"I know, I'll miss you too. Don't talk to any strange dragons, and have fun doing whatever it is you guys do out there..." Tuffnut grinned and wrapped his arms around Belch's head, suddenly pressed to his chest as it was, then watched as the dragon took wing to join the flock passing Berk some way out to sea.
"Where do you suppose they go?" Ruffnut wondered next to him.
Tuffnut put his hand on his sister's shoulder. "I'm thinking some place warm, with lots of fish. Maybe some hot tubs, a nice salon, fresh drinks. Gotta beat hanging around here when the storms hit."
"Cheh, you got that right. So, what, we got about a week before then?"
"Well, if my hypothesis is correct, and it is, we can estimate the start of the storms based on the dragons depature. Last year, they were six days apart…"
Ruffnut punched him. "You're so dumb when you try sounding smart."
"Hey, leave me alone. I'm sad, alright? I'm stuck with you for three months and no Belch to take the edge off."
"Moron."
"Yak breath!"
"Toad slime!"
"Enough, you two!" Astrid appeared behind them to knock their helmeted heads together hard enough that Tuffnut saw stars. Woah, that was a good one, he'd have to remember she had a good arm for that when he was next in the mood for a good clobbering. Still staggering, he noticed four… no, two figures watching the flock from one of the cliffs overlooking the ocean. "Uh, the Furies not going too?" The world tilted the wrong way and he fell over. That had been a really good head-knocking. She must be upset about Stormfly, normally she held back more than that.
"Huh, guess not," Fishlegs said mildly, with an undertone of sadness but a touch of excitement. Hah, if he thought the Furies were going to lick his feet he had another thing coming. Besides, Meatlug's tongue was bone dry, but Night Fury saliva was a gift from Loki himself. Now if only they could figure out how to get a jar of it…
"Hooookfaaaaang!" The desperate cry was followed by an equally desperate Viking bolting down the village on stubby little legs. Stumbling to a halt next to Astrid, Snotlout wheezily leaned on his knees. "Did… did I miss him?"
Astrid rolled her eyes. "You idiot, we told you this would be happening soon. They're gone." Yeah, she was definitely upset.
Snotlout groaned, laced with a bit of a growl. "It's not my fault! Dad insisted I train with him in the forest, and he does not take no for an answer!"
Tuffnut smirked as he climbed to his feet. "Since when do you listen to authority? I mean, what's he going to do, take Hookfang away?" Snotlout did growl at that, he was always so much fun to tease even if he made it too easy.
"Please tell me he at least wasn't wearing his saddle…" Astrid's demeanour said Snotlout would be rowing after the flock if he was.
"Uh, yeah, I'm not an idiot. I made sure to remove it after every flight."
Ruffnut scoffed. "What are you even worried about? He'd just claw it off anyway, isn't this his third saddle or something?"
"Fourth, if I recall correctly," Tuffnut mused. "Hey, remember what Gobber said he'd do to you if you lost another one? Oh man, I'd trade my favourite mace to see that." Snotlout's paled expression said he did indeed remember, and to be fair to him he hadn't lost a saddle in the five months since.
The silence stretched out.
"…Sooo… Now what…"
Hmm, Ruffnut had a point. With a whole year of dragon-aided pranks behind them, going back to regular pranks felt kind of lame. Like having to sail somewhere after flying on dragon back. Man, everything was just better with dragons. "Hey, let's play with the Furies. Help take our minds off how much winter sucks."
"Unlike you guys I actually have things to do." Astrid crossed her arms and stood in her 'look how important I am' pose. "Just, don't crowd them, okay? Fishlegs, keep an eye on them will you?"
"It's fine," Tuffnut waved her off, "look, see? Hiccy! Toothy!" He crouched low, tapped his knees and bounced on the spot. "You wanna play? You wanna play?"
Hiccup and Toothy swivelled to look at him, then their frills perked out and they dropped into playful stances before running into and around the four dragon-less dragon riders. Tuffnut, still crouched low, reared at the Furies and they stopped bounding around to rear back at him, flaring their wings and growling playfully.
Hiccup darted forward and nipped at his ankle, then repeated for the others. "Ohh, you want to play hide-and-seek do ya? Do ya?" Tuffnut dropped to his hands and knees, bouncing from side to side to mimic Toothy. Hiccup bounded around in a tight circle with a goofy smile on his face, waving his paws in the air between bounces.
"You have way too much energy, you know that?" Astrid rolled her eyes and started to head off.
Tuffnut just grinned at Toothy. "Come on guys, just one game! Ready, go!" He leapt to his feet and grabbed Ruffnut to flee the scene, after several long bounds he glanced over his shoulder to see Fishlegs furtively looking for somewhere to hide and Snotlout overcoming his hesitation to take off at a sprint. The two Furies were laying down and waiting patiently – giving them a head start? Heh, they'll regret that. Tuffnut ran with his partner in crime, sharing a look with her that said everything they needed to say.
After a minute had passed, a roar was heard through the village signalling the start of the chase, and the game was on. Fishlegs was the first to go down, being predictably terrible at hiding, and had easily been tracked to behind a nearby building. He screamed as two growling Night Furies tackled him and knocked off his helmet. That set the precedent.
Next to go down was Snotlout, Toothy and Hiccup tracking him at a phenomenal speed and catching up before he could even escape to the main island. He tried to fight back, but was far too slow for the blur that shot around him and up his back to steal his helmet. Toothy laughed as he ran off with his prize in his mouth.
They found Astrid next, though true to her word she wasn't playing and was instead shadowing Stoick, but she congratulated the grumbling dragons for finding her anyway.
