Fire plagues the tiny island of Berk. Gigantic walls of heat ravage savagely through the village houses and eat away at the forests that encircle the village. Deafening roars of pain can be heard from the warriors defending their families; the fight is futile. Berkians have been cursed with the never-ending war against the scaly monsters that kill and raid. They lose more people than food these days, carried off on a dragon's back because the storehouses are barren of the winter stock.
Trading has become scarce: the people of neighbouring islands spreading tails of a curse that sweeps its way through Berkian generations. They say that the Berkians stole a dragon egg, centuries ago, and the dragons are angry. Maybe there's truth to it, but the previous Chief scoured every nook and cranny, only to come up empty-handed. The elders have performed every ritual known to Vikings to rid Berk of the dragon scourge, and yet more dragons make the journey to the barren island to steal and destroy every week.
The children are no longer safe in the foliaged woods and the beasts are sniffing them out and destroying any hideouts. It's a nightmare of piercing teeth and sharp claws.
The dragons are at their worst when word of the Dragon Master has reached Berk. Trader Johann, their only one, rattles off mystical tales of a Draugr who rides astride a beast. He leads raids on dragon-trapping ships, freeing those on board, but not before killing the men who trapped them. The Dragon Master is a menace, directing his dragons with a two-ended dragon-bone staff and occasionally wielding a flaming sword, driving fires and chaos through the ships of the Archipelago. The Draugr's famous down south. The Dragon Master had led raids until they had stopped altogether.
Some called him their saviour. Others believed him to be a servant of Loki- bred to bleed chaos and destruction until Ragnarök.
But all in all, it was undeniable that he was a friend of the dragons, and that made him a very dangerous enemy.
The young Chief is competent. That's what the elders would say. He's strong in stature, with beefy arms and a sharp axe, but weak in the mind. He's too easily swayed by his controlling father and his violent wife. He's too submissive to be a real chief, the villagers say, and has done nothing to sway the dragons to spare their tiny island.
Although he may not display the qualities of a good chief, it's no secret that Snotlout Jorgenson cares for his village. He looks after his people, without a doubt, and respects his elders.
It's his wife the villagers have a problem with. It's a known fact that their marriage was not out of love, nor was it out of necessity. It was not even officiated by a chief, but instead his father, general of the Berk Guard. But a way to express their desires that they couldn't act upon.
One is cursed with unrequitable love, the other is scorned by society.
The Chief and Chieftess have been married for six years and are yet to produce an heir, much less consummation. She's a fine warrior, with a sharp mind to go with it, but lacks the love she owes him. The Chieftess is also thirsty for war. She wants revenge on the dragons who have stolen from her and she longs to find the nest and eviscerate the dragons once and for all. Her sapphire eyes are no longer alight with joy but dulled with pain and vengeance.
Astrid Hofferson is a woman shunned.
Astrid Hofferson is a warrior. Having learnt to swing her axe with an accuracy Tyr would be proud of, she has vowed to protect her village from the dragons and any enemies that sail its way. A shield-maiden. She rejects her feminine qualities in favour of war and battle, preferring to bear scars rather than pretty, handmade clothes. She would rather use her prowess for defending Berk than birth children for her husband. And this was why it was a surprise when her father paid her bridal price to Spitelout Jorgenson in favour of his wayward son.
It was a small wedding officiated by Spitelout and overseen by the village soothsayer, Old Wrinkly. Two of the most influential families aside from the Haddocks joined together in the eyes of Frigg and were blessed by Odin. Considering it was the marriage of future chieftains, the ceremony was dull and rather plain, with no exotic cuisine and chieftains of neighbouring islands. The young couple went home bored and disinterested.
House Jorgenson has been a common gossip subject within the ladies of Berk since they were pronounced as the next Chieftain clan. Of course, the Haddocks and Jorgensons are distant cousins, but it was always declared that the Chieftain would fall to the firstborn of House Haddock. Yet Snotlout Jorgenson became chief after the mysterious disappearance of the Haddock Heir.
Some would say that House Jorgenson killed him to weasel their way to the chair; Others blame the boy and his contraptions.
There is one thing they can all agree on though.
Hiccup Haddock was a means to an end, and the scrawny boy would have been a disaster of a chief.
"You must never let your hair down in front of a man, Astrid. Do you hear me?"
Her mother's voice was stern, but the gentle twists of the braid in her hair was almost relaxing. Since she was able to, Astrid had asked her mother to braid her hair. After wash day, it would be tangled and wet, improper for a warrior, and disrespectful for a lady. It was tradition for a woman to braid her hair. Only her husband can touch it. Astrid's kransen was once her mother's, and now adorned her braided hair, the polished metal shone against her straw blonde hair.
