Stoick pulled his sword across in front of him, then jerked the handle inwards to flick the immense weight forward. A tricky move to anticipate, as the blade suddenly leapt with unexpected speed and reach, and unique to this heavy weapon. Intend to end the fight with every strike, his father's words did not echo in his empty mind, but in his actions.
The blade whizzed over Dagur as he fluidly leaned under it, his face was twisted in rage but there was a strangely calculating and grounded look in his wide eyes. Just the fact that he dodged was disconcerting and very unlike a Berserker, but Stoick took it in stride and flipped his grip on the sword to swing down. It was nudged aside by the end of the axe, a wicked thing with a long tapered point on each blade mounted in opposite directions.
Stoick's shield barely caught a sudden lunge from Dagur's sword as well as the immediate follow-up from the axe, but was knocked away in the process. Before Dagur could strike again, Stoick brought his sword forward in a crooked stab, arm straining for speed. When his target dodged to the side, he flicked his wrist and the angle swung the weight of the sword to catch him, but Dagur threw his arms out and up so that the weight of his weapons threw his torso down and under the strike. From there he danced into a flurry of long slashes and thrusts that effortlessly flowed into each other.
Wet, icy claws of fear climbed into Stoick's chest as he desperately blocked and parried the assault, emptying his head and tunnelling his vision. His breathing was suddenly heavy in his ears, muting and distancing the clashes around him. His sword would cleave anything it touched and Stoick could wield it faster than anyone else he'd ever met, but Dagur was either seeing through the strikes or reacting with inhuman speed, and the strength of his attacks were beyond his small frame. Clearly he hadn't just been handed the title of Chief of the Berserkers, though Stoick couldn't spare the energy to think about it.
The axe met the shield again with a resounding crack, the impossible force behind it jarring Stoick's arm, and the sword lunged around it towards Stoick's throat; already behind the shield, much faster than his own sword and close enough to smell the blood coating its sharpened steel. He reflexively punched the arm with the rim of his shield, halting the blade at his breast to then rake harmlessly down his front.
In a moment of clarity, he became aware that the sounds of fighting were falling back behind him, but the Berserkers ignored him entirely to rush past. Either they trusted their Chief, or they feared him; probably both. Regardless, the battle was not looking good for the Hooligans, and even if Stoick defeated Dagur here it would not so much as slow the army. He grit his teeth and focused on the fight at hand, slowly moving back towards allies, hopefully faster than they themselves retreated.
Low to the ground, Dagur leaped to Stoick's left and fed his momentum into his axe. Another splintering crack rang through the air as it bit into the shield, thrown into the way just in time. A leap in the other direction, and a line of fire burned deep into Stoick's sword arm, flaring with every movement and quickly becoming wet and sticky. He needed to end this, sooner rather than later. The axe swung again, Stoick angled the shield at the last moment so that it glanced off instead and threw Dagur to the side. The behemoth sword lunged forward, aimed for his chest, but he followed his axe to the ground and rolled back into his low stance.
They stood a few paces apart for a moment, chests heaving as they considered each other. Stoick's surroundings snapped back into sharp focus, the stench of battle heavy in his throat, his armour slick against his skin, and his familiar helmet on his head somehow stifling. Arrows rained down around them, presumably some of the archers had moved over from shooting the boats, but they were simply ignored by their targets and did little to stem the tide.
Dagur casually leaned to the side to avoid an arrow flying at his chest, then lunged forward again with a guttural snarl.
From near the top of Berk's spire, well out of range of any arrows, Dreamer watched in a stunned daze. He couldn't… fathom what was happening, his head just refused to wrap itself around the situation. His body felt numb and distant, he was barely aware of the air mechanically drawing into and expelling from his dry mouth.
He watched the burly Hooligans engage the slightly burlier Berserkers, constantly reminding himself that every person going down would never get back up, and that many of them were people he had grown up with. For a heart-stopping moment Gobber – easily picked out by his unique gait – had thrown himself into the fray as well, around the same time Stoick had bounded down to the cliff. Eyes wide with panic, Dreamer had frantically glanced back and forth between his mentor obscured in the smoke, and his lone sire cutting swathes out of the invaders climbing onto the island like ants.
Gobber had at last limped away, but Stoick was now up against an opponent who zipped around him like… like Toothless had around the queen dragon. The comparison put a pit in his stomach, and Wanderer's wing pressed down a little more firmly onto his shoulders; as much for comfort as to hold him there.
Fear. It clawed into the emptiness, almost a relief in comparison. In most places the Hooligans outnumbered the Berserkers two-to-one but just as many from each side were falling, all of which Dreamer had just watched numbly. As aware of this as he was, his seized mind wouldn't form the thoughts, couldn't process the numbers to tell him who was losing faster.
He could only watch, heart skipping erratically, as Dagur threw himself into the task of killing his father.
Stoick braced his shield against another brutal impact from the axe, and Dagur's nimble sword lunged forward. Its heavy counterpart batted it aside and followed through to graze the Berserker's shoulder, only quick reflexes left the wound there and not in the boy's throat. The axe dug into the shield again, before Stoick could pull the sword back, and Dagur dragged it down to stab over its guard.
