being taken away from all we've known. From command, from authority, even from home, be it a village or ship. I can't help feeling much like Spring, that I've screwed things up.
He is indeed my son. My dragon son.
"Excuse me, sir," I'm quietly interrupted by the loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Enrique Gomez. "But there's a call for you and the others."
"Leht them sleehp," I reply with equal quiet, despite the constant whine, hum or roar of the four jet engines powering the aircraft. "Aigh'll take it in your cockpit, if there's room."
"Of course," Gomez accepts.
Slowly climbing the steep stairs up to the crew area and flight deck with Gomez behind me, I'm invited to occupy a seat on the left side of the cockpit behind the pilot. Finally, I'm sitting next to a big window that goes down to practically my thighs. Even though I once used to prefer aisle seats, I briefly enjoy the daytime view of twilight but perpetual sunshine at this still summer arctic latitude along with clouds beneath, as Gomez hands me a pair of headphones with mike.
"Chief Ýsa here, over," I say, upon putting on the set of headphones.
"Chief!" I hear a female voice reply. "How are you all doing?"
"Who is this?" I can't help wondering aloud.
"Løytnant, excuse me, Kapteinløytnant now, Kari Steigen, sir. Have you forgotten us already?"
"Noh, Aigh just didn't recognize the enthusiasm, let alone the voice. Haven't talked with youh ohn radio before."
"Well, I've already designated myself morale officer, with the captain's permission, even encouragement, because all of you going has left a tremendous hole on board, sir. We're not the same without you. So, I've begun to treat this like a damage control problem, like we learned at the academy—just an emotional one. The simplest solution I've come up with so far is to treat this like an away mission. So, this is the ship's morale officer checking in with our away team. Again, my question: How are you all doing?"
This brought a smile to my face. "Well, iht's working, Kapteinløytnant. Aigh am feeling better hearing this. Aigh even admire the inventiveness and creativity here. Everyone else is sleeping though, and Aigh think that best for now. But Aigh will tell them all this when they wake uhp."
"Your ship expects regular reports on your progress, all right? We're even ganging up with the KJK platoon on New Berk, pressing for, even demanding a live feed on whatever hearing or formal process they will do in Oslo. The platoon has agreed to dispatch their C.O. to Oslo immediately via Ørland. He'll provide a live feed on his phone from whatever the proceedings will be, and with his orlogskaptein's rank and clearance, he should be able to gain access."
"Even we haven't been told what will be happening there yet, Kapteinløytnant," I warned.
"Wish I had Orlogskaptein Tyrah's lying and covert penetrating skills."
"Youh're on a first-name basis?"
"It's less of a mouthful than Kristiansen-Ýsa, don't you think? We've all taken to referring to her as Orlogskaptein Tyrah. Makes her ours."
"Youh know," I muse, "as chief, Aigh might just order youh all home."
"We've got a lot to do here, sir, as you know, even on your existing orders. Besides, we're kind of hoping you'll come back to us, make your home out this way, even on board. Although we would have to move Tankur again. He is currently enjoying your quarters, just him and his companion. Fathom and I are now occupying Flaggkommandør Spring's half. The captain is just staying put in Cabin One, as he doesn't have a dragon that needs accommodation. But we, all of us, would make room for you all once more in a heartbeat."
Smiling again, "Kapteinløytnant, we might just take youh up on that."
— — — — —
Concluding my call with Steigen on board the Drekar, I am feeling better, but still at a loss. Having not taken one in thirty-one years, I had forgotten what eight-hour intercontinental flights are like, until this one. However, being a military cargo jet rather than a multi-class airliner, there are no inflight movies, music or even a magazine to read.
My old habit of not sleeping on flights due to nerves seems to be returning. Just not for the reasons I once had. Plus, even looking down that steep ladder back to the cargo bay was causing me to decide to just let everyone else down below sleep.
"Care to nap in one of our racks?" Gomez offers, gesturing to the two bunks practically staring me in the face, positioned right above and behind the ladder well.
"Aigh shouldn't," I reply with guilty, almost wincing hesitation.
"Of course you should, sir. Either that, or sit in one of our luxurious lounge chairs," he counters, gesturing to the two thin and upright airliner seats against the foward bulkhead opposite the bunk beds. "You can even make more calls with the headsets plugged in next to them."
"Makes this sound like a first-class suite," I note, looking around this cramped and windowless space behind the cockpit. Correction, there is a window—a round one beside the lower bunk looking into the cargo bay beyond.
"Exactly. Even comes with coffee, and food, so long as you don't mind MREs. We're offering a choice between Chicken Chunks, Spaghetti with Beef Sauce, and Chili with Beans—although we're not sure if it's really Chili or Beans. Another crew sampled one of those packs, and the rest of those have been around a long time on this plane, passed from crew to crew to crew."
"The Chicken sounds decent," I decide. "But what about the others down below?"
"When they call for service, I'm ready to provide it. Part of my job. Got salmon by the case and everything. The other two are stuck just flying the plane."
"What about the other crew Aigh saw ohn the ground at Alert River?" I finally think to ask. "Where are they?"
"Still at Alert River," Gomez replies. "There are more relief loads coming in for the village, and they decided to transfer the EOD container from helo to plane at Alert River, since the planes are delivering relief supplies there anyway."
"Makes sense," I have to admit. "But one ov ouhr dragons doesn't exactly care for boxed fish. She'll survive. Aigh will have that Chicken though."
— — — — —
Although they come in a small, microwavable box, the chicken chunks are surprisingly good. When I find a number of tortillas in the box alongside the chicken and hold one up though, "Don't ask me why the DoD kitchens put those in there," is all Gomez answers, deciding to eat the Spaghetti choice alongside me in the crew rest area.
Washing it all down with coffee, I feel even less like sleeping. So, I belt myself into the seat behind the pilot once more. Gazing out its large window almost allows me to feel I'm riding back to Europe on a dragon, just with a really comfortable high-backed saddle with a head rest. And I do have all those years of flying aisle seats, wilfully ignoring the views, to make up for.
". . . Colonel? Chief?"
My eyes open. Surprisingly, I had fallen asleep. It's what old men tend to do, after all. Especially after eating.
"Oh, good, you're awake," Gomez quietly says next to me. "We're just about to take on fuel in the air. The pilot and co-pilot need to focus on what they're doing, without someone behind them waking up with surprise."
"This isn't our first time, even with visitors, Gomez," the co-pilot interjects.
"Here comes the buffeting," the pilot notes as our plane begins to bump around some.
"It's caused by the turbulent wake of the tanker we're coming up behind," Gomez quietly narrates beside me, taking the seat behind the co-pilot.
"One hundred feet," we hear on our radio headsets.
Up and ahead of us, growing ever larger, is the grey, four-engined tanker aircraft we're about to dock with.