"Not even Hiccup? He's not a man, he's only seven momma!" Astrid had the same reply she always had- indignant and questionable. Her mother always said how curiosity was a good trait to have- it showed your intelligence- and Astrid would need it as a woman.
"Especially Hiccup." Her mother's reply was mirthful, and her thin lips were quirked up in a smile. "But- maybe one day, he'll take off your kransen, Astrid."
Astrid gave a disgusted scoff. "Never. Hiccup might be nice momma, but I'm never gonna get married!"
"Whatever you say, Multum Bellator."
Astrid stands in front of the polished metal and her tired reflection stares back at her. Snotlout is downstairs, stirring the stew she made yesterday, and hasn't even come up to say hello yet. But that's okay, she's never really cared much for it anyway. Why the formalities when the whole village knows they hate each other? She fingers her kransen. Astrid desperately wants her mother to braid it back into her hair, but she's now married. And she must perform marital duties. Or so they say.
She stares back at the polished bronze. She's much more like her mother than Astrid cares to admit. A strong nose and narrowed eyes that are ringed with a green tinge are what she inherited, but her pale-yellow hair contrasts with her mother's chestnut locks. Her father's hair was greying when he died, and Astrid had never thought to ask about the original colour, so she can only conclude that it's her own. She's small though, for a Viking woman, yet taller than her ailing mother; a fact her husband's family point out whenever they can.
Snotlout doesn't mind, but then again he never really cared much for women's bodies anyway.
Yet another reason their marriage was a match made in Helheim.
She wears the traditional clothes: an ocean blue tunic with a yellowed undershirt. Her leggings are bark-brown, poorly stitched at the hems, and covered with a layered sheep-skin skirt. Around her shoulders, a hooded shawl of bear fur drapes elegantly, tied at the clavicle with a single terrible terror tooth. Even though she's married, Astrid's hair is braided neatly on each side around her shoulders.
Gone are the shoulder pads of her youth; gone is the kransen that would adorn her head modestly. Astrid has a duty to uphold- and she must protect her village at all costs.
Resigned, she hesitates in placing her kransen back in the padded box. It belonged to her mother. Now, it will lay there, collecting dust, until Astrid's own daughter wears it around her head. It feels almost wrong to let something so special be locked away in a box.
She should be wearing it.
She should be proudly waving it around for all to see.
She can still be a shieldmaiden. She shouldn't have to be Chieftess of Berk to show her worth. Astrid grabs the cloth on the bed. Just a couple of moments more. She polishes it, like her mother before her, until her own face stares back at her.
In the end, the box is shoved under her bed empty. The kransen glistens in her hand.
Keeping it near will keep it safe.
The Great Hall has housed many meetings. This one is no different. The people of Berk gather around the great fire pit tended to by the fire giant, Surtr, as they strain to hear the Chief and his family.
"They're killing us off once and for all, Chief! We need to find the island!" A hand smacks the centre of the spread map. The target: a tiny island shrouded in mist-like clouds.
Hagnar is a veteran of the Dragon War. He was once Chief Stoick's most valued men. Under Snotlout, his opinion was just like any other- unnecessary.
He continues to speak whilst encircling the mapped island with charcoal. "I remember when Stoick an' the rest a' us journeyed near 'ere. We got attacked. Viciously. Two outta seven ships came back."
The older warriors in the Hall all nod.
"Yur point, Hagnar?" This is Gobber, Berk's most valued blacksmith and renowned dragon killer. He, just like anyone else, had a reason to find the nest.
"Ma point-" Hagnar raises his voice before lowering it again- "is that we lost a lot o' men tha' day. Like in a raid."
He looks the chief in the eye.
"We got close to the nest tha'day. I could feel it."
Hagnar looks at the Berkians. Raising a fist to his chest, he projects. "I COULD FEEL IT IN 'ERE!"
"AYE!"
A ruckus disrupts the calm hall. Mead is thrown in the air, Berkians jump on tables expressing their agreement, men and women hammer their fists on the tables.
Chief Snotlout tries his best to de-escalate the situation, but mediation isn't his strongest skill.
THWACK!
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
Astrid's axe has sliced the Chief's table in two. Her chest heaves and shakes, as if recovering from a marathon, and her muscles are tense. She wretches her axe from the wooden floor, her grip never loosening, and she pushes back the hair that's come loose from her braids.
"SNOTLOUT IS YOUR CHIEF. RESPECT HIM."