Tensing and twisting to the side, Stoick grunted as the sword pierced his armour and grated agonisingly across his ribs. He pushed back with the shield, growling as the sword was pulled from his body, but Dagur absorbed the momentum and used it to reposition and unleash another flurry of attacks. Stoick was losing a war of attrition, and his allies were still several paces away, to the side now as Dagur kept darting around him.
The axe slammed into the shield again, it was all it ever seemed to hit – the thought came as the sword stabbed through the shield with a shrill squeal, through where the axe had been striking the same place over and over. A snarl tore through Stoick's teeth as it pierced deep into his upper shield arm; that mindless realisation had allowed him to react quickly enough to avoid it going through his heart.
Dagur wisely let go of his sword, but he had been too close to drive the blade home. Stoick bunted him with the shield, pulling the sword free with a hiss of air through his teeth, and sent the boy staggering backwards. Dagur's eyes flickered, his feet got under him and launched him further back to avoid a dozen arrows, but one found his calf. Seemingly oblivious to this, he made to lunge forward again but staggered with the discovery his leg didn't work properly.
Stoick did not hesitate to clock him with the flat of his blade, sending him sprawling limply. Hopefully it hadn't broken his neck, but by the way he tumbled like a child's cloth toy he was unconscious at the very least.
As the weight of the battle lifted, the weight of the war crashed down. The clothes under his armour stuck to a dozen burning wounds, between the blood and sweat it felt like he'd been dipped in a barrel of slime. Rancid slime, given the taste and smell. His lungs strained to take in ragged breaths, and his whole body ached for rest, but if he didn't move now he'd be surrounded. Thor, I am out of shape. "TO VALHALLA!" he roared, dragging himself back to life and dancing to the Hooligan line of defence.
His sword hummed to either side of him as he retreated, felling enemies who were just now noticing he was no longer fighting their deranged Chief. A hole opened in the Hooligan ranks and he plugged it with a quick glance at the Vikings who stood with him. Their faces were hard but keen for the fight, and a few of them spared him a glance with a thump of their chests when they could. Good. It was difficult to break a Viking's morale through battle, but if any battle could it was this one. Taking down the enemy Chief had to be a huge boost to morale though, any Viking who fell here would arrive in Valhalla in shining glory and they knew it. Stoick, however, would prefer everyone survived. Valhalla would still be there in ten, twenty years.
But for that to happen… Where are they!? He couldn't look for his reinforcements, another wave of Berserkers was already crashing into them. A few of the shields splintered along with the Vikings behind them, and where the following counterattack did not immediately kill the attackers it allowed for a more deadly second strike. The Berserkers were less suited to such an organised defence, backed by battle-hardened Vikings no less, but there were just so Thor-smite many of them that they would still be the victors at this rate.
A bare shoulder slammed into Stoick's shield and his injured shoulder gave way, shield arm crumpling into his chest, and he staggered back a step. The Hooligans either side of him were quick to dispatch the attacker, but that left themselves open and they were quickly cut down themselves. More stepped forward to hold the line, dropping spears in favour of swords or axes, but too late. The enemy surged through, creating a bow in the line of defence, a weak point that would soon break.
Finally, as if thrown by Thor himself, a heavy spear fell from the sky to skewer a pair of Berserkers and pull them to the ground where they struggled limply. The razor-sharp Nadder spine affixed to the end dripped with red, still somehow intact despite the impact and even shallowly slicing into a few legs as they barrelled past.
Another spear fell, and another, and soon they were raining from above. Stoick glanced up to the low cliff they were bottlenecked by, seeing with huge relief that the several archers were now some fifty strong and had all dropped their bows in favour of carts piled high with the spears. Hundreds of them.
Arrows occasionally got lucky shots, but these were heavy wooden poles that tore through the invaders and pinned or crippled where they did not kill, and the deadly hail was relentless. The waves of Berserkers slamming into the line of defence was reduced to a trickle, giving the Hooligans room to manoeuvre and more safely absorb and retaliate to the attacks.
Somewhat prematurely, Stoick let himself slump. He stepped back from the line and let his sword and shield slide from his wet grip, heaving for breath and grimacing at the scene laid out before him. It wasn't as bad as some of the dragon raids the village had endured over the years… but it was close. The last Berserkers were barging through a tangle of wooden poles and every step was over a corpse, until they too resembled pincushions.
There was a moment of tense silence while everyone took in the scene themselves, looking for the next opponent and waiting for the next attack… but it never came.
"We've done it!" The words split the tepid silence, and the island shook with the roar of victory. But to Stoick, waving down the teens circling and hovering overhead, the din wasn't nearly as loud as it should have been.
Vella eyed the figure descending through the air, reaffirming her grip on her bow but not drawing an arrow. The tension on the boat was palpable – they'd been thoroughly defeated, the fate of their Chief unknown, but before they could swing the boats around a shield was thrust into the air at the top of the cliffs above; a ceasefire. And so, Vella's boat had remained while the others picked up stragglers from the water and drew back to defensive positions.
The figure was unmistakably a Monstrous Nightmare, lazily gliding down on its broad wings to land on a ledge by the still-smouldering docks. The huge form of Stoick the Vast dismounted, a towering giant of a man Vella was only now appreciating the scale of; they'd all heard of him of course, but the tales failed to do him justice. He was built like a Gronckle, had a beard as red and glorious as the rising sun, and was covered shield to sword in blood. By Thor he was hot.