Last to go down were the twins. The Furies, tailed by a helmetless Fishlegs and Snotlout, sniffed the bridge to confirm they hadn't left the island, then prowled the paths looking for a scent. It didn't take long to find one. Tuffnut watched with his sister as the pair jogged along after it, then cackled quietly at the confused looks when it traced back to the starting point… and a second time… and a third time…
"I still think we should have gone for the chamber pot," Ruffnut whispered.
"Hey, we like these dragons," Tuffnut whispered back. "Besides, they could follow us to Valhalla with that smell on our feet." He readjusted his stolen boots, they were a bit big but did the job.
"Oooh, that had to hurt," Ruffnut said through a maniacal grin. From the roof of the forge they had a good view of where they'd left their own boots which had just been discovered, and Hiccup had stuck his nose in one. He was now rubbing at his face and rolling around while Toothy laughed at him, and only years of watching pranks unfold from hiding kept Tuffnut from joining in. Eventually, after Hiccup staggered to his feet, they started moving again – "Wait, isn't that the path we took from there?"
"…Uh oh. You're right sis. They're onto us. Time for phase two…"
"What's phase two?"
"Hel if I know. Let's just make it up as we go along." They butted heads – not too loudly – and when Furies caught up all they found were two pairs of stolen shoes.
As the afternoon wore on they had to come up with increasingly complex means of tangling up the their pursuers, until Ruffnut pointed out this wasn't hide-and-seek. It was a hunt, and there were no rules in a hunt. Not that they cared much for rules anyway…
It was Ruffnut's plan so she was holding the string they'd rigged up, crouched behind a crate and waiting for the dragons to pass through the street. However, instead of walking into the trap, Toothy and Hiccup paused directly in front of it. "Hah, it's almost like they're talking," Tuffnut whispered.
"Don't be stupid, dragons can't talk," Ruffnut whispered back. "What are they waiting for?" For bait they'd taken off their boots – stolen – and walked barefoot in a circle before donning different pairs of boots – also stolen – that they'd been carrying, but Toothy and Hiccup didn't seem to be falling for it.
And then… they did, and Ruffnut wasted no time in yanking on the string to tip the nearby cartload of apples onto them – a pained cry echoed between the buildings, followed by pitiful and hurt yowls.
"This is your fault!" Tuffnut hissed at his sister as he ducked behind the crate. "It was your idea!"
"What!? It was just a couple of dumb apples!" she hissed back, also dropping low.
They slowly rose again to peer from their hiding place, seeing Fishlegs still searching and Snotlout cradling Toothy – a wing hung limply from his side, and he was whining pitifully. "Oh no, Toothy…" Ruffnut cooed sadly. They could only stare in silence. And then continue staring, because with a whoosh their helmets were swiftly removed by Hiccup gliding over them from behind. He dropped them by Toothy, who stopped whining, folded his wing, and hopped free of a very confused Snotlout.
"Uhh… Bro?"
"Yeah sis?"
"I think we just got Loki'd."
"That we did."
"By a couple of dragons."
"Yep."
"And you're cool with this!?"
"Are you kidding me? That was awesome!" His sister didn't like being on the receiving end of pranks, but Tuffnut had a newfound respect for the Night Furies. He kicked off the last pair of stolen boots and strode over to properly congratulate them.
"I think I like that Long-Paw…"
Dreamer could only murmur his assent as Wanderer shuffled a little closer under the thick – and only slightly smelly – bear pelt. With the cold-season approaching the air carried an icy bite, and to absolutely everyone's astonishment it had been Tuffnut to point out that their small bodies were built more for speed and less for insulation. Well, not so much 'point out' as 'violently berate Fishlegs in the middle of the village' but nonetheless Dreamer was very grateful.
The surprises continued as Tuffnut adopted a sort of guardian role, ensuring they were properly fed, played with, interacted with people but not too much, had bones and rope to chew and play with, and this night he'd found a bone brush that was just right and given them both a thorough dry scrubbing. Fishlegs was certainly the academic authority on dragons, but Tuffnut was somehow able to divine their needs even without them knowing themselves. It was as if he'd been possessed by the spirit of a mother dragon.
He was the only Long-Paw they would allow into their den, because they trusted him to respect what that meant. Fishlegs was mad with envy, especially as Tuffnut would answer almost every question either cryptically or with blithering nonsense, and Ruffnut was fiercely jealous of her brother's time and how much of it he was spending with the Nightstrikers.
This night, however, the cold-season was no longer content to remain tame. It lashed the rocks outside with savage winds, and spiderwebs of frost crept into their den as the night progressed. Even when they retreated their heads to breathe stale but warm air, the rock beneath them slowly sapped away heat and strength.
Fleeting and sluggish thoughts drifted through Dreamer's mind. He realised too late that it was too cold, and he needed to do something, but he was just so tired... Minimise contact with the ground. What did he even have to work with? He couldn't work out how he could wrap themselves in the pelt, and he was just so tired.
It took all his willpower, but he managed to slowly shuffle around and pull his front onto Wanderer's flank. He kicked his legs under Wanderer's head until he did the same; now only half of each of them, their lower halves, were touching the ground. When light finally graced the sky, Dreamer was numb and somehow more exhausted than before, but he and Wanderer were still breathing. He drifted in limbo, just the thought of moving had his body crying in protest but he was aware of the crunching footsteps approaching.
Someone was in their den, but he couldn't muster the energy to care. He was being moved, it wasn't quite as cold now at least. Just stop jostling so much…
Finally, the movement stopped and he was lain on something hard and flat. More stone, he faintly registered, cool but not quite as cold. The air entering his lungs was much warmer now though, and a bit smoky. Fire…
He was finally drifting off, a dark and very deep sleep beckoning, but something was trying to rouse him. I just want to sleep… He was being pushed, until he rolled over – blissful warmth flared over his body and began to sink through his chilled scales, slowly starting to work its way through his numb muscles. He sighed and shuffled a little to better soak it in, particularly through the bottoms of his paws.