"That's a K-C-One-Thirty-Five," Gomez continues beside me.
"A military variant of the ohld Boehing Seven-Oh-Sevens," I finish.
"That's right. You know your aircraft. Having been in service with the Air Force for a half-century, they're fairly obsolete and will be on their way out in favor of the new K-C-Forty-Six Pegasus—once they get the kinks in the remote boom control video displays and stations worked out."
"Even though Aigh'm a biologist, Aigh am still NASA. But Aigh never flew on those jetliners, and never thought Aigh'd get this close to one ihn the air."
"Looking good, Valkyrie One-Seven," our radio headsets squawk.
Sighing, "That Valkyrie call sign follows us everywhere," I note to Gomez. "At least iht's disguised with numbers this time. They love hiding us in plain sight."
"Who?" Gomez asks.
"The bureauhcracy that's supposed to protect the dragons ohn the Outside. We're being recalled to Oslo to be chewed out for selectively revealing ouhrselves to others. But the bureauhcrats keep sticking uhs with that Valkyrie label whether we're aht sea on ships, or flying in aircraft like this. Any nut with a ham radio has probably been tracking uhs via that Valkyrie call sign, for years."
"Continue your approach," the tanker boom operator chimes in on the radio. "Sixty feet. Confirm we are to send you a full load."
"That's a confirm. One hundred, fifty thousand pounds," our pilot responds.
"A full load?" I quietly ask Gomez. "I thought we would be three-quarters of the way there by the time unrep occurred."
"We received new orders while you were napping. Didn't want to disturb you. We're now ordered not to land at Gardermoen Air Station until after dark local time. It's near the main passenger airport, and they do not want our U.S. tail or number being seen. We'll be guided right inside a hangar with the doors closed before you all are to be transferred to ground transport."
"Aigh expected an indoor transfer," I note to Gomez's slight surprise. "But the delay 'til dark seems a little needless."
"Them's the orders we got."
I hear and vaguely feel a slight thud above us. "We have contact," the KC-135's boom operator reports by radio.
"Contact confirmed," our co-pilot replies, seeing the 'Connect' light illuminate on the panel in front of him. Flipping a switch, "Ready for transfer."
"Commencing transfer."
I look upwards out the extra window above the pilot and myself along the boom to the other aircraft fueling us just metres or yards up and ahead. I can even see the boom operator wearing dark sunglasses looking through a small rectangular window just below the boom.
"Chief," the pilot says ahead of me, his hand briefly covering his headset mike, "we're technically under orders that no one but us is supposed to see our passengers. Any of them."
"Pass me a ballcap then," I reply, quickly putting the dark blue one Gomez hands me on to blend in a little better.
"One-fifty thousand pounds delivered. Transfer complete. Bye-bye," we hear on our headsets.
"Valkyrie One-Seven confirms disconnect, resuming auto-pilot, course One Two Zero," our co-pilot replies, smoothly working the panel in front of him as the pilot relaxes his hands from the flight controls.
"Quicker than Aigh thought it'd be," I can't help noting.
"Yep, it's gas 'n go in seconds," Gomez replies beside me as we watch the aerial tanker pull up and bank away from us. "Until about Twenty-Three Hundred Oslo Time though, we are instructed to remain in the air. Anything you'd like to see?"
"No low passes, right?"
"Twenty-five thousand feet minimum."
"Something we don't get to see flying dragons."
"And we can't overfly your home island, Chief," the pilot interjects ahead of us. "That location, we've been told, is outside our paygrade and clearance as restricted air space."
I can't help sighing. "Everyone with even a modest security clearance knows the reserve iht's ihn. The maps, even publicly-available satellite imagery, are just deliberately messed up concerning what's ihn there. Even Aigh'd geht lost if our dragons didn't know where to fly. Go wherever youh like then. Indulge yourselves."
— — — — —
Even though we give New Berk a wide berth, I still get to see the Trøndelag region, as well as the fjordlands to the south. The towering canyons and mountains they're famous for look surprisingly flat from this high up.
Finally though, I decide to venture back down the steep ladder from the flight deck to the C-17's cargo bay. Gomez is underneath, preceding me down as he carries my crutches, ready to catch me, somehow, if I slip or my legs give out.
"Nnice to sense you return, at last," Substance notes, lying upright and finishing a platter of salmon laid in front of her.
"Nice to see youh eating fish from a box, aht last." It's the only snarky thing I can think to reply with as I accept my crutches back from Gomez. "The rest of youh sleehp well?"
"Rested and ready to be up all night Oslo time," Roana replies, relaxing beside Rökkr, "for what it'll be worth. You nap up there? You need to be rested and ready for whatever we'll be facing."
"Aigh got a nap ihn the observer's seat behind the pilot. Sorry, Aigh wasn't down here, but we received a call from the Drekar, and Aigh wasn't looking forward to coming down that ladder," I explain, glancing behind me.
"In your condition, even mine, I wouldn't be either," my mate agrees. "But how's the crew back on the Drekar?"
"Steigen passed on the crew's best wishes, said they already miss uhs dearly and will be monitoring ouhr developments through the island platoon commander, who is en route, maybe in Oslo now."
"Setting up for final approach," we all hear on the speakers around us. "All personnel secure for landing."
"You want to take a seat, sir," Gomez offers, gesturing to the rows of empty and backward-facing seats ahead of the dragons. "It would be faster."
"Suhre," I accept with a sigh, turning on my crutches toward those seats. To my surprise, Gomez belts himself in beside me, two seats to my right. "Iht's faster," I pre-emptively note.
"Yep," he agrees.
Indeed, only seconds later, we are once again gyrating up and down a bit, presumably lining up for the runway at Gardermoen. Our pilot may be a senior 'bird' colonel, higher than flights like these would normally call for—our V.I.P. status again, I guess. But his flying seems to be leaving a little to be desired, unless it is the co-pilot being broken in on a new type of aircraft.
Almost to spite my low expectations though, we touch down on Norwegian soil with surprising smoothness. Our plane levels out, and the four engines either side of us go into full reverse, braking us down to taxiing speed. I then feel us turn ninety degrees to the right, taxiing some, before turning ninety degrees to the left. Less than a moment later, it's ninety degrees to the right again, before finally coming to a halt as the engines power down.
"This is as much as I know about," Gomez says beside me, releasing his belt and rising from his seat. "I even have to wait for approval from upstairs before I open the aft ramp. What comes next, I have no idea."
"That makes two of us," I note, releasing my own belt and rising from my seat as Gomez kindly moves to assist me. I wish I wasn't old and infirm enough to cause people around me to do that. "Thank youh for youhr hospitality," I remember to add though, "and express my thanks to the flight deck crew ahs well. Aigh just don't care to try that ladder again, and we don't have the time."