She peered over the distance at what was slung over his shoulder – no, who was over his shoulder. It couldn't be… Stoick held aloft the limp form of Chief Dagur, then set him down on the stone, re-mounted the dragon, and took off. That was… surreal. The rumours of Berk taming dragons to the saddle were clearly true, but as far as anyone could tell they'd only circled overhead in the fight. Or had they? The way the Hooligans had controlled fire had been unnatural, and none of the burning arrows sent over the cliff seemed to have caught. Some magic gift of the beasts?
When the dragon finished labouring up to the island and perched on the edge – Vella noticed a second, much smaller rider dismounting as well – the Hooligans watched while the lone ship retrieved the Berserker Chief. Thank the gods, he was still breathing, just unconscious and with a bloody wrap around his leg. The side of his helmet was dented, but only deep enough to make it difficult to remove.
He wouldn't be happy about his humiliating defeat when he woke, but the tribe had been too recently reforged to lose him so they would gladly suffer the fallout. Shouts for healers rang from the boat as it turned out of the harbour, to join the fleet and sail home.
"There do we see our fathers, our mothers, our ancestors. May they welcome you in proud and righteous song, hear of your accomplishments this day and roar with you your triumph. May we hear your warcries rise from Odin's great battlefield, that we may know you shall never know rest, and will be there to greet us at our own final days."
Five longboats drifted slowly to sea, each carrying a great pyre and the bodies of fallen Hooligans. Seventy one, and three more who had opted for the blade over their injuries. The amber sunset behind them was so fierce it seemed to be trying to light the boats by itself.
Among the desolate Vikings upon one of the lower cliffs of Berk stood Stoick, raising his bow as his dirge concluded. As with everything he owned it was fit for a man of both his status and stature, an enormous black longbow with thick and ornate limbs. He hated the thing, all he ever seemed to use it for was sending off one Viking after another… and yet, he hadn't had it for the one who had mattered most.
The draw was painful, his wounds had been tightly wrapped but the strain of the enormous weapon tore them open again. It was fitting recompense. His flaming arrow soared straight and true, landing in the pyre of the centre boat where it flickered fitfully, barely visible in the distance. A hundred arrows followed it, the snap of the strings and rushing of flames merging into a single fiery roar, not unlike that of a dragon.
Had he been right to not involve the dragons? Many of the Berserkers had held bolas, though never used them, it was unlikely they could have even got close. Secretly, he was glad the Furies had no fire, he had not had to choose between the lives of his tribe and his commitment to keeping the dragons neutral. Not had to live with the inevitable consequences of either decision.
With the roar fading into the distance, there was only the sound of sniffles over the wind whistling up the cliff. Even as the pyres caught and blazed to life, they were too far away to hear. Just like the warriors upon them.
The sun was still setting when the last of the boats sank into the water and the towering flames winked out, though now the light was warm and comforting. He knew he should be the first to lead the celebration in the Great Hall, but Gobber took one look at him and led it himself with a hearty cheer. Stoick offered his friend silent thanks, and leaned heavily on his bow to watch the sun slowly shrink behind the horizon.
"Um… sir?" The timorous voice startled him, and he turned to see Fishlegs approaching him from along the edge of the cliff.
"Ah… not really a good time, son."
"I know, I'm sorry… but the Furies wanted to talk to you."
Stoick blinked and followed his glance, eyes widening at seeing the two black dragons neatly sat several paces behind him, those big green eyes betraying no emotion. "They…?" He couldn't find the words to finish whatever it was he had started to ask.
"Yeah." He fidgeted on the spot, stepping from foot to foot and wringing his hangs. "They want to know if they… were the reason the Berserkers attacked us."
Hiccup's head twitched, but he seemed to stop mid-motion and nodded instead. Stoick stiffened with a sharp inhale, rocking back on his heels while thousands of prickles danced down his shoulders and back. He suddenly felt very unsteady. This isn't possible… He already knew it as truth, but this… He hadn't even come close to comprehending. Now it was all slamming home. Communication. Intelligence.
Both dragons now looked worried, eyes widening and those little frills drawing back, and it took Stoick a moment to realise how his reaction must seem. He took a few paces away from the cliff – as much for his own safety as anything else – and kneeled in front of them. "That–" he croaked, failing to make the word properly. After clearing his throat, he tried again, softer this time. "That tribe are a bloodthirsty lot. I won't lie, Dagur said he was here for you, but he would have come eventually either way. I don't consider this your fault." He held out a hand, but the dragons turned their eerie gazes from him to Fishlegs. Right, language barrier…
He glanced back to see Fishlegs halfway through some odd dance and making strange sounds, and had to try very hard to keep his face neutral. When the boy had said he could talk to them… Nevermind.
The Furies chirped between themselves, then both stepped forward to press their snouts into Stoick's hand. Relief washed through him, but then they stepped back and Toothy chirped at Fishlegs.
"…Toothy has another question, sir. He wants to know why you let Dagur live."