The abyss below him closed, and he shifted sideways into a comfortable doze.
Huff. Something was nudging Dreamer's head, trying to wake him. He hadn't noticed the passage of time, but the chill had completely disappeared from his body; if anything, he was now a little warm. He managed to open an eye. Wanderer filled his vision, his big expressive face full of concern and relief even as blurry as it was. Dreamer grumbled weakly when he received another nudge. Alright, alright, I'm up.
Muscles aching their protest, he got his paws under him and rose shakily, knocking over something next to him with a rustle. He stood for a moment, letting his limbs stretch to the new position, then gingerly tested his joints. It was slow work, but the more he flexed the easier it became.
Awareness was slowly returning too, and his vision was clearing… Oh. It hadn't seemed all that bad at the time but there was a small crowd in a hushed relief, and he was… in a fire pit. Literally in it, up to his neck, with burning sticks and logs piled against his sides. He was beginning to realise how tenuous his grip on life had been. Some distant part of his mind was saying the flames licking his flanks should hurt, but they didn't, and he didn't have the strength to scrabble out in a panic anyway. He did manage a few wobbly paces out of the fire before collapsing.
There were Long-Paw sounds above him, but it was ringing in his head and he couldn't make anything out. He did recognise his sire's house. I really need to stop waking up here like this. What must the neighbours think?
He and Wanderer were then set up in his old bedroom, snuggled into a cozy nest of blankets on the floor, and Dreamer spent the next few days either asleep or wishing he was asleep. While Fishlegs and Tuffnut did their best to help him they couldn't do much more than ensure he was kept warm and hydrated, but their presence was comforting.
"Is this what like have sire, dam?" he asked Wanderer when he was feeling a bit more lucid. He giggled internally, there was no question who was which.
Wanderer huffed. "Some. Dam wrap you in herself, very safe. Sire strong, fierce, but gentle, play much. Very loving, like Wanderer love Dreamer, but very big, very warm. You think they might win fight against sea." He closed his eyes and hummed quietly in a tone both happy and mournful.
Dreamer had never known his mother, and only had distant memories of just playing with his sire. They'd gone hunting and fishing, but that quickly became boring for a boy with such a strong imagination so he'd always run off to explore, a habit that earned him more and more disdain over the years. He felt that where there should have been protective deities there was a gaping void on one side and a fiery tempest on the other.
On top of that, between Wanderer's words and his actions, it seemed Nightstriker parents were much more loving and attentive than Viking ones. Dreamer felt a terrible craving to experience that much love, an unconditional love that he did not have to earn, and his chest ached with the knowledge that his relationship with Wanderer was the closest he would get; it wasn't the same.
His little nest of blankets suddenly felt cramped and stagnant. He needed to stretch his legs, smell new air, so he dragged himself up, gave Wanderer a brief nuzzle on his way past and ambled downstairs. He didn't know what he was expecting or intending, but a brief loop of the den confirmed his sire wasn't even there.
Dreamer padded to the dying fire and lay next to it. Where had he gone wrong? Should he have eaten more? Spent less time… dreaming, and more time working out? He curled up around the pain in his chest, into a tight disc, and hid under a wing. The same way he used to sleep in this house, in the bed upstairs, retreating to the closest thing he had to a safe place; his mind.
His eyes stung but could not weep, his breath dragged but would not catch. He wasn't sure dragons even could cry, but either way he still could not; he'd built the clamps on his heart too well and they were holding back the tide, oblivious to his attempts to pry them loose.
So he just lay there, silent, still, wishing to be found like that and yet also not at all.
A wordless croon filled his ears, gentle and pleasant, and he was enveloped in another layer of scaly leather. It almost did feel like an unfathomably large and warm creature had wrapped him up. Almost.
For a while he was content like this, but Wanderer thought otherwise and coaxed him out of his curl to bring him into a proper embrace, belly to belly and wrapped in wings. Dreamer buried himself in the rumbling chest. Their scents were different, telling different stories, but underneath it all they really were the same. Wanderer really had somehow given his own body to replace Dreamer's broken one. That was how much Wanderer loved him.
So why was he falling apart like this? What should he do? What was anyone supposed to do? What did he want!?
…Wanted not be alone again…
The clamps didn't break, but they cracked, and Dreamer pined and wailed into the embrace. The pained words, spoken by his friend what seemed like months ago, resonated strongly with his core and echoed in his mind. Not be alone… He was being pulled close with purrs of reassurance and safety while he let go of the pain and torment he'd been harbouring in wracking, whining sobs.
A few minutes was all he needed, and he calmed; it really did feel like an immense pressure in his chest had been released. The reversal of their roles – from when he had regained his memories – was also not lost on him. He is my safe place… and I will be his.
He gave Wanderer a fat lick under the chin and received a fat lick down his head in reply; a thank you and you're welcome, but so much deeper and more meaningful. It was still difficult to get over just how expressive Nightstrikers were, probably other dragons too, and how easily he found himself adjusting to it. This was so much better than fiddly words.
Oof, Dreamer's legs were starting to cramp and cry out for movement. Well, maybe a few more minutes…
Wanderer gently nuzzled the sleeping Dreamer, again bemoaning himself for his lack of preparedness. The little Nightstriker had suffered terribly in the storm that ate the warmth from their den and bodies, but the shine was now returning to his scales and his energy was growing.
In a way, having no energy would be nice right now… Wanderer was bored. His old nest had been warm and big enough for a little aerial play, but here all he could do was a bit of gliding. There were even annoying tree-things stretching across the den that further limited him, though they made good perches. At least this room had still smelled of Dreamer, of his fragile Long-Paw body, but those scents were slowly being replaced by Nightstriker ones. Maybe that was for the best.