"Of course, sir."
"Maybe stick around though," I note. "We might want a flight back."
Gomez gives me a strange look. "Dark joke," I reply. "We don't exactly expect to do well where we're going next."
"I wish you well . . . whatever you are facing," he says with some confusion.
"Thank youh," I acknowledge. Once I brace my crutches under me, Gomez moves to progressively release and clear all of the straps from the dragons' backs.
"The orlogskaptein and I will wait for other assistance," Roana decides though when Gomez approaches to help her up. "We will probably get wheelchairs anyway, now that we're back from the wild frontier."
"As you wish, ma'am," Gomez agrees, backing away.
"We are cleared to open ramp," we hear from the speakers above. "Repeat, cleared to open ramp."
Moving to a side panel at the rear of the bay, Gomez begins lowering the plane's long-closed ramp. What I can see at first is merely closed metal hangar doors. All of us passengers brace ourselves for whatever we will be greeted by, even military police with handcuffs and leg irons.
Instead, the ramp lowers to reveal a phalanx of security personnel dressed in uniformly dark suits, a few indeed waiting with wheelchairs. Three wheelchairs.
"Aigh can walk," I assure with some annoyance as one security staffer, presumably Baronial, boards the aircraft and approaches me with one of the chairs. "Just lead the way to where Aigh'm supposed to go."
"Yes, sir," the young blonde man answers with a clear Norwegian accent.
"Getit pit drekar gengit?" a young female staffer thoughtfully queries loudly in our Berker Norse, asking our three dragons if they can walk.
"Já," comes the reply from each of them, as Roana and Tyrah are helped into two other wheelchairs. Assisted or independently, all six of us turn towards the lowered ramp now. Turning her head back towards me though, Substance waits as my dragon for me to lead our delegation off the plane, for whatever it might be worth.
"This way, sir, and ma'am," my blonde male escort says, gesturing off to our right as we descend the plane's ramp. Even though I've never met him before and he seems junior, he's obviously been briefed that I prefer to be addressed in English, and that Substance is female.
"Moving vahns," I note, seeing what our ground transportation is to be. The doors and ramps of three semi-trailers, one for each pair of us stand open. The sides of each trailer and truck cab are emblazoned, "Dragon Relocation" in big, bold yellow letters on a blue background, with "en Gerhard-bedrift" in smaller letters beneath, noting that it's a Gerhard enterprise.
"Hiding in plain sight," I can't help noting with a sigh, even seeing a version of the generic dragon and rider used on the Berker standard employed as a logo ahead of the wording.
"Yes, sir," our escort confirms. "They have been in business for years, quite successfully, and have been part of Baroness Gerhard's gradual introduction programme. There is a seat at the head of the trailer for you, sir, and your dragon is free to stand, sit or be tied down as she prefers. Just fold your wings tightly, ma'am," he then addresses Substance, "as these trailers could not be provided ideally in your size. And don't worry, there is a side ramp you will be ushered through in front, so you do not have to back out."
"I will sit," Substance decides. "Lannce, hand on neck, please, so I can see."
"And Aigh will take that wheelchair," I decide, spotting low and presumably mirrored windows along the trailers' sides, covered by logo wraps on the outside, "positioned beside my dragon's neck, so she can see. Youh get to sightsee a little of Oslo after all, Substance."
"Oh, joy," she replies, using one of my go-to snarks herself. As I drop back to place my right hand on her neck while handing my right crutch to our aide, I glance beside us to see Tyrah and Spring and Rökkr and Roana boarding their own trailers with their aides as well. Now resting my hand on Substance and feeling that customary jolt of connecting awareness again, I can sense her drawing in her wings tight against her body. Our aide is forced right behind me with the chair, ahead of Substance's left wing. I decide to sit down before I'm scooped into that chair, as we ascend the ramp into our trailer.
Once Substance, myself and our aide are in position within the confines of the trailer, "Vi er om bord. Lukk baksiden!" our aide says both into his cuff and loudly enough so that other staffers outside the trailer behind us can hear. The half-height ramp and doors above it are dutifully closed behind us as I shift a little in the wheelchair provided, its brakes thankfully applied. Standing close behind, even against me, our aide pauses for a moment. "Uhh . . . I cannot figure out how to move from where I am, sir and ma'am."
"Then stay where you are," Substance directs.
"Yes, ma'am," our aide accepts with reluctance.
With an extensive motorcycle police escort arrayed around us, we are the first of the three vans to depart.
"Police motorcycles? Escorting what are supposed to be unobtrusive moving vans?" I ask our aide.
"Not my decision, sir," comes the reply.
Not having entered or re-entered Norway for thirty-one years, "No customs formalities?"
"We trust you," I'm assured by our aide.
As the interior lights of our trailer are dimmed from the cab, I gaze out the long and relatively narrow window on our left side for both Substance and myself. Our truck turns to the left to exit between the reopened hangar doors, and we're off.
— — — — —
Seeing things with my dragon I never thought I would be, we turn past the hangar and exit out a side gate beside a parking lot, through a security checkpoint and out onto an airport approach road.
"Would find this more interesting from air," is all Substance has to say.
Shrugging, I continue looking out into the darkness around us as we turn along a couple more roads, before finally turning right onto the E6 motorway headed south to Oslo.
Dragons finally entering Oslo, the Norwegian capital. I should be more excited than I am at this longtime dream finally being realized. That they are concealed inside moving vans though, even though the vans clearly proclaim 'Dragon Relocation'—it's just kind of putting a damper on the occasion and milestone. That, and being fairly certain we're headed for judgment, punishment, even perhaps official banishment of some kind.
I try to clear my head of such thoughts though. Substance says nothing as we speed along the motorway at around one hundred kilometres per hour, our motorcycle escorts with their flashing blue lights maintaining station all around us. "Youh don't find this interesting?" I say to my dragon.
"Nope," she replies, facing straight ahead within our trailer while I do all the looking for both of us out the side window. Even though I haven't seen all this for a while, passing through dark countryside and the occasional suburb at night isn't terribly exciting for me either.
Finally, we enter greater, and brighter, Oslo. Exiting the motorway in the city centre and proceeding along the streets unimpeded as our escort motorcycles whiz past us to stop cross traffic at intersections before whizzing past us again, "Surely you find this interesting," I say to my dragon as at least I gaze intently out the window. Glancing up at him, even our aide standing close behind, almost over me, is looking out.
"If I were flying to Slottet, maybe," Substance replies. "But arriving inside box on wheels? How can I find that interesting?"
I give up, and hope Rökkr and Roana, even Spring and Tyrah, are having a more enjoyable time. Actually, through Substance I can tune into them. Focussing myself, Rökkr is viewing all the new sights with his customary guardian's caution, and Roana has seen it all before. Spring has his head down and eyes closed, as if he is being carted off for judgment, even execution. I can sense Tyrah doing everything she can to lift his spirits and console him. I love you and am with you, Spring. All the way, I convey to him.