The silence is deafening.
Every man, woman and child stared at their Chieftess in resounding shock. It has been years since Astrid has been so vocal in a Thing. Normally, she would silently swing back and forth in her chair, axe strapped to her back, whilst looking forward broodingly. Her hair would be pulled back in twin braids and her clothing immaculate.
Now, she couldn't be more different.
She kicks part of the table into the crowd and screams in frustration.
Snotlout and the rest of the Vikings previously sat at the Chief's table jump back in shock.
Hagnar himself has dropped his Meade during the altercation. He looks down at his stained top in what can only be shame.
"Of course, Chieftess, but there's only so much this village can take. You remember when Stoick was Chief, we went looking for that blasted nest every chance we got." Hagnar speaks calmly as if trying to diffuse the situation. But he glances at the broken table with newfound vigour. "You, of all people, should support this."
Astrid almost guffaws at the subtle jab, and almost raises her axe before she reigns herself in.
A new voice enters the mix. "It'll be a few moons till the ice sets in. And the wind should make the voyage to Helheim's gate eleven days at best." It's Gunnar, another of Stoick's trusted men.
"Aye." This time the chime of agreement is hardened, but just a little bit hopeful.
Suddenly, the heavy doors of the Great Hall swing open. One of the Patrol Guards runs in panting.
Nearly everyone tenses and grabs their weapons.
"CHIEF!"
Snotlout jumps up, expecting a tunnel of fire to balloon its way into the Great Hall, before he relaxes when he can't hear the symphony of destruction the dragons always play.
Instead, he is handed a golden envelope embroidered in crimson swirls and sophisticated patterns. On the seal, the crest of Neutrality Island is molded.
The gathering of Chieftains.
The gathering of Chieftains only happens once every fifteen years; On a neutral island barriered by thick trees and jagged cliffs, it's only accessible by ship, on the Far East coast. The wind is just strong enough around winter, that the boats' sails push them along the current of the sea. The island is never raided by dragons, but uninhabitable due to the narrowed and untamed port, only a small number of ships can be decked. Growing wildly, the foliage that flourishes in the damp soil manages to wind itself through the small Hall that was built many years ago. It's overgrown and abandoned- but perfect for renewing treaties and discussing current affairs with another Chief.
Alliances are made and enemies discovered, but the meeting is necessary.
Until they are interrupted by the Hellfire that rained down upon them.
Berk makes the preparations immediately. Each of their cooks mash together Berkian stews with fresh fish and mutton, kept in iron pots and encased in the freshly frozen water of the well. Of course, this would only last the Chief and his advisors a couple of days before they had to catch their own fish and roast it on a nearby island. The long-ships are scrubbed clean, the sails changed so the Berkian flag- a red dragon intercepted by crossing swords- flies proudly. The Chief selects only seven men to escort him- Hagnar and Gunnar included- along with Gobber, one of his right hand men, and Fishlegs, his strategist and advisor. Astrid, too, accompanies him, placing her mother in Gothi's apprentice's- a young woman named Ingat- capable hands.
Snotlout appoints Spitelout, his ageing father, as acting chief.
They leave for Neutrality Island before dusk.
Astrid feels the fire before she sees it. A great torrent of searing heat threatens to wane the building she's sleeping under. Swiftly, the flames climb higher.
She panics. After arriving on Neutrality Island, Snotlout had made the long trek down to their Great Hall to familiarise himself with the Chieftains. Without being told twice, Astrid, along with most of their party, had made their residence in the many rooms of a nearby building.
It wasn't the most luxurious, but Astrid had learned to accept the hardships life threw at her with grace and power, so she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the sack.
But now, with what can only be a dragon raid, she regrets not sorting her luggage sooner. Her axe teeters on the edge of a large, jagged stone, thank the gods, as the building continues to shake.
Phlegma, one of Snotlout's selected warriors, knocks down her door just as Astrid is pulling on her fur boots.
"Chieftess, there's a raid. The Chief is by the Great Hall." She doesn't waste time in waiting for Astrid to register her words before Phelgma proceeds to knock down two more doors with her unprecedented strength.
Astrid merely nods.
Not a moment later, Fishlegs comes barrelling in. Having changed the most out of their nitpick group of friends, it's hard to reconcile him with the shy, book-loving nerd in his teenage years. When he was of age, surprisingly, he was the first to kill a dragon. The Gronckle in the ring didn't stand a chance, having suffered significant blows from them earlier.