Stoick's poor mind was still struggling to keep up, and now this was a specific dragon asking him a question. A good question. The prickles washed down his back again in a great wave, stronger this time, and the edges of his vision dimmed. He was glad he was already kneeling. A Chief had to be able to keep up in conversations, not show surprise to strange customs and not cause offence… but this… this was on a whole other branch of Yggdrasil.
"I…" The words wouldn't come. It was too much. He was exhausted from the battle and arranging the cleanup, tired of death, and as if his failure with his son had not been enough he was now realising the weight of some of his other decisions. The pain in his heart overpowered the wounds in his skin and muscle. Dagur was right. He was weak.
He stopped and took a slow breath to steady himself, touched the tough grass under his fingers, smelled the fresh salty air blowing in from the sea, listened to the distant music starting up in the Great Hall. He focused on the present to straighten out his thoughts until he could meet Toothy's fiercely green eyes. "I don't kill if I don't have to. If I'd killed him then another would take his place, eager to prove themselves over the old Chief. We've shown we can defeat Dagur, if he's smart he won't come back."
A long conversation of noises and movements carried out between the boy and the dragons, until the green eyes settled on him again and Fishlegs spoke.
"Do you believe it? That he won't return?"
"…We can hope." There was far too little certainty in his voice, but Stoick was still reeling. He was talking to a dragon for Thor's sake! And what's more, it… he… had struck right at the heart of the problem. "Please, Fi–… Toothy, Hiccup… Now is… not a good time…"
Hiccup warbled and stepped forward again, rearing up to nuzzle his cheek. Stoick put a hand to the Fury's head, and then with a rush of air he was staring at nothing but grass in the failing light.
"Fishlegs," he croaked as the boy made to leave. "Are all the dragons…?" He couldn't say the last word, couldn't comprehend it.
"…People?" Fishlegs finished, turned sideways to look back at him. "Honestly, if you want my opinion? I don't even know what a person is anymore." And with that, he turned and continued up towards the Great Hall.
Stoick stared after him until he was out of sight. With the solitude in the dim light, something cracked inside him, as if he were made of wood and been snapped in half. His mask shattered, and he turned and sat down facing the sea to hide his weakness from his tribe.
"I still think that risky."
Dreamer gave Wanderer a sidelong glance as they wheeled above the village, watching the last of the villagers cram through the gates of the Great Hall. "He not can think like that. Unless we say I me, he not know. Also you had question."
"He not can think," Wanderer huffed, then yipped when Dreamer swiped at his sensitive wingtip.
"Be nice," Dreamer growled as they glared at each other. "Nest still here. He good alpha."
Wanderer held the glare a few moments, then looked down at the village again with his ears drooping. "Yes, he good alpha. I still not like him."
"Yes. I not like him also. But he my sire." Wanderer bobbed a little in the air, his eyes back on Dreamer in surprise. "He my sire, I love him, but not like him." He could almost grin at the bewildered look he was getting.
"Long-Paws very strange," Wanderer decided. "He sad, you not go to him?"
"This… Long-Paw thing, I think. Not thing I can help him." The last of the Hooligans disappeared into the hall, leaving the rest of the village quiet and empty, though the noise from that one structure more than made up for it. He scowled, his demanding fledgling body overpowering the events of the day which had yet to really hit him; his memory of it all felt distant and dim. His sire and Gobber were okay, that was all that seemed to stick, and despite his sensitive nose the stench of the aftermath was a distant discomfort. "Much food in there, but very loud. Not think it good idea…"
"Food?"
Dreamer rolled his eyes, his friend was a little too motivated when food was involved. "Yes, like before cold-season. But this thing very loud."
"What this thing? Sound happy, why happy when nest-kin die?"
"It our thinking. There life after die, it good place for Long-Paws. We sad they leave, then happy for life they had, know they happy after die." Dreamer didn't mention that half of Valhalla involved feasting, who knew what effect that would have.
A gentle warble filled the air. "That good thinking. Be happy for life, not sad for die. Yes. Maybe not all Long-Paw things stupid." His tongue ran across his chops. "How we get food?"
Dreamer rolled his eyes again, then focused on the hall below. "There opening behind, for…" He sighed. "For where food… and he gone." He was alone in the air, with a dark shape plummeting to the hall below. He tucked his wings and let himself drop, looping below the bridge behind the Great Hall and soaring back up level with the top of the village. It was becoming increasingly dark, but his eyes easily picked out the squared shape cut into the rock, near the back. Not something he'd ever really paid attention to before.
He let the wind carry him over and dropped lithely to the ground, Wanderer eagerly landing next to him a moment later. Well, back to being cute baby dragons, I guess. He practised a few times to the closed door, watching his vision expand as his pupils dilated, feeling his frills flex, his nose twitch. Maybe it was a little demeaning, but effective, and it did help curry favour with the villagers. If it improved relations with dragons, he'd dance naked on the Chief's table; that he hadn't worn clothes in well over a year notwithstanding.
Before Wanderer could get too impatient, he jumped up to pull the latch and nosed the door open.
Even the hard racket of the big kitchen wasn't enough to drown out the roar from the Great Hall on this night. Every Viking in the village was inside, though the tables were heartbreakingly not nearly as packed as they should be. A lot more crowded than they could be, at least.