He sighed and listened to the sounds outside. The sky-fire was not far from kindling and the wind was starting to pick up, blowing deadly shards of ice in every direction. It wasn't all that far into the cold-season, he might be able to sneak in a quick flight before the cold completely settled… but not this night. Resigned to another light in this stuffy den, he cracked a wide yawn and hunted for a small-ground-prey he thought he could smell. It might be his imagination… or maybe the one he caught last night. Who could say?
Sounds from below tugged at his ears, Dreamer's sire stirring. He was being very loud about it. Wanderer padded down the wood-teeth to the lower den, then ducked under the strange not-skin that hung in the rear den-mouth. He found himself in a small room smelling strongly of the giant Long-Paw, and picked his way through the Long-Paw-not-skins strewn around the floor to the strange Long-Paw-sleeping-place that Dreamer's sire rested on.
Although, right now he was not very restful. In his sleep he keened in long, mournful notes, and Dreamer's words came to mind; "Be nice. He lost my dam, now me." It had hurt when Wanderer had fled his nest, not knowing the fate of his family, but that was nothing to the thought of losing his Dreamer… and this Long-Paw had suffered it twice.
Wanderer brought his forepaws up to the raised sleeping-place, bringing him close to the Long-Paw's face. Though much of it was obscured by that absurdly long fur on his face, the closed eyes were contorted and restless. It was not good sleeping. Wanderer gave a comforting, gentle croon, and after a few moments the eyes opened in fear – not of Wanderer, of something else – and a deep shame. Dreamer's sire was very broken inside, that he could move at all was a testament to his strength.
A paw tentatively reached out and stroked Wanderer's forehead, and he purred at the gesture. He recognised his new Long-Paw name – it was still sometimes difficult to resist rolling his eyes, much to Dreamer's amusement – and huffed an agreement to the Long-Paw's satisfaction. Dreamer's sire sat and rumbled sad but comforting Long-Paw words, now stroking his frills and neck, and Wanderer started feeling drowsy. Be nice… He hopped up onto the sleeping-place, and tentatively stepped into the Long-Paw's lap. He didn't have to particularly like Dreamer's sire, but he could be nice, and if he had to be bored he might as well be comfortable about it.
He relaxed and resumed purring when the giant paws rubbed and kneaded his shoulders and back, working out the tension from the last few nights. The low rumblings were likely not intending to say sleep, but if they insisted…
Winter was well and truly upon them, snow was piling up everywhere and the wind whipped a frenzy through the village. Trips outside were when necessary, as brief as possible, and only during the calms that occasionally settled; 'calm' being relative. While still in the Chief's house, they were also the most exciting part of their routine.
Both Nightstrikers were going stir-crazy when Tuffnut turned up out of nowhere to miraculously save the day with a suggestion to rotate the pair between willing houses of the village. It was actually getting a bit creepy how good he was with this when he was otherwise so scatter-brained and chaotic.
Today, they found themselves in Astrid's house, and just like everyone else she shared it with an uncountable number of relatives. There were three stories, and two of them were packed with beds. Dreamer really hadn't realised how good his accommodations had been as the Chief's son, and was getting the idea that it wasn't only his physique that had earned him the ire of his peers.
Just like the last house – an enthusiastic family of labourers – not everyone in Astrid's proud warrior family was thrilled with the idea of dragons running around. However, even the grumpiest of their hosts had to approve whenever a Nightstriker caught and cleanly disposed of the rodents seeking refuge from the cold, and they were also very good at keeping the kids occupied.
Hiding under a bed, Dreamer scanned the floor in front of him. The wood above him creaked – there! He shot out and viciously attacked the morsel of dried fish, then scrabbled back under the bed to the squeals and wild giggling of four children. The scrap barely touched his belly, but it was a pleasant explosion of flavour on his tongue and he was enjoying the fun he was giving the kids; they had also been very bored being cooped up inside for so long.
Astrid whispered from the bed, but it was just unintelligible rasping sounds. No matter, it was fairer this way. The next drop was a little further out, he would have to be quick – a mirror shadow shot out from the bed across the room. Dreamer got there first, but Wanderer snatched the treat out from under him then darted around to pinch his hiding spot too.
Dreamer griped over the laughs and cheers, but quickly leapt under a different bed. Peeking out from under it, he watched Astrid hand a sliver of fish to one of the younger kids, a little girl with wild curly blonde hair and a round face. The child wobbled to the edge of the bed and dropped the treat, then cackled madly at Wanderer snatching it up and disappearing again.
With more whispers, Astrid handed another to one of the older kids, a boy of maybe eight or nine, and it was tossed to the middle of the room. No, wait, two treats! Dreamer dug his claws in and shot out again, quickly snapping up the closer treat and pouncing on the other before Wanderer got it. There was a scuffle, but Dreamer managed to scoff it down too.
Wanderer bit him, so he bit him back and then they were having a full-on play fight on the floor with a laughing and cheering audience. Of course, Wanderer always won when he wanted to and he was being a sore loser for having his treat stolen, but a call for dinner saved Dreamer from a surely grizzly end; even Wanderer understood that particular call, regardless of who was shouting it. They dropped through the hole in the floor, ignoring the stairs, and stalked in the rafters until everyone was settled.
This next bit was tricky. The family would crowd around the fire to eat, and the Nightstrikers had to sneak around the kids without attracting the adults' attention. Success earned them tasty bites of food, failure resulted in being chastised and chased off. The head of the household before last had once chased them off with a broom and locked them upstairs; Wanderer left a dead mouse for her in apology, and who was Dreamer to argue with that.