— — — — —
Turning into and through the palace side gates, and through a new pair of temporary tall wire mesh gates as well with black tarps covering them, our moving van comes to a stop under the portico at least Roana and I are quite familiar with. Only our old friend and host is no longer there to greet us.
The front left door and ramp now open in front of us. Taking one look at the exit offered through my eyes though, "I not fit through that," Substance says. "Cannot turn that sharp. Open rear door and let me back out."
"Very well. But careful of your wings, ma'am," our aide cautions behind me.
"I know!" she barks in annoyance as our aide hurriedly radios our change in plans via talking into his wrist.
"Pull me ouht, keeping pace with her," I instruct, glancing behind us as I see Substance pull her wings extra close against her body.
The rear doors and ramp are opened behind us as the front ones are reclosed. Carefully, and without me falling off the side of the ramp in my wheelchair as we descend, the three of us reach pavement. Merely gesturing for my left crutch, I stand again, as upright as I can. Wearing the same village clothing I have for a day now since departing the Drekar, I realize I could use a shower and grooming before appearing in front of any august company. But seeing whole entourages of Baronial and Royal personnel arrayed around us, I realize there isn't time. It will likely be in, tongue-lashed, sentenced and right back out again anyway.
"Sir and ma'am, if you could step inside to make way for the others waiting behind," our aide offers, gesturing with a hand towards the tall double doors to our left that were being held open for us.
"Of course," I accept, limping close beside Substance with my right hand on her neck so she can see through me where the doors are.
As we enter a large, ornate hallway, even an antechamber ahead of the large ceremonial ballroom I'm familiar with, I see a sight that floors me.
"Garrihson! What are youh doing here?!" I say with some amazement, seeing Substance is in fact not the first dragon to ever enter the Slottet. O'Connell's Nightmare, Garrison, with Ilsa beside him, has beaten us to it.
"Ve received a royal summons," Ilsa replies, "delivered personally, along with a troop helicopter to fly us here. Poor Garrison barely fit! Same vith the van as vell!"
"My apologies," I say, moving towards her as Substance pauses, "and my condolences." Ilsa and I embrace, both shedding a tear.
"It has been hard for all of us," she says against my shoulder, "losing Miles as ve did." Substance now moves forward to nudge against both us as well as Garrison beside us. "Is that vhat ve all are here for?"
"No," I reluctantly answer. "Aigh don't think it is. Spring and Aigh are here to be reprimanded for violating the Fyrsta Reglan, one too many times. Maybe a couple too many."
"Drager Øy stands vith you then," Ilsa says, stiffening up. "And zey don't vant to make my Garrison mad, vith all this fine wood around."
"Thank you," I accept with a smile, dearly appreciating Ilsa's humour.
"Daddy!" we then hear coming towards us. It is indeed 'old home' or reunion week at Norway's royal palace as my daughter rushes across the refined anteroom.
"Hope!" I reply, catching her in an enthusiastic embrace without falling over.
"Substance, Rökkr and Mom," our daughter greets, looking behind me as the others begin to catch up. "I'm so glad to see you all!"
"Aigh just wish the circumstances were better," I can't help noting as she and I separate from our embrace.
"The new king has invoked an ancient right, calling a royal ting or tribunal. He is surprisingly neutral, not even talking to me, presumably as one of the litigants. Dad . . ." She then hesitates.
"Youh do youhr job, exactly as youh need to and see fit," I assure her.
"But I want to switch sides," she says regretfully. "Pick up a sword and stand with my family."
"We Ýsa have always put ouhr nation first . . . except for great-grandfather Asger—great-great in youhr case. Ouhr family has to stand for what ihs right here, regardless of what that is."
The double doors to the main hall open. "Hans majestet er klar til å ta imot deg," a male page in a suit announces.
"Daddy, I stand with you, and I'm ready to go with you if necessary," my daughter says.
"No, youh're not," I warmly disagree with a smile. "Do good here. Just do good, above anything else."
A brown-haired young man in a suit now rushes up beside Hope. "Oh, Daddy," my daughter says, taking this man's arm, "this is my fiancée, Jordan Gerhard, from Minneapolis, whom I've told you about."
"Pleasure," I greet reaching to shake this man's hand. "Please excuse my appearance. Just flew here from Alaska. That, and Aigh am Viking."
"You sure don't sound Viking," he says.
"Grew uhp Canadian, as Aigh hope Hope has told you."
"She has."
"You Hope's mate?" Substance wonders beside me, despite all that has been said within her earshot.
"Y-Yes . . ." the young man nervously confirms. "Well, soon. A-After the wedding—"
"You need a lot of work," Substance interrupts with a sigh and a shake of her head, already turning to move past him, shoving me along in the process. "Lot of work."
As I move away with Substance, I can overhear the young man whispering behind me to Hope, "You mean she's going to be my mother-in-law?!"
"Worse," Hope replies. "Dragon-in-law."
It's all I can do to keep a straight face as I walk onward with Substance.
That part, at least, is going to be fun.
— — — — —
Entering the main ballroom beside my dragon, the space is surprisingly full. It all seems a retrospective of my thirty-one years in Norway and the Berk nation, new and old. Not only are Garrison and Ilsa present following us in, but our Island KJK platoon commander and his X.O. are nearby with Jóarr of our old Dragon Riders standing beside them. Amazingly, EOD Commander Roger Cravens, Royal Canadian Navy Commander Andrew MacLean from the HMCS Fredrickton are present, as well as Commander Bart Saunderson from the USS Hawaii. US Coast Guard Flight Surgeon Tom Rogers is also here, standing next to . . . wow, that looks like NATO Supreme Commander General Collins—I had only seen pictures of him before. Even clerical envoys wearing robes, or at least collars, from the Vatican and representing the Anglican Communion from Canterbury are on hand as well.
If this was going to be a version of the Ancient Greek practice of Ostracism, or sending leaders into exile, this now looked to be a five-star send-off.
As usual, a page now pounds a tall staff on the floor three times. The crowded room quiets as attention now turns to the central slightly raised dais with two thrones upon it. Stepping in through a side door, the new young king and his queen enter the ballroom. Both dressed in fairly formal business attires—he in a dark pinstriped suit, much like his father used to, and she in a grey skirt suit with grey and white scarf. All of us bow or curtsey towards them.
Neither of them sits on their thrones, however. Instead, they merely stand together at the front of the dais. "Damer og herrer, ladies and gentlemen, honoured guests from the Barony of Berk and around the world," the young new king begins. "We are here tonight to observe an ancient Norse institution of a lagting or law assembly, predating what we think of as law courts by centuries. By royal prerogative, I've found I have the right to convene one. As many of our guests are not familiar with our customary Bokmål, however, I would ask that proceedings here be transacted in English, which all should understand."