Kari felt guilty that it made the job in the kitchens somewhat easier to manage. Not that it was any easier than usual, a proportionate number of cooks and servers were out there in the celebration, but the price for the night off was far too high to envy them. She herself had no relations in the village, having been one of the many strays the village had adopted.
She enjoyed her job in the kitchens. Oh, she knew exactly why she had been ushered here in the first place, for exactly this reason, but it was rewarding. The Hooligans were very friendly and enthusiastic – never in the bad way – and it was difficult not to smile at their jubilance when more food or mead was brought out. The long war had not broken this tribe, only reinforced it.
But, overall, it had to be admitted it was a bit of a boring job. Cut the vegetables, pluck the birds, butcher the meat, the same jobs over and over. Even more mundane due to the focus they needed to maintain to ensure nothing was forgotten and overcooked, or even worse, undercooked. So it was with a tensely hopeful and giddy heart that she watched the kitchen door unlatch and swing open, but nobody enter.
Everyone was in the Hall, but who would raid the kitchen of all places? Full of people brandishing knives, and food was freely available anyway. She had no idea what to expect when she leaned over to see outside.
…
Nothing. Just darkness, the wind, and… four bright green eyes?
Panic surged for a moment and she stumbled back, fleeting thoughts of trolls and demons going through her head before settling on what was actually staring back at her; Berk's pair of friendly shadows.
She'd seen them flying around the island but never mustered the confidence to put herself forward to meet them. Put on the spot like this, on the other hand, how could she refuse? She set the knife on the bench and sat on her heels, tentatively offering a hand to the Furies. Two dark heads glided forward into the light, and her heart skipped at the little rushes of air between her fingers. A bit late she realised she'd just been filleting fish, but the little tongues fighting over her hand were painfully adorable. It was worth having to wash it.
"Aww, you guys hungry? You want some dinner?" she asked through a big sappy grin. They both perked at that last word, though it was hard to make out more than the four eyes and one little pink tongue still poking out. "Hey Runa…?" she called cryptically behind her. "We got a spare mutton leg or something?"
"Huh? Why?" came the response over the din.
"Just get over here!"
Runa gave an exasperated groan, but Kari had to put her attention back to the Night Fury creeping forward with its nose in the air. "Hey, I don't think it's an actual rule not to have dragons in the kitchen but it's not happening." She gave a mock-pout as the dragon looked at her with its big green eyes, more visible now with the light and shorter distance. "Yes you're vewy cute, but it's still not happening," she babied, waving her slobbery hand in front of it.
"Kari, what are you doing down there and– what under Thor's wedding dress!?"
"Language!" Kari lightly backhanded the girl's shin. It's just… erm… Hiccup? And…"
"Oh! Toothy! Aww, aren't you the cutest things?" She leaned over the bench next to Kari to get a closer look, but then bounced up again. "Mutton leg! On it!" And she was off.
Someone dropped a pot into the dirty pile with a particularly loud crash, and both Furies ducked back with their ears flat. "Looks like I don't need to keep you out of the kitchen after all," she teased, holding her hand out again. The smaller one stepped forward this time and nudged its head under her fingers, allowing her to stroke its smooth scales. It felt somewhere between the firm sponginess of leather and the hard finish of iron. A subtle reminder of exactly what these little tykes were, and would grow into. She wiped the slobber from her hand onto it anyway, it didn't seem to mind.
"Erm…" Runa's voice came from behind and above her. "So, Olga caught me…" Kari's heart sank, but then she was being nudged aside so her friend could crouch down next to her, manoeuvring a tray down into the doorway. "She said we can take a break, as long as we're back to serve the chicken soup." The tray was laden, there were two herrings, a whole golden roasted chicken, a bowl of fish broth, and the promised mutton leg. There were also two buttered rolls, but Runa took those back and handed one to Kari to munch on.
The two dragons stared wide-eyed at it all, then at the two girls, back and forth. What, were they waiting for permission or something? "Go on," Kari encouraged through a mouthful, nudging the tray forward.
She was half expecting them to turn into vicious killers on the spot, tearing and shredding at the meal, but if anything they were… delicate in how they ate. The smaller one, Hiccup she supposed, tenderly grabbed the tail of a fish in his teeth – which slid out of his gums with a grating noise before Kari's eyes – and picked it up off the tray to toss it into his mouth and swallow whole. Toothy similarly picked up the chicken, lay it between them, and held it down in his claws while they picked pieces off.
It was actually a lot more civil than the villagers in the adjacent hall. The thought had her giggling, and she then had to explain to Runa.
With a furtive glance around, Runa reached up to the bench and brought down a second bowl, setting it on the tray. Toothy was busy with the mutton, but Hiccup cocked his head at it, sniffing the water so closely he seemed likely to inhale it. His adorable little pink tongue lapped at it a few times, but Kari was a little slow connecting the dots until he made a stiff face.
"Runa! You can't give a baby dragon mead!" she exclaimed, grabbing for the bowl. Toothy got his nose in it before she snatched it away, then made a little growling noise and firmly whacked Hiccup over the head a few times. "See? Honestly, what were you thinking? I should tip this over you."