Sometimes the adults were more amenable though, and Dreamer was learning how to identify them. The man he was creeping behind, an uncle of Astrid's, had been grinning at the Nightstrikers whenever his wife wasn't looking. A discrete nuzzle of his elbow, and he covertly rewarded Dreamer with a fat slice of juicy fish.
After dinner he and Wanderer were fed the scraps and some raw fish – of course they didn't have to beg, it was just more fun – and the younger kids were sent off to practise their runes. Some of the older kids were allowed to stay in the family area with the adults to chat or play games, where Dreamer climbed into Astrid's lap and purred as she absently stroked him. Wanderer picked one of her mellower cousins to accompany.
This was definitely much better than lounging around the Chief's house.
Astrid was cheekily creeping her hand around Dreamer's side and tilting her legs to lean him over, surreptitiously making her way to his soft belly. He was about to warn her off when she distracted him with a scratch under his jaw – then it was far too late. He was on his side, and her hand was finding all the right spots. She'd had her own dragon for over a year now, of course she'd know all the tricks, but that didn't make Wanderer's snickering any easier to bear.
Oh no, Dreamer though mildly as his legs kicked and happy growls escaped his throat. He should really roll back over, preserve some of his dignity… Instead, he lazily shifted his head to get a look at his captor. Once upon a time she had been beautiful, striking, he might have dared to say stunning. She'd made his legs weak and his brain seize. Now, she was maturing and growing into her face, and intellectually he could appreciate her figure… but there was no attraction. Nothing. He couldn't even remember what he'd found attractive in the first place.
Of course, he was too young for such thoughts anyway… again? It was strange, like a piece of him had just fallen away. He no longer wanted… that… and so attractiveness was again a foreign concept, which went on to change his own thinking. What used to be a glorious girl with the light shining through her hair was now someone who jumped to violence at the twitch of a claw and had a large emphasis on pride.
When it was deemed time for everyone to sleep, the Nightstrikers were laid on the floor in front of the fire with a long day of play behind them and a good meal weighing comfortably in their bellies. They were both desperately looking forward to flying again, but this was a tolerable way to pass the winter.
Fishlegs was ecstatic, it was finally his house's turn to host the Furies! It had been arbitrarily decided to start at the top of Berk and move them down, minimising their exposure to the elements, which all made perfect sense except for that his house was at the bottom. Though, the wait had given him a lot of time to think up new studies; patience was a virtue, after all. Being a sort of unofficial dragon advisor he did have the privilege of visiting rights – when the weather allowed – to ensure the pair were being treated properly, but that wasn't the same.
He'd insisted on fetching them himself, so now he was head to toe in furs, only the tiniest slit open to see through, while the wind howled and wailed and tried to pull him over for the duration of the arduously long trek three doors up the path. This was a remarkably good calm in the storms.
Once he was let in he excitedly listed off some of the more important questions, but Astrid just stared at him blankly.
"You realise I can't hear you under all those furs? Nevermind– no, don't take them off. Here, just take them." She pulled out a small bag and placed something on each of his shoulders which were quickly snapped up by the two fledglings climbing up his back. "Have fun training them," she said sarcastically, "they won't do anything without a treat first."
"Hmmm, that is one of the problems I foresaw training smarter dragons, it's fine, I'll think of something." Astrid gave him a tired look. Oh, right.
She draped another thick coat over him, tying it at his shoulders and waist to enclose the dragons in a pocket over his back, and attached a sack to his side. He shouted a muffled goodbye as she opened the door for him, and carefully wedged himself out to trek back home.
He was greeted by nine and a half pairs of studious eyes when he shut the door behind him, and felt the two Furies shuffling forward to peek out from under the overcoat. He made shooing motions with his thickly garbed arms until everyone shuffled back, and only then let his little sister approach to undo the knots. The sack, containing toys, brushes, treats, and other effects, clattered to the floor, followed by the overcoat and then the dragons. While he peeled off layers, he reflected on how cool it would be to have a little Night Fury perched on each shoulder, each like a swivelling turret of death. He could just stroll through a battlefield and lay waste to everything around him.
His fantasy was cut short by growling. Toothy and Hiccup were crouched low and backing away from Froglegs, a cousin two years Fishlegs' senior.
"Really? I give you one rule, 'no weapons' and you just have to break it!" Fishlegs frustratedly exclaimed.
Froglegs sported a dim smile; despite appearances he was highly intelligent with the Ingerman thirst for knowledge, but liked time to think and act. Wordlessly he reached into a pocket and procured a small flat bar of iron. "I think we can ink your theory of smell, Fish'," he said carefully while the Furies inspected the metal and then him.
When they were seemingly satisfied, he produced a second identical bar. Toothy wasn't interested, but Hiccup gave Froglegs a dirty look. Fishlegs was with him.
"Rubbed a whetstone on that one," Froglegs pointed to the bar on the floor, "and they found it, but not this one which is raw. Fascinating."
Froglegs' mother cuffed his ear and glared at him before addressing everyone else. "Awright, ye's seen 'em now, ye can play with the scalies later when they've settled. Clear off!" she barked. When Aunt Ragnhild said move, you moved, and the room suddenly felt a lot bigger. With freedom and space, Toothy and Hiccup explored, and before long they'd had their nose in every cupboard and paws on every shelf. After Toothy had been chased away from the food counter for the third time, Fishlegs dug out a pair of mutton bones for them to chew on until dinner.
The Ingerman clan was one of the more successful of the village, and to eat they sat around a table as mark of their status. Maybe it was a little cramped but it sure beat eating off the floor. The plates were passed around, each holding a fish fillet, a cut of mutton, and a pile of steaming vegetables. Much more generous than any previous Winter; some years, meat had been a luxury for every second or third day.