Presumably, as the chief prosecutor or complainant, Oleg now steps forward from a group gathered to the king's right—likely the Baronial leadership and bureaucracy.
"Before we hear the dispute which has drawn us all here," the king continues, seeing Oleg out of the corner of his eye but pre-empting him, "I wish to transact some other state business first.
"More than a century ago, a Norwegian was honoured in this very room for crossing an island for the first time—a large, icy island. But it wasn't a Norwegian island. This Norwegian would go on to accomplish many more things in exploration, science, statesmanship, even global relations and peace. That even his early accomplishment of crossing a large island for the first time was recognized and honoured, I think encouraged him to his subsequent greater accomplishments—"
"Deres majestet—" Oleg now interrupts.
"English, please," the king interjects in reply, deciding to pause for him nonetheless.
"Your Majesty. Forgive the intrusion, but we can see where this is going—at least my party presenting the issue at hand can. Does what you are leading into or towards not risk the neutral role your Majesty is supposed to be playing in this ting or assembly?"
"The Crown's interest here is peace and amity among and between all peoples either of, or allied with, Norway. But, if you and the party you represent feel that goal might be best achieved by presenting your case first, now—proceed."
"Many thanks, your Majesty. I am Brigader Oleg Hansen, Chief of Security for the Barony and Nation of Berk. What I do here, I do out of duty, as I have both known and protected the individuals concerned here for many years, even decades. I am sjefsadvokat, chief prosecutor, in this matter, in lieu of the Baroness, who excuses herself due to conflict of interest.
"Our complaint is that one of the most senior members of the Berk Nation, Flaggkommandør Spring Ýsa, has repeatedly violated our most important law, the Fyrsta Reglan or First Rule—namely that dragons are to remain hidden from the world beyond our small nation at all costs, for their own protection and survival, and are not to reveal themselves to anyone outside the Berk Nation, even to uncleared and unprepared members of the Barony beyond Berk's island community, without the approval of the Baronial leadership and security apparatus.
"Some twenty years ago as a midshipman, Flagkommandør Ýsa violated the Fyrsta Reglan on no less than three occasions—that we are aware of. The previous Baroness Gerhard, however, decided at the time that any and all punishments for those transgressions were to be . . . waived," Oleg says with either discomfort or misgiving. "She permitted me, however, to issue then-Midshipman Ýsa a clear warning that if he, either alone or with his human companion, Tyrah Kristiansen, revealed himself to Outsiders again without Baronial authorization or clearance, both their military careers on the Outside would be ended, and they would be returned or sent to the Island of New Berk for confinement there, or such punishment as the island's tribal leadership decided, for the remainder of their lives, and forbidden from returning to, or circulating in, the Outside world.
"While the Flagkommandør has gone right to the edge of that warning on at least four occasions on deployment as captain of the Patrol Ship Drekar that your Majesty has kindly recalled him from, those violations were either at the behest of his adoptive father, Chief Ýsa, or circumstances the Barony was able to accept—reluctantly, and with some difficulty in keeping knowledge of the dragons' existence controlled or contained.
"But his most recent offense was both clear and of his own volition. With both his companion and himself knowing full well that keeping dragons' existence hidden from Outsiders could require the sacrifice of their lives, and has cost the lives of others in our past; the Flagkommandør nonetheless revealed himself in full to an uncleared United States Coast Guard helicopter crew who lacked adequate security clearances, and then allowed that crew to return to their home base at Kodiak, Alaska without accompaniment or supervision of Baronial Outside Guardians. Despite orders from their superior officer, an Outside Guardian who was subsequently sent to follow up there found at least one of the three helicopter crew had possession of a small Berk standard flag, and appeared quite willing to tell our undercover Guardian that the dragon on the flag was real and he had seen it. He even showed our operative a blurred, dim close-up photo of the Flagkommandør's left wing and body walking past the helicopter on his phone—"
"Your Majesty, Captain Tom Rogers, United States Coast Guard. If I may?" one of our new friends interrupts, raising his hand.
"Yes, Captain?" the king recognizes, a lot more informally and readily than a judge in a conventional legal proceeding would.
"Guardian Major Hansen let me know about this individual, and I have had him reassigned to U.S. Coast Guard Intelligence, as well as having him talked with by intelligence personnel. The individual in question has told me as his commanding officer that Guardian Hansen was the only person he showed the photo to, because she pressed him and seemed to already know about these dragons, and she had a Norwegian accent. He felt she was also someone who had seen and knew about them, which turns out to be an accurate perception on his part. In the United States though, we would call this entrapment. My other two helicopter crewmembers assure me they obeyed my orders not to tell anyone. That was confirmed to me by Major Hansen—they refused to tell even her—and I believe them."
"Thank you, Captain," the king acknowledges. "But Brigader," he continues, returning his attention towards Oleg, "you are telling me that the Fyrsta Reglan requires one member of a committed couple to sacrifice their partner, the person they love and are committed to, simply to prevent revealing themselves to uncleared Outsiders? At what cost, when there are videos these days, even whole websites online, purporting far more potentially disturbing and disruptive propositions than the existence of dragons? When dragons are clearly mentioned in the surviving ancient Icelandic sagas about Norway, which have been in the public domain for centuries? Even Norwegian intelligence does not require operatives to sacrifice their own family members for state security, nor would I allow such a rule to stand if I discovered its existence. So, enlighten me—why is a dragon required to watch their companion die in this day and age, rather than rescue them, as the Flaggkommandør did?"
With Spring and Tyra close beside one another off to the brigader's right in the ballroom, Oleg now looks distinctly ill at ease.
"If you were in his position, Brigader," the king presses, "could you do what the Flaggkommandør could not? Allow someone dear to you to die, simply to follow a thousand-year-old rule to keep yourself hidden, in a world where it might not be as necessary as it once was? Or in the way it once was?"
There is now dead silence in the room.
"Your Majesty," Raimsen now chimes in, standing near Oleg.
"Go ahead," the king invites, now looking at him.
"Major Harald Raimsen, senior Outside Guardian formerly assigned to the Berk ship Drekar. This is why I came to regret filing the report I did on the Flaggkommandør's breach. After I filed it, I realized that if confronted with the situation myself, I, too would have done what the Flaggkommandør did."
Gazing straight ahead, Oleg himself remains silent, his jaw seemingly clenched. All of us are now gazing at him. I can hear Joárr and a couple other of the Old Guard step forward on either side of my family, their right hands likely on their sword hilts. Without looking, I merely motion with my outstretched left hand from my side for them to stop. Fortunately, they do.
"Brigader?" the young king says, once more focusing on Oleg as well though.