"I wanted to see if they liked it," Runa said passively as the Furies growled and chattered at each other before going back to the food. "Apparently not. Can you imagine a drunk dragon? It would be hilarious!"
"Yeah, right up until he pukes fish guts everywhere. That would be on you."
"Worth it. How long's your soup got?"
"Not long…" Kari mumbled as she glanced back at the big pot. "But they'll be done before then I think. Wow, they're really making short work of it all." She stifled a giggle as Toothy made confused faces at the broth between lapping at it, his head tilted and frills standing on end every time he pulled back. "What do dragons do for dessert?"
"You're asking me?" Runa scoffed as she watched Hiccup meticulously clean his claws. "What would I know? As far as I know they only eat meat. Certainly not sweetrolls."
"Oh well. Maybe one of the riders…" She trailed off as Hiccup looked her directly in the eye, then without looking away, very deliberately reached over and pushed down on Toothy's head. Which was still in the broth. Both girls fell backwards as a spray of fishy liquid erupted in front of them, staring dumbly as Hiccup was suddenly on his back with Toothy on top of him and snapping at his legs.
Gasping for breath, Kari laughed so hard that no sound came out. Large wings flared and slapped the ground and door as they were thrown around for balance, and their tails quickly swept over the tray and knocked aside what was left of the broth. The strange draconic squeals of laughter and angry growls, both comically high-pitched, kept her going long past the point her chest ached. She couldn't breathe, her vision was going dark and all she could see were the silhouettes of the writhing tangle in the threshold. She had no idea how Runa was faring next to her.
She had to forcibly try to calm herself when she remembered the soup, now beginning to overcook, but it took a few minutes. She became vaguely aware of Olga trying to get everyone back on task as they all presumably tried to work out what was going on, and thoughts of how she would explain this later almost set her off again. "C… Cuh uh heh, come on Runa…" she stammered as she forced her shaking legs to support her. "Got a soup to serve…"
In an odd reversal of roles, Dreamer woke up with the rising sun to find Wanderer still asleep. Usually they woke together, occasionally Wanderer had to drag him outside to get moving, but it hadn't happened this way before.
Although, "woke" wasn't quite the right word. His dreams were a torturous mincing of the battle, full of blood, fire, and screams, and his sleep was light and restless. With the nights now much shorter, he really hadn't got much of it either. Perhaps being sleep-addled would keep him from thinking too much, and he had no desire to dream again anyway.
He shook out his wings to take off as he padded to the mouth of the den, but somehow found himself just perched on one of the boulders to watch the light grow through the dense clouds. For once, his mind was completely blank and silent other than the faint echoes of the nightmare.
After an indeterminate amount of time, Wanderer groaned as he roused. He didn't look happy, frills flat against his neck and jaw stiff. "You regret?" Dreamer purred as he dropped down and strolled over.
"No." Another breezy groan. "…Maybe."
They'd returned to the den last night to find Tuffnut's scent over a pair of small bowls filled with thick cream. As a Viking it had been strange stuff, very rich but also somehow not, best served on something sweet. As a dragon, however, it might as well have been a bowl of pure honey.
He had no idea how Tuffnut had managed to procure the coveted stuff, and wasn't sure he wanted to know, but it was so rich he hadn't even been able to get through it. On the other paw, Wanderer had not only finished off his own, but – against advice – Dreamer's as well.
"I say you not feel good for eat that. You not listen." He nudged Wanderer's belly, eliciting a pained groan. "You lie here all light?"
"No, I come…" He dragged himself to his paws and stretched gingerly. "You not can say what good for eat, you drink rotten water. Stupid."
"Not-water make Long-Paws happy. I think. I not drink before, wanted try it. It strange."
"Stupid," Wanderer repeated. "Not know if rot-water make Long-Paws stupid, or Long-Paws just stupid for drink it."
"…Both," Dreamer guessed, his tail swishing across the ground.
Wanderer shook his head, swaying a little afterwards, then peered at Dreamer and gave him a nuzzle. "…You good…? You not slept…"
"I slept enough. Not want more." As if to spite him, a wave of grogginess weighed heavily on his head and eyes, and he had to blink it away. "I good."
"Want talk…?"
"No, I… We go to nest. Maybe can help."
"Dreamer…"
"I good!" he snapped, then shied as Wanderer's eyes narrowed a little. "Sorry… Want do something, just… not want feel do nothing. Like… in fight."
"…Yes. We go."
They flapped into the air, Wanderer much more sluggishly than usual, and soared on the early breeze over to the village. Apart from the burned and scorched remains of the docks, it looked like business as usual. However, while he might not have been able to see the red on the green grass, he could certainly smell it. It washed over him as he drifted in, a strong pungent odour of congealed blood that soaked through everything.
Physically, the smell meant danger and put him on edge. Long-Paws were hunters, their blood – and Dreamer was extremely grateful for this – did not smell good for eating, but where hunter-blood was spilled there was danger.
Intellectually, it was revolting. It was the life blood of people who had died here, hundreds of them for a stupid pointless reason. Not that Vikings saw raiding as pointless, it was glorious to die in battle to a worthy opponent, but that was just another disconnect between Dreamer and his old people.
I'm not one of them. It was truer now than ever.