One of the Furies, Fishlegs couldn't see which, tugged at Froglegs' sleeve.
"Huh, what you got there?" Froglegs wondered aloud as he leaned back. As close to shoulder-to-shoulder as they were, this created a small gap over the back of his chair through which darted a dark shadow, and the mutton chop disappeared from his plate. It was so fast that Frog didn't even have a chance to react, instead he could only spin in his chair and stare backwards after his dinner – this allowed the first Night Fury to jump up and grab the fish as well, and the pair thundered upstairs with their plunder.
The whole scene was over in seconds, and everyone stared in dumb shock at Froglegs, who stared morosely at his lonely vegetables. After a moment he seemed to realise he was holding something and brought it up in front of his face – his iron bar from earlier.
The house shook with mirth, Fishlegs was laughing so hard there were tears streaming down his face and he was struggling to keep his chin out of his own dinner. "That'll learn ya!" someone called out, and the laughter redoubled. Froglegs did not find it funny at all. Later he would make a comment about the intelligence of Night Furies, but for now he just stared sadly at his plate.
Aunt Ragnhild eventually recovered enough to speak, "Aw lad, go get yeself another fish and stake it over the fire," she said hoarsely. "And mind yer curiosity next time!"
The sounds of joviality were quickly replaced by those of hungry Vikings, and then with conversation. The Ingerman clan had jobs all over the village and never all got a chance to eat together until winter, so they used this time to cement their family bonds and to somewhat formally catch up with what everyone was doing.
Naturally, the subject tonight was their little guests, and Fishlegs beamed while recounting interesting behaviours he'd noticed, discussing his theory of their suitability for warmer climates, that they couldn't seem to breathe fire yet, and his mission of learning their language. He'd always been fascinated by dragons, but until now all anyone else – save sometimes Hiccup – was interested in was how to kill them. Not eating and migratory habits, and certainly not how to be killed by them, so this was a wonderful change.
More knowledge was never a bad thing, right? Surely someone could have used it to help fight. Although, Fishlegs had since realised that he had never really wanted to fight and kill dragons, it was just the only way he knew how to interact with them. Until recently it was the only way anyone could interact with them.
He received good feedback on his language ideas, and some of the more astute fighters recalled things they'd seen in raids that might be helpful. "You know," Uncle Gunnar mused, "we have a book around here somewhere on training hunting dogs. It had a page on recognising their behaviours – bared teeth, tail movements, posture, and so on. I've noticed a few of them just this evening, betcha dragons aren't much different."
"Of course, it's so obvious now!" Fishlegs loudly berated himself. "I already have a sketch of one apologising, I'd just assumed it was sort of like a bow or handshake, not that their words might not be sounds at all! Actually, no, I'm sure lots of words are sounds, it's probably a mix between the two..." He considered getting his notebook out to pass around, but a glance at his greasy fingers convinced him otherwise.
The biggest problem he faced was that without context he was completely in the dark, and they didn't seem to try to talk Dragonese, as he was calling it, to any but each other and sometimes Stormfly or Meatlug. He was still thinking about it later, as he watched Hiccup tug and grapple with a short length of tattered rope trying to pull it free of Toothy's jaws. How could he get them talking? How could he differentiate between what was a 'word' and what wasn't?
Toothy let go of the rope and Hiccup toppled backwards, grumpily got to his feet, and batted Toothy around the ears a few times. Fishlegs' eyes narrowed, and a series of memories lined up in his head in almost perfect unison as he sketched the scene.
He'd found a thread, and once he started pulling at it… A phrase his grandfather used to say came to mind, "An idea is a very infectious thing." Only now, at this moment, did he truly understand that.
Berk was literally buried in snow. It clung to the steep roofs of the houses, piled in corners, and camouflaged stairs. There were a few interesting holes where someone had inadvertently walked off an icy ten-foot drop and had to dig themselves out.
After spending so long inside, the air was miraculously crisp and clean, though it was still cold enough to bite through Dreamer's scales. As long as he kept active it wasn't a problem, and this was definitely a time to be active.
Wanderer pounced him from behind and dropped a wad of wet snow between his wings, sending icy shivers down his spine and tail. Squealing, Dreamer threw him off and shook himself, then rolled in the snow to try to dry his back. He growled and tried to take a mouthful of snow to retaliate, but apparently Nightstrikers were severely prone to brain freeze and he hurriedly spat it out with pained groans. How had Wanderer done that? he wondered while rubbing his tongue along the roof of his wide mouth to try to ease the pain.
Wanderer was laughing, so Dreamer lunged at him and they fought in the white powder. He was getting better, dodging and snaking away from grapples and bites, but couldn't seem to pin the bigger dragon. He did manage to clamp his teeth on Wanderer's ear and received a satisfying yip, but was then distracted by something cold hitting him in the shoulder.
Again!? He shook off the snowball, searching for the culprit, but the teens were all staring at him and stifling giggles, it was impossible to tell who was guilty. All of them, he decided, shouting indignantly to their raucous laughter.
"With me," he grumbled at Wanderer, who chuffed mischievously, and they bounded behind the nearest house to conspire.
By the time they took to the air, the teens had surrounded themselves with a low wall of snow and were locked in battle with a larger group of their younger siblings. Wanderer and Dreamer laboured high above them, then pitched forward into sharp dives and pulled up to soar over the battlefield.
The large snowballs they'd been carrying continued to hurtle down, Dreamer's hitting Snotlout square between the shoulders and Wanderer's bowling over Astrid. Dreamer looked back to see both rounding on Ruffnut, Snotlout twisting stiffly on his feet as snow presumably melted down his collar. Snickering, Dreamer motioned to Wanderer and they quickly picked up more snow from a nearby roof.