But he didn't stop there. He updated Bork's Book of Dragons with more efficient methods for killing dragons. Fishlegs has a machine he dubs "the Mangler" which brutally maims and kills dragons during raids. Whenever Astrid asks about its design, he would always say he found it in a book, which he could never produce. Nevertheless, it gets the job done, and with the raids becoming deadlier and longer, they would need all the help they could get.
There are more machines as well.
Each with unique purposes, but they're all dragon killers themselves. Whether they have sprawling nets or piercing teeth, you could always count on one of Fishlegs' machines to help you.
Berk is evolving.
But it isn't just his meekness that has changed. Fishlegs hasn't grown much in height, but he has packed on muscle and his strong hands can handle any weapon thrown at him. It had been a surprise to Astrid and the rest of Berk that he wasn't named Second-in-Command, but that position was relayed to Tuffnut Thorston. However, Fishlegs' mind was as sharp as a steak knife. He could sniff out the enemy in one move and is possibly the biggest reason why Berk had won the many battles they had faced.
There is no doubt that they have the best Strategist in the Archipelago.
This is why it's a surprise when Astrid sees the look of horror on his face.
Astrid feels the colour drain from her face when he says: "it's Snot. You gotta come quick, Astrid."
There were dragons when I was a boy. They were menacing and scaly, with strong jaws made of iron and sharpened teeth that cut through rock as if it were butter. They would pillage and raid, steal and hurt, kill and destroy.
I remember cowering under my bed as the cacophony of chaos ricocheted off the foundations of my house- or what was left of it. Streaks of tears would track down my face until all I could taste was salt and blood and smoke. I remember the aftermath of the battles. My father, too ashamed that his own son was a coward, would leave the house as it was. Empty and crumbling. I would never know it was safe, as I was too scared to check, and would stay under that bed for days on end. My only company was my journal and charcoal.
Eventually, I got too big to hide, and so, at the first sight of dragons, I would flee to the woods. I managed to get myself in more trouble and wrestle with a tree branch, one way or another, but I would always come back with a scratched face and bruised arms.
It was through this that I began my inventions. Due to my incurable cowardice, I designed and made advanced weaponry to help with the raids. My father made me an apprentice at our Village forge and I certainly had a knack for it.
My mind not being like the broad, dragon-killing Vikings of my village, my father rejected my weaponry. He said it was seen as cowardice. Unfit for the future Chief.
That's all for today,
Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III.
He snaps the journal shut.
He writes in it every day, needing the familiar caress of soft paper on his worn hands and the damning blisters which grow on his fingers.
Hiccup's life has only grown harder over the years, and it's not going to stop so he can catch his breath.
Sighing, he delicately places the journal in the camouflaged chest. All of his mementoes and souvenirs are coddled in a thick bearskin, protected from nicks and scratches, and sealed in darkness. The only light they are exposed to is the daily opening of the clasped lid. Otherwise, the chest is dark and musty.
The only thing that does come out is the journal and a bejewelled sword- Hiccup's most prized possession.
With a resounding bang, the lid snaps shut.
"You need to get some rest, brother." A calloused hand clasps onto his shoulder. Gentle green eyes are brimmed with sisterly concern and taught at the corners. His sister kneels next to him as she locks the chest with her key. "There's no use dwelling over the past- something I've learned over the years."
Hiccup gives her a pained smile.
"You'll get Krogan, Hiccup, but first, you need to look after yourself. I can see you're not sleeping." She runs her hand gently through his hair, only stopping at the tiny braids dangling around his ears, and begins to massage his scalp. "Does your head still hurt?"
Hiccup mutely nods. She shifts them so his head is laying on her crossed legs. "Sleep, brother."
And he does.
There's a man. He's wrapped in a cloak made from dragon skin as he holds a double-edged broadsword inlaid with glistening garnets. His dark hair is twisted into thick dreadlocks and his beard clasped in gold. Gnarly scars rip across his face, passing through his eyes and mouth, and they stretch menacingly when he sneers. The man is big and wide with thick muscles rippling on his visible arm. His clothes are ceremonial. With a thick belt portraying each stage of the moon and the sun at the centre holding his thick waist, he seems almost chiefly. But there's no care in his unforgiving black eyes; Only a mountain of smouldering inferno.
He's a commander, it seems. He waves his sword at the men below him as he shouts incoherently. There's a buzz over his baritone voice. The men he commands wear the typical dragon hunter uniform- a pale-green tunic with brown trousers and a dragonhide coat- but where the insignia of the Monstrous Nightmare is usually pinned, there's a gold coin stamped with a crown of spikes and two curved horns.