With Wanderer lagging behind he sought out Fishlegs, tracking him – even through the rank air – from his house up and into the Great Hall where he was eating breakfast. The Hall was blissfully quiet, the few adults sat at the tables were all groaning quietly and nursing their heads, so the predominant sounds were wooden tapping noises, the scraping of bowls, and loud snores from several places around the walls. Dreamer dodged legs on his way over, then hopped up onto the table next to Fishlegs.
"Ohr, hrey Hriccarp," he said through a mouthful of bread.
Dreamer chirped a greeting while Wanderer climbed up next to him. "You lose kin…?" he asked tentatively.
Fishlegs swallowed and looked down at his plate. "Did I loozs anyone? Not anyone cloes. I got lucky," he said sombrely. "I don't know about the others yett, but it's very unlikely none of us werraffected."
He hadn't taken out his notebook to jot new words into, Dreamer noticed. "You good?"
"Eh… Diddent reehlly sleep."
"Me also." Something clicked together in Dreamer's tired brain, and he nearly hit himself in the face. "You talk, bad. Do my talk."
"What? Why would–" He cut himself off, eyes going wide, then wheeled around on his seat to look for anyone eavesdropping. Yes, very subtle Fishlegs, nobody suspects anything now… A short growl brought his attention back.
"Sorry," he said in Dragonese. "I not good your talk."
"Need talk for get better."
Fishlegs groaned and slumped. "Yes… Why you here?"
"Want do something… Help."
"Hmm… Haow do I say 'loop araund the island to check for sships?'" Fishlegs 'wondered to himself' in Norse.
Dreamer waited a few moments, so it didn't look like he was answering. "Fly around small-land, look for tree-things in sea."
"Mairn, you guyz need a word ffor 'ship'," Fishlegs 'mused to himself'.
Huff. "You need word for–" he turned to give Wanderer a lick across the cheek and nuzzle under his chin with a loud purr, then sat back on his haunches and stared deadpan at Fishlegs.
"Pteh, fuh, thass a wuurd?" he spluttered.
…Sort of… But Dreamer wasn't going to respond to Norse, so he just kept his face straight.
"…Yeah well whatever it means, I'm not saying it," Fishlegs mumbled to his plate while picking up some berries.
Dreamer gave a low bark and dropped from the table to the floor, weaving through the tables and legs again to the door. "You can fly?" he asked Wanderer.
"Yes, we fly around small-land?"
"Bad Long-Paws come back maybe, or not leave. Not-My-Female already do I think, but we see better."
"Yes. We go," Wanderer said with a groan as they leapt into the air.
"I say you regret, you not listen," Dreamer chided as they glided west.
"You also drink rot-water. You not joke me? Long-Paws drink that?"
"Yes… Now I thinking… not know why. It stupid. Not can think when drink."
"Long-Paws stupid."
Dreamer wanted to argue, but had to admit he hadn't seen a great deal of evidence to the contrary.
They lazily drifted around sea stacks and over the sparse beaches looking for any lingering boats or rafts, or signs of one being pulled under cover. They drifted the length of a particularly long beach, over the rocky cliff at the end, and down into the next beach – with a start, Dreamer nearly crashed into the sand, landing a little harder than he'd have liked to and stumbling to a halt.
He knew this beach.
It wasn't big, maybe the length of six or seven longboats and surrounded by steep cliffs that seemed somehow shorter than he remembered. He looked back at the cliff behind him, remembering how he'd slipped and scrabbled up and down a thin treacherous path he could just make out. Silently, in a daze, he walked up the beach and rocky slope to the small, shallow cave.
A tiny trickle of water, no thicker than a pencil, seeped from the rock at the back and ran down one side to the beach outside. How tiny must he have been, to lap at that? He put a claw in it, watching but not really seeing how it interrupted the flow. He saw it through the eyes of a younger version of himself, how it had dried in the drought, and what that meant for the two Nightstrikers who depended on it.
He padded to the centre of the den and pawed at the ground, remembering how many times he and Wanderer had slept in a pile there. It still smelled of them, faintly. This is where Wanderer had given him his name – no, that wasn't right, Wanderer had named him in the cove, before… this all happened. But it had been here that he'd been able to tell Dreamer both their names.
The memories were blurry and dark. What had happened before then? He hadn't hatched here… he remembered… walking a great distance…
Outside, Wanderer was watching him with passive curiosity. Wanderer… had been looking for this place. He'd known where he was going, that it was here. He'd spent the winter in Berk, according to Hiccup's Saga, then they had hatched all the way out here in the spring. Knowing this was here, he'd clearly scoped it out first, but why had they moved? This place was perfect, as long as there was water, so then why didn't we start here in the first place?
And how do I factor into all this!?
He slowly padded outside to Wanderer, but no answers were to be had from his piercing eyes. Where there might be answers… He turned slowly to look at the cliff, as if he could see through it and along the path they had taken to get here all those nights ago.
"…I not can stop you," Wanderer said slowly, his expression suddenly pained and stern, "but… you need learn things first. Then, when you ready, I tell you."
"What you not want me see?" He flinched at his own accusatory tone. "…Sorry… I…"
"It not that…" his friend whined. Wanderer examined him a moment, then closed his eyes and leaned forward. Dreamer stiffened, a shiver dancing down his spine as he recognised the gesture, one from a long time ago. I trust you to trust me.