Oleg is still silent, his eyes now cast downward to the floor.
"Since you evidently wish to pause your case for the moment," the king continues, "allow me to conclude the other business I had started. Flaggkommandør Ýsa, step forward."
As Spring does, the king glances off to his left. Two aides step forward, one bearing a black folio with an embossed, gold royal cypher, and the other bearing a flat, black case steps towards the two of them. I recognize the case.
"Flagkommandør Ýsa," the king continues, "while the voyage you have led has crossed no new seas or lands, or revealed new peoples, you have nonetheless established important new relations that will serve both the Kingdom of Norway and the Nation of Berk well. Your efforts have secured opportunities environmental, economic and social that are just as important to my mind as the geographic discoveries and accomplishments your predecessors—and I mean those who have been honoured in this room—have made.
"Therefore, Flaggkommandør Spring Ýsa, it is my privilege to present you with the following recognitions and honours. First," the king says turning to the aide bearing the folio as that folio is opened, "I grant you full and formal citizenship in the Kingdom of Norway, the first dragon to be so honoured, with both a certificate of citizenship, and," he says, picking up a small red booklet, "your own passport. With these, you have full and permanent access to Norway, even countries other than Norway, subject to good sense of course. But I will have no subject of this kingdom denied access to it, ever." The king now gives a firm glance to the side towards Oleg, who continues to look at the floor in front of him.
A first fait acompli has been achieved.
"Second," the king continues, "in keeping with how select Norwegian pioneers have been honoured in the past . . ." The second aide now opens the black case beside the king as the king accepts a finely-decorated sword from a third aide appearing on his right.
I cannot help but quietly smile. Quietly, tearfully smile.
"I grant you the Grand Cross of Saint Olaf, with Collar, recognizing you to be a Norwegian of exceptional accomplishment, as your predecessors in this hall have been." Tapping first Spring's left shoulder with the flat of the ceremonial sword, the young king raises the sword over and across Spring's large black head as it remains bowed with eyes closed in complete trust, before his right shoulder is likewise tapped.
My dragon son is now a true and honored knight of Norway, as both Substance and myself are.
All eyes now return to Oleg, who is still gazing resolutely at the wooden floor and edge of the dais in front of him. Taking a deep breath, "Your Majesty," he finally replies, ". . . the Barony withdraws its complaint."
Several gasps of shock break out among some of the Barony who stand behind Oleg, before cheering erupts across the rest of the room around us.
I bow my head in grateful relief as Roana hugs me from the side with her good right arm. Being guided by their aide to him, Tyrah is likewise turned, embracing Spring's large, black head with both her arms. Her face is pressed against the side of his, with eyes closed in deep relief, and love. I then turn to look beyond Roana at Rökkr. His large right eye gazes back at me steadily, but warmly. He is whole and without guilt once more.
"Excuse me, Substance," I then say though, feeling compelled.
"Go," she agrees, having read my mind.
"Other crutch, please," I then request to our attending Guardian as he hands me that which I need. Taking it under my right arm, propelling myself forward, I deliberately make a wide arc to the left around their majesties still at the centre of their dais.
Amid the celebration and talk breaking out around the ballroom, the king glances my way past his wife, looking at me strangely.
"One moment, youhr Majesty," I acknowledge as I maintain my momentum around him.
My intended target now stares at me with even more surprise as I move to embrace, even perhaps tackle him, before he can think to get away.
"Oleg," I say, releasing him and looking squarely in the eye as he stands at the head of his delegation, "youh did what youh felt you had to. But now is another step towards the era youh and youhr predecessors have been safeguarding uhs for, while I've been pushing uhs towards it.
"We need to bury the hatchet, now, and present a united front. Together. Both for ouhr people, and before ouhr allies. Would youh accompany me before his Majesty?"
"You are full of surprises, sir," Oleg says somewhat ruefully.
"We wouldn't be where we are if Aigh hadn't been," I reply with a smile. "Unnskyld oss," I then say to the astonished delegation of Baronial bureaucrats behind him, excusing us as I turn and usher Oleg beside me to their majesties. At the edge of the dais, however, just a single small step up, I trip and inelegantly fall forward, catching myself by my hands before my face finds the wooden and carpeted floor in front of me.
I am at least getting better at this.
I find not one, but two pairs of hands lifting me back to my feet though—Oleg's, and those of the young king himself.
"Tilgi meg, deres majestet," I apologize to the king.
"Pleased to do it," the king assures. "You remain a dear friend of the family."
"Sir?" I wonder, regaining my verticality.
"It should be I who apologizes to you—for not taking your calls, among other things. But I had to check what I could do, given the situation, between dear family friends and a sovereign dependency Norway dearly values as well, Brigader," he says, addressing both Oleg and myself. "I was determined to find a way or ways to reunite that which had become disunified. The first real test of my reign. I hope you both think I did well."
"Majestet . . . Sir," Oleg and I both stammer in surprise.
"I will take that as a 'yes'," the king decides with a smile. "Finally hosting dragons in this hall, was also one of my father's dreams. Mine as well." He then leans in close to us. "But, could we put socks on the Nightmare's long claws? The housekeeping staff here will have fits with the scratches he is already making in the ballroom's fine wooden floor."
"Consider it taken care of, Majesty," Oleg assures, turning away to speak into the radio microphone in his wristcuff.
"Sorry, do that in a moment, Brigader, as I have something for him, too. Both of you, stand with us here. Attention!" the young monarch calls out himself, turning back to the rest of the room and restoring quiet as Oleg and I remain standing beside him and the queen.
"We are also here tonight to honour another hero of both Norway and the Nation of Berk. While I admittedly invited—well, summoned—him here to be prepared to bear witness and offer testimony at these proceedings, had it been necessary, as I had most all of you here—hope you all don't mind," the king says as everyone laughs. "I was saddened at this honouree's story. But I was also saddened that there was not a decoration among either Norway or Berk, for the loss he suffered.
"So, again exercising royal prerogative, I am establishing one for the Kingdom of Norway—something I hope Berk will embrace and adopt as well. Dragon Garrison, step forward."
Every bit as surprised as the rest of us are—at least Oleg and myself—the red Nighmare steps forward towards the king and queen as Spring, Substance, Rökkr and everyone else make way for him.
"Garrison, I am informed you value the medals both your namesake and yourself have earned. So, I wish to bestow another. From the education and exposure I've had during stays over the years of my youth on your home island of New Berk, I have learned to appreciate the loss you suffered in your service, and heroism, to both Berk and Norway."