A fleet of ships is docked at a dark port- each boat with rolled-up sails and blackened-wood masts. Winches are nailed to the decks and blue-grey chains are coiled in piles of spikes. The bigger ships have cages lined in rows, some with large shadows already enslaved inside. Iced mountains build a wall from the outside, keeping the ship-dock concealed from the rest of Midgard. A bubbling crater of water spews water as the largest ship has tens of chains sinking deep into the water. The same ship has multiple dragon vertebrae chained in metal, some worn rotting flesh still decaying.
The flagship, twice the size as the others, has an accompanying flotilla, each laden with large weapons. Bowler launchers, deathly crossbows, winches and chains all protect it. On the flagship, the only flag flying is the same insignia found on the dragon hunters, only a lot bigger. The spikes are black and, like a skull, darkened shadows imitate eye sockets. Stark white against the blood-red background, alabaster tusks curve out. It is, without a doubt, a dragon.
Hiccup wakes up in a frenzy. He has definitely had weird dreams before, but never ones as clear as that. Hiccup can't discern who it was. The insignia is familiar, and if it's what he thought it is, he is in deep shit.
A deep croon sounds from the mouth of his cave. The dark shadow drags his tail behind him, swishing it back and forth, as he shakes his wings in anticipation. Hiccup looks around the room, lifting his head from the hard cushion he was sleeping on, to survey the state it is in. He is a messy person, papers and pencils strewn across every inch of his desk with even more spilling out from boxes onto the ground, and it isn't often he tidies. The room was exactly as he left it. The chest next to his makeshift bed remains unlocked, having lost the key years ago, and only an ember remains of his fire. He sighs in frustration. His sister was never here. His sister hasn't been here in years. He wants to punch something. Hard.
But he needs to work; especially with this new establishment.
Hiccup can't have his subconsciousness telling him to rest.
Toothless croons again.
"Yeah, yeah, bud. I'm coming," Hiccup says as he grabs himself up. "I'm coming."
Dawn is beautiful. The sun sets a golden glow on the ice of the sea, shot through with hues of pink and red, as it rises. Rays of light cast gentle shadows in the ravines of the water as he and Toothless glide across. Occasionally, they dip left and right to cut through the lapping waves with Toothless' wings. Hiccup shifts Toothless' tail with his feet, and they begin to climb. With every powerful flap of Toothless's large wings, they ascend towards the sky. The damp condensation of the clouds creates a sheen of water on Hiccup's skin. Hiccup shifts the tail again. This time, Toothless tucks in his wings. Just when they are above the cover of the clouds, Toothless spirals. Twisting with every gained altitude, they cry aloud in delight. They reach the second level of clouds when Toothless lets go.
They are free falling, careening in the wind, and passing through every cloud. Eventually, Toothless tucks in his wings and they swirl, gaining altitude again. It isn't long before they reach the migrating Typhoomerangs they were herding yesterday. Hiccup reaches down to pull the lever. The prosthetic tail snaps open. Toothless warbles in concern. Hiccup rubs his head to pacify him, "it's fine, bud," before he pulls his feet out of the stirrups. Heedless to Toothless' concern, he balances atop his best friend's back, gesturing for him to fly to the left.
Hiccup jumps.
Suddenly, a Typhoomerang dips below its flock, a riderless Night Fury calmly following.
It's dusk the next time the Night Fury and his rider leave their cave. Except that this time, their flight has lost any of its pleasure. They lead their small flock of raiding-dragons, consisting of small numbers of Deadly Nadders and Monstrous Nightmares, two Speed Stingers (travelling on the back of one of the Nadders), two Typhoomerangs, three Timberjacks, one Sand Wraith and one Triple Stryke.
They fly in formation, Toothless and Hiccup in front, with the Nadders and Nightmares flanking them.
Hiccup is no longer dressed casually. Decked out in a dragon-scale armour with a stream-lined helmet to protect him from any rogue dragon-fire, his sword- a four-foot Gronckle-iron blade sharpened to perfection which lights aflame on command- sheathed at his side. In his left hand is the dragon-bone staff he uses to direct his dragons.
They fly just above the clouds.
There's a squawk from one of the flanking Nadders: ships ahead.
Under the cover of darkness, the Dragon Master and his dragons descend.
This is not your typical Hiccup runs away fic. this is the minimum amount of words allowed in a chapter, I have decided, and I'm aiming for a lot. This is going to be big, guys.
crossposted on AO3, under the same name, if you prefer that.
It's less of a bitch to post as well, so expect more frequent updates there.
i don't have a beta, so the grammar is probably crap.
Anywho, happy pride month!
see you in 2 weeks!