Dreamer kept his wide eyes fixed on his friend, the best friend he had ever known, someone so much closer and so much more important than a friend. Wanderer had only ever proven, again and again, that he held Dreamer's wellbeing as his highest priority even if it went against his own nature. Dreamer leaned forward a little – and hesitated. If he so much as glanced aside, he didn't know what he would find or how much it would explain… but he would know.
Their noses met. It held a finality that snuffed out all desire to follow that path, to search for the answers he craved. He would still get those answers… eventually, when Wanderer deemed him ready. And he could live with that.
They broke contact and opened their eyes, then Wanderer stepped forward to nuzzle and croon while Dreamer looked around. "We should come back here," he mumbled. "I like here."
"That because this your first den. It good den, yes. We come back." He gave himself a shake and stretched out his wings. "But now we need look for Long-Paw-tree-things."
A southerly wind blew over the village, and the reaction radiated up the slopes like a wave. Most coughed or cleared their throats, some retched, and a few unfortunate souls lost whatever meagre breakfast they'd forced down.
Astrid was in the second category, dry heaving before she could cover her face with a sleeve, though it was partially because the skinny adolescent she was accompanying had thrown up a vile mix of fruit and gall. She patted him on the back a few times, and waited for him to straighten up. "You okay?"
"Yeah, thanks," he replied as he wiped his face on a sleeve, though he still looked rather pale.
"Alright. When you're done with that, go see Gobber, he's looking for help to sort the metal. It's the… best job I can give you." The least gruesome one, anyway.
He nodded, hefted his sack and trudged off. Astrid hadn't really been asked to help or anything, Stoick seemed back to his old self in that he seemed to know absolutely everything going on and what to do with everyone, but Astrid had taken it upon herself to do some finer management and make sure everyone had what they needed. Whether that be people, resources, or just someone to talk to. Not only was it good experience but it kept her moving around and able to observe how Stoick did what he did. It also kept her distracted, something she sorely needed right now.
"Astrid!" Ruffnut's familiar voice called after her, followed by the distinctive light footfalls of her running.
"Hey Ruff, what's up?"
"Stoick wants to see you." Astrid went stiff, not able to prevent herself expecting the worst-case scenario; that she'd screwed up, that he wanted her out of the way again, that he was angry she hadn't stayed out of the way yesterday. "He said to meet him at the cells."
If her stomach had been sinking before, it had now fallen out and was rolling down the hill. She somehow managed to keep her expression calm despite there no longer being any blood in her face. "Yeah, sure. I'll just… go now." She put the grisly sack, full of bloody Berserker garments, back with the others then made her way to the cells. She'd only been there once before, more to show her they were there than anything, and as far as she was aware they hadn't seen use in years – though come to think of it, Mildew had probably spent some two weeks incarcerated while awaiting judgement. Most Hooligans realised that the tribe was significantly stronger if everyone worked together.
The simple wooden door was built into one of the sheer rock faces halfway up the village, two paces from a sheer drop to the sea below, where nobody had any other reason to be. Stoick wasn't waiting outside, so as she approached she squeezed one eye shut, an old Viking trick. When she opened the door and stepped into the inky cave, she re-opened her eye – pre-adjusted to the darkness – and strode confidently down the steps in the low light.
Stoick and Spitelout were waiting for her at the end, lit by a lantern hung on the wall, and she tried with all her might to believe this wasn't about her.
"Astrid, thanks for coming," Stoick rumbled, turning to the locked cell next to him, and tentative relief flooded through her. She was still quite unprepared when she reached the cell to find a young girl, about her own age, standing inside. She had long dark hair, tangled and matted, her angled face was almost gaunt and prominently featured wide eyes that darted fearfully between the three of them. She was dressed in a simple course tunic that was somewhat dirty and crusty, like the rest of her, and her hands were crossed over her chest where they trembled.
"Wha– who are you!?" Astrid blurted out. She certainly wasn't a Hooligan, there were only the four other teens Astrid's age on Berk.
"Tha's wha' we're tryin' ter find out," Spitelout grumbled, his arms folded, but said no more when Stoick calmly raised a hand with a nod.
"Aye, she appeared yesterday after the battle, but we were a bit busy at the time. Did you get the key?" What? What key!? He sighed. "Nevermind, let's go get it." Astrid stood in the door of another cell to allow him to pass, then followed him back outside.
He took two paces outside, aside the door, then pulled a key out of a pocket and handed it to her. She just stared at it in her hand, uncomprehending. "Uhh…"
"We've got her story, and we're… fairly happy with it. Enough to release her and have her help, preferably in the kitchen. But she'll trust you more than she trusts us, so I want you to get to know her, get your own story out of her, then come see me and we'll compare. A day, a week, however long it takes, but come to me immediately if there's anything suspicious."
The pieces clicked together in Astrid's mind. Her coming to the cell first, the little show, all to help create an image for this girl to chew over, either to help put an innocent girl at ease or give a suspicious liar something to chew on.
"Sir," she started, forcing herself to look up into his eye. "Why didn't… Why are you trusting me with this, but not