Course, rough shouts followed them into the air after they'd dropped their second payloads. Dreamer was sure to laugh loud enough that Ruffnut, now covered head to toe in snow, could hear as he circled above the makeshift snow fort, and Wanderer chattered a matching laugh opposite him. Such it was that everyone was either laughing or looking up when the army of kids charged the walls and point-blank pelted the teens with snowballs.
It wasn't long before hunger made itself known, as it quickly did when playing in the cold, and everyone waded up to the gloriously warm Great Hall for the Snoggletog feast. It was a week-long affair, with food constantly being laid out to celebrate those who survived another winter – they were better stocked some winters than others, but this was a particularly grand feast. At any one time there was a whole spit-roasted prey-thing hanging over the fire, and all the Furies had to do was stare longingly at it for a few moments before someone would cut off a leg for them to share.
Dreamer was taken back to the times he had torn apart young boars and deer with Wanderer, the meals they had hunted and caught together. Despite the constant danger, despite not knowing if they would catch their next meal or go hungry, he found himself looking back fondly at the feral life. The way this mutton just fell apart in his claws was very satisfying, and the fat and juices running from it were divine, but it lacked something. The kills he and Wanderer had made were theirs, and achievement was an incredible seasoning.
Partway through lapping up some scraps, Dreamer paused. Since when had he been comfortable licking the floor of all things? People were constantly treading who knew what into the hall, and a quick sweep was usually all the cleaning it got, but… he couldn't bring himself to be disgusted by it. All he could smell was the splatters of tasty fat and protein, still tantalisingly close to his nose, and before he could stop himself the tip of his forked tongue poked forward. What am I so worried about? Vikings weren't exactly a hygienic lot, and his tongue had been in some pretty gross places by Long-Paw standards even after regaining his memories. He'd been eating live bugs out there in the wild, and more recently the mice that snuck inside over winter, just for the fun of it. It was all perfectly normal for a dragon.
…Oh. For a dragon. A small part of him that he'd been ignoring was recoiling at the statement, blithely insisting that he was still human. But should he ignore it? He didn't want to lose himself to the dragon he'd become… for all the sense that made.
He yawned widely, his full belly demanding sleep. A nap sounded good, and often things made more sense afterwards. "Too cold for sleep in den?" he asked. If a nap didn't help, Wanderer had a way of making problems seem very simple and trivial.
The bigger dragon hummed thoughtfully. "We see."
On a base level, though not consciously, Dreamer was aware of the wiry figure in the corner of the hall. He'd been glaring at the two Night Furies from the moment they'd entered, muttering and groaning to himself; certainly not to anyone else, he was normally given a wide berth, and on this day he was in a particularly foul mood.
When the two dragons exited the hall, the old man followed them outside and watched from the stone steps as they flew away. Scowling, he secured his coat against the cold and trudged into the village.
As was usually the case, Berk was shrouded in the shadows of thick grey clouds looming overhead. While the threat of rain was always quite real on this remote land it had thankfully not yet graced the day with its presence.
"I must admit that, while I am exuberant at the liberation of the village, I am disappointed to lose such a proliferous source of dragon paraphernalia. However, I am a resourceful man, and I am sure this will not greatly inhibit my enterprise. I shall of course continue to return to Berk to trade necessities and curiosities aplenty, as long as I am duly compensated you understand."
The hold of the heavy boat amplified the sounds of the water sloshing against its side, and the sails flapped in their bindings, but Johann was so familiar with these noises that he no longer noticed them. His ears were tuned to dragon calls, still uncertain of the supposed peace Berk had attained and if that peace extended to foreigners. No dark shapes descended from the gloomy sky to rain fire upon him, but what the lunatic Vikings considered to be safe was often still fraught with peril, such as riding on the backs of flying lizards for example.
"Aye, good to hear it," rumbled Chief Stoick through his magnificent beard. "And yes, now that we aren't spending all our time rebuilding we can produce other wares. Come, let's talk over a mug of mead."
"Ahh, I do look forward to a mug of Berk's prestigious mead after such a peregrination." It was a truth, of sorts. The drink was far too pungent for his tastes, but it was nonetheless very welcome after so long at sea and particularly when accompanied by a hot meal. What was traded to him also sold well enough in the south.
The discussion proceeded without issue, Berk had a practically non-existent supply of dragon parts for trade this year, but also did not require copious amounts of metal and food. Additionally, there were extra leathers and mead to trade so they were easily able to broker an agreement.
It was also a good opportunity to keep up with the local gossip. The Hooligans, strangely being the most stable Viking tribe despite their proximity to the nest, was always the first stop on Johann's journey. It allowed him to get a read of the rest of the Archipelago before sailing into it, and with the practised ear of a merchant he kept tabs on four or five conversations around him in addition to the one he was having.
"I beg your pardon?" Johann suddenly squeaked, going white. He hadn't thought he'd heard right, and ignored the woman he'd been talking with to sidle into the conversation going on next to him.
"Eh? I was jus' sayin' the Furies are back ou' in the air. Been cramped up indoors all wint–"
"My apologies for interrupting, good sir, but you wouldn't be referring to a Night Fury, would you?"
"…Yeh? Two of 'em."
Johann willed his legs to still, but failed to calm his voice. "Two Night Furies!? And… they haven't levelled the place…?"
The Vikings, a pair of men with typical brawny arms and thick greasy hair, laughed at him. As if it were a joke. The woman he'd been talking to laughed as well. "We use' to have trouble with one, mostly took out the catapults and torches in raids. You would'a got tha' story last year, how 'Iccup brough' 'im to heel an' saved the village an' all. Pro'lly a good thing tha' beastie ran off, lotsa grudges against 'im. Well, jus' afore winter a pair o' wee ones turned up out'a nowhere, an' they been livin' 'ere since. Don't even got no fire yet, only thing they'll level is a plate o' fish."