Beckoning another aide over with another modest black leather box or case, "So, I am first awarding you the Medal for Rescue at Sea. Normally, this is awarded by the Ministry of Trade and Industry. But that minister is not cleared to see you." There is some laughter in the hall. "Second, I have decided to establish a new order that will hopefully further bind our peoples together—and I include dragons in that meaning. But this order shall be uniquely for dragons. I thus present and knight you, Dragon Garrison, into Ordenen til den gyldne sal, the Order of the Golden Saddle, which henceforth shall be awarded to dragons who lose their companions or riders while in service to the Norwegian nation."
With that cue, the king's aide opens the black case beside them to reveal both the round bronze Medal for Rescue at Sea, and with its own metres-long red, blue and white neckband, the Order of the Golden Saddle. The latter was about the size of, and looked a lot like, the famous Spanish Order of the Golden Fleece that both Napoleon Bonaparte and his adversary, the Duke of Wellington, once wore from their necks.
Tears flow openly from the large Nightmare's closed eyes as the king as the monarch taps each of Garrison's shoulders with the flat of his ceremonial sword. I don't think there is a dry eye in the room. Mine certainly aren't.
The king then continues, "I also present you, Garrison, with formal citizenship in Norway, and your own passport. I hereby proclaim all Berk dragons citizens of Norway and eligible upon application for their own passports as well—all in furtherance of the hopes that they can one day use them, out in the open."
Noticing Oleg's truly wide-eyed and alarmed look beside me though, "I realize that moment is not today, or rather tonight, however," the king assures. "But unless there is any objection, being after midnight, the hour is truly late, and I imagine most here desire rest." Pausing, the king glances again at Oleg, who says nothing. "So, I declare this lagting closed . . . But Flaggkommandør Ýsa, would you and the Orlogskaptein please remain, as there is something, a project, I would like to discuss with you both."
Intrigued, I find myself wanting to stay as well.
Sensing Oleg beginning to turn away though and call it a night, "No hard feelings," I say to him, offering my right hand while balancing on my crutches.
"You and I," he says slowly, looking down and to the side, seeming to gather his thoughts, "we are of different schools. Mine has held sway here in great caution for a thousand years. You . . . You have come here, basically moments ago by comparison, even though it has been thirty-one years now, ready to sweep most everything aside. Tear open the veils and curtains that have been carefully in place for centuries." He looks around the still-crowded room as I turn my head to glance with him. Virtually no one has left yet. Everyone is chatting warmly, dragons included.
"Even this, here, is taking some getting used to," he continues.
"Maybe it's time for uhs to retire. Let the next generation take over," I suggest, still looking at the crowd. "Aigh was ready to accept it, retirement, even tonight."
"So, it's really you I should have lodged the complaint against, prosecuted, and might have won."
"Probably," I answer.
We both crack smiles and chuckle.
"A sabbatical, in sunny Spain, wouldn't be bad," he decides.
"Sabbaticals are great for clearing the head, sorting things out, deciding what's next," I reply. "It's what brought me here, changed my life. But go ahead, even make youhrs a long one. Island Berk will pick up the tab, ihn full. Aigh'll see to iht, personally."
"Sir . . ." Oleg says now looking at me, clearly moved.
"Call me Lance."
We embrace, part and warmly shake hands as well-reconciled rivals should.
"Youh have won tonight, Oleg—just a sabbatical instead of a lagting victory. But Aigh expect a postcard," I add, causing us both to laugh again as we part.
Turning, I see the king in discussion with Spring and Tyrah, with his queen still at his side.
"Spring," the king says, "I hear you love seafaring. Well, I've been missing it, too, ever since I was called away from active naval service, and my own command at sea, to fulfill duties as Crown Prince. Now that I am monarch, I feel even more removed from the sea. So really, you and I perhaps have the same problem.
"Plus, there is all this money that the Barony is being awarded from the seizure of Ýsa Industries. The disaster response to Drager Øy was not entirely satisfactory, and there is all that hazard and environmental remediation work you and your father have now committed us both to at St Mark's Island—"
"Kallurquikertaq," Spring corrects with remarkably good Yup'ik pronunciation.
"Kallur . . . as you say," the young monarch continues. "But I was figuring, both Norway and the Berk nation could benefit from commissioning a sizeable multi-mission vessel. One that might serve as a combined flagship and royal yacht, at times," he adds quietly.
"Sir?" Spring answers, somewhat puzzled, but a smile is beginning to emerge on his face.
"I can think of no two individuals I could trust more to get such a project right, as you two. With your father's consent," the king adds, glancing at me, "I would like to commission you and the Orlogskaptein to assemble and lead a team to design or convert such a vessel for our joint purposes. Since we'll be using Berk's money, there is fortunately no need to put this before the Stortinget for approval. Are we agreed?"
"Aigh should clear this with Baronial leadership," I note hesitantly, "since they control our purse strings on the Outside."
"Project approved," Hope interjects, walking to join us, arm in arm with her fiancée. "What?" she then asks with all of us looking at her with some surprise. "We'll need a ship larger than the Drekar for dragon migration to Island 'K'—just don't ask me to pronounce that name, and it's a good code designation anyway—along with all the other uses you all are proposing. My brother and sister-in-law deserve a proper flagship with better accommodations, especially when hiding, and they need jobs ashore here in the interim while she recovers."
"He is commander of ouhr joint forces," I note, looking at Spring myself.
"I've already lined up an Outside Berk KJK kommandør as Spring's executive officer for that command. The joint forces command needs to have something of a public face and presence—one devoted to the minutia of administration and doesn't mind it. That is neither my sister-in-law or brother."
"You know us too well," Tyrah replies, leaning a little against Spring in her wheelchair.
"I hope I do, pardon the pun," my daughter answers warmly.
"Maybe Aigh'll join Oleg on his sabbatical," I say. "Even retire. Youh next-genners have everything figured ouht."
"You're still needed, Father," Hope replies. "Especially back at home," she adds more quietly and sombrely. "I've received word for you that an old friend is no longer doing well, and is expected to pass soon. He would like to see you again."
I merely nod, surmising who the old friend is.
"Well, if we're all agreed then," the king more brightly resumes, "let's get to work, starting with an assessment and treatment with a leading neurologist tomorrow for you, Orlogskaptein."
"Sir?" Tyrah now asked with some surprise.
"Our palace has long prided itself on being informed of our guests' needs, and hopefully tending to them well. Please, if you wish to sleep, I will see you are escorted to your specially-arranged room for the night. But if you wouldn't mind, I would enjoy a nightcap with you both as we get to work on those plans . . . if you might allow for another member of the team. I would really like to go to sea again, even stand bridge watches at times, along with you two, as well as enjoy quarters properly customized for an admiral, and a king—also if the Barony would not object."
"The Barony approves, sir," my daughter happily answers.
"Come," the king invites, "let's all four, no ten, even twelve of us, retire to my study for a drink. Garrison and Ilsa, you're invited, too. It's not the large, plush space you all have hosted me in at your home in the past on New Berk. But I hope it will do. . . . Fotfolk, frigjør plass i arbeidsrommet mitt for disse fire dragene," he then instructs his footmen, asking them to clear space in his study for no less than four dragons.
"Kan jeg foreslå spisestuen, min herr. Tillat oss noen minutter til å flytte hovedbordet til siden og sette det opp som midnattsbuffet og bar," the senior footman gently counters, suggesting the dining room instead, and that the main table be moved to one side and set up as a midnight buffet and bar.
"Veldig bra," the king agrees. "Allow us a few moments," he then excuses to us in English.
"That will allow me to pay respects to so many friends here," I decide, turning on my crutches towards the still-assembled crowd.
But before I plunge into the social mélée, I pause on the dais for a moment, taking in the scene, appreciating the victory, vindication and triumph before me.
The nation of Berk has finally been unveiled, even recognized, as not just a sovereign ally—and yes, dependency—of Norway; but as a force bringing some measure of change, and good, to the world beyond. Dragons are now in the Slottet, and becoming known, even involved, in the world as well.
Suddenly, I feel my age, as if I am reaching a personal limit—not unlike Moses did when he saw his people at the border of their promised land, but no longer feeling it was his place to enter himself, even being told so from on high.
I glance up to check if there is any thundercloud, spiritual or otherwise, gathering over me, even and especially inside this ballroom. Fortunately, there isn't.
But rest though, a lasting rest . . . it feels like such a good idea.
Berk's story will continue, more in the hands of successors now, the next generation, than in mine, which is as it should be. But being back in our home on New Berk a little over a week later, writing this—my arc, my story, it feels fairly complete. I have done my bit for dragons, Berk and Barony. But I am not dead yet.
"You're not as old as you think you are either," Roana says, reading this beside me in our bedding as I type.
"I'm not?" I wonder, finally able to start saying my personal pronoun properly again, thanks to oral exercises I'd been given by a speech pathologist the king arranged for me to see before we left Oslo.
"No, you're not, Chief," my mate and co-chief assures, giving me a kiss. "Is everyone ready for breakfast?" she then calls out while still looking at me.
"I'll take care of the human breakfasts!" my daughter calls out, already heading from the bed behind the screen at the far end of the house towards the cooking area, tying a bathrobe around her waist as she goes, "and my fiancée will take care of the dragon breakfasts."
"Gee, thanks, Sweetheart," her mate says sarcastically, wrapping and tying his own robe, catching up behind her. We haven't broken Jordan in completely yet, but he's learning the ropes. He's at least agreed to a wedding on New Berk, officiated by Substance of course, before they fly to the States for a second wedding with his family. The Barony is still deciding whether to clear his family or not. Maybe it's a matter of that family laying claim to the namesake group of companies, the wealth, who knows? Having won our main battle with the bureaucracy, we're not contesting their delay or eventual decision on this issue.
But it's so nice having a fellow North American in the family to talk with right now.
Spring and Tyrah are also here at home with us, with her convalescing under his watchful attention and care. Tyrah's Acquired Cordical Blindness was confirmed to be temporary. Some relearning therapy, and time, are gradually restoring her sight day by day. Even though it is medical leave, it is so good to see them both relaxing for whole days for a change, with no responsibilities or calls to duty or watches.
Roana and I are grateful for a busy and full home again at New Berk, and family around us. I'm so grateful that I've declared early Yule at our house, before anyone can leave, even though it's still months away on the calendar.
But another house and family across the commons are not so happy. One of their number is facing his last days—the friend, even mentor, I was informed about in Oslo. But what a story he has to tell. I've already begun writing that as I finish this.
While this is a good point to bring my own long saga to a close, with more check-ins and vignettes of our continuing life as the Ýsa family to come, my friend's story is where we, you and I, dear reader, are headed next. So, join me over in 'Taming a Heart: Dragon Chief.'
"That's the ending of all this? This chronicle of years, even decades?" Roana asks, once again reading this beside me.
"Well, what would you suggest?"
"Grand imagery. A lofty summation of words. Pull-backs in the mind from our house and island into the sky with dragons circling. Something."
"You writing or talking to those who will eventually read this?" Substance chimes in, overhearing, as well as likely sensing what I am seeing on the laptop screen.
"Yes," I admit.
"Ahem. Allow me," Substance says, raising her head and clearing her throat. "If you enjoy this story, you enjoy next one, too. Go ahead. Proceed to next story."
"Substance," my mate groans. "You're no help at all. Here, give me that," she says grabbing the laptop from me.
Okay, this is Roana now.
"Well?" Lance asks, noticing me pausing, even folding his arms as he rests against our pillows. He is still incredibly hot, by the way—silver, sixty-five and all. He'll never admit it himself, certainly never write about it.
"I'm thinking," I reply.
"That's what your writing?" he continues, looking at the screen as well.
"Give me a break!"
"You guys ready for breakfast?" Hope chimes in.
"Not yet!" I reply with some frustration, trying to call forth a decent ending to this within my brain.
"See how difficult this is?" Lance notes, smiling beside me.
"Shut it!" I reply. "I'm trying to concentrate!"
Okay . . . as our family settles into breakfast, it is another sunny yet foggy morning in New Berk. The seagulls are singing—
"Singing?" Lance chimes in.
"Would you mind?!"
"Give that laptop back. I don't want our breakfasts getting cold."
This is Lance again. The guy who owns this laptop anyway.
"Such an impressive ending," Roana snarks next to me, relaxing against our pillows with her arms folded now.
Life is going on for us, not ending yet. I'd invite you to join us for breakfast, dear reader, but it's just a little difficult for you to get here, or for us to join you there, especially across the span of time between me writing this and you reading it. But you are with us, in words, even perhaps in spirit—at least imagination. So, pull up a quilt and a few pillows, and lean against any of our dragons if you like—except Spring. Tyrah's claiming him for just herself.
Then, imagine my daughter, Hope, her strawberry blonde hair a bit messed up but drawn into a ponytail in back pinned with a leather barret, dressed in a bathrobe—bear in mind she is taken, and she is my daughter—bending down to present you with a plate of hot eggs, hash browns, bacon just the way you prefer—or none if you're vegetarian—even French toast or waffles with syrup if you like; along with your choice of coffee, hot mead tea, or even orange juice, served in a fat-bottomed Viking tankard that won't tip over on these quilts—
"Unless you really try," Roana cautions.
But I would much rather leave you, end this story, enjoying breakfast and the start of another day at New Berk with our Ýsa family, than to dwell on this life of ours, or any of us, ending.
"If that isn't 'happily ever after'," my mate notes as her breakfast plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, hashbrowns and fruit is now presented to her by our daughter, "I don't know what is."
Exactly.
Join us in the next story, 'Taming a Heart: Dragon Chief'.