The Viking across the table raised his mug. "Yeh should meet 'em! Right frien'ly, they are. Cute, too."
…Trust the Vikings to find 'cute' in a pair of death machines. Johann might have considered the Hooligans a sensible lot, but that was still only by comparison.
The Viking next to him called something and suggestively waved a leg of mutton in the air. "Toothy! 'Iccup! Huh, tha's odd." He was looking up, now scratching the side of his head.
Johann followed his gaze, the light of the fires didn't quite reach the roof but peering into the dim he could just make out four green orbs that had no place being there. Four eyes, seeming to glow with their own eerie flames. Two dragons. Two Night Furies!
Fighting his instincts to loose some of the knives in his sleeves and run screaming from the hall, Johann rose slowly. He couldn't look away; as nightmarish as those lights were, he was more afraid of losing sight of them.
Thankfully they were still there, floating near the roof, when his back bumped into the door. He was loath to break eye contact and his back prickled with the expectation of fireballs slamming into it, but it was necessary to turn around so that he could run all the way back to his ship.
He passed his sentry in a blur and barricaded himself in the cabin, then sat on the bed and cupped his head in his hands. Of course, the ship would be little protection if a Night Fury decided to end him, but reason had nothing to do with this. He'd just been told these two were young, friendly, and couldn't even shoot fire yet, but all his reeling mind could remember was the piercing shrieks, and hoping to hear the following explosions. That had meant he was still alive.
He was on the verge of success of trying to convince himself it had just been some terrible nightmare when there was a knock at the door. Johann straightened his tunic and bracers before opening it to stare into a mass of red beard. "…Ahhh, Stoick, my apologies for the abrupt departure from your magnificent hall. I found myself feeling suddenly under the weather…"
The big man considered him. "…Walk with me a moment." With time to calm down and think, Johann wasn't quite as skittish now, and it helped that Stoick exuded confidence and strength in his slow gait as they climbed back into the village. "It's partially my fault. I didn't put myself in your shoes. Two years ago I wouldn't have handled that any better. They are problems in the south too, then?"
Why, that was practically an invitation! Johann never could resist regaling one of the many adventures he'd accumulated over the years. "You could say that, my good friend. It was commonplace, many years ago. There I was, a merchant not long embarked on the seas of independence, moored at the bustling dock of Tjeldskenny. Ahh, I remember it like it was yesterday. In those days, the streets smelled of fresh pine and the wares flew from the crates. Made quite a tidy profit from the numerous furs and ivory they offered in trade."
He listed some of the less relevant but no less important details of the town, setting the scene, though he was oddly out of breath as they reached the top of the ramps from the dock. No matter. "Despite the brutish nature of many of its people they were very hospitable and civilised, much like yourselves really, so it was a good town to moor at for the night. Or so I thought.
"I had just retired to my room in the inn… when I heard it." Icy chills crept their way down Johann's spine at the thought; this was one of the few things he did not like to recount. "I am certain you are all too familiar with that sound... And with every dive, another flash of blue momentarily banished the darkness, and another building was wiped from the village.
"I lay awake through the rest of the night, fearing that sound would return, and only after watching the hunting party leave the next morning did I muster the confidence to depart. It was quite some time before I returned, after similar experiences in other small villages, but never stayed the night again. No, I've learned the safest place to moor overnight is in a large city, or nowhere at all."
"Aye," Stoick rumbled, "I understood why you never stayed here long. I hope you weren't carrying food on your ship?"
Johann stroked his beard; in the south it was considered long, not so much here. "That, my dear Stoick, was the strange part. The beast was merely content with its destruction of the town and exhibited complete disinterest in anything else. Just like yours, if memory serves." He was abruptly reminded of why he was telling this story, and his tone darkened. "Mark my words, it's a dangerous game to fraternise with those demons."
Stoick stroked the braids in his own beard while he thought. By now they had almost reached the Great Hall, but Stoick instead turned off by his house. "I understand. Here's my counter."
They walked behind the Chief's lodgings to find a squat boy playing tug-of-war on the grass with two small dragons, using a rope with three ends and a knot in the middle. One of the dragons quickly dropped the rope to observe Johann warily, but the other dragon pounced it and they rolled around on the grass. Johann was strongly reminded of puppies, or perhaps kittens were a closer comparison. Somewhere in between.
"Thank you Fishlegs. How are they doing today?"
"Both happy and healthy. Still growing steadily, but much slower than other species."
Johann realised his mouth was hanging open, and closed it with a click. The wary dragon, when standing on all fours, came up to about his knee, and the other was maybe a full hand shorter. Even with the playful behaviour and juvenility aside, they didn't live up to expectation.
He'd once, long ago, traded copies of a portrait that was as accurate as anyone could make out from the brief silhouettes afore the fires, but they were quite wrong. What had been assumed to be wicked horns were more like ears, two large ones and six small ones. Instead of large, razor sharp spines down their backs they had blunt fins. Instead of needles like most other dragons they had wide and short teeth, though they still tapered to wicked points. Their claws were similarly wider and shorter than assumed, but no less sharp.
"If you like you can approach and pet them," Fishlegs said happily, demonstrating by holding out a hand that was quickly filled with purring dragon, "but you'll need to disarm first. They won't let you approach if you're carrying anything sharp."
"Ah, thank you, master Fishlegs, but I am quite content observing from here," Johann stuttered nervously. He held some twenty-six blades on him at this moment – anyone underestimating this humble merchant was always in for a nasty surprise – even if he was willing to approach... the… Hmm. "If you would be so gracious, Chief Stoick, I think I require a few more mugs of that mead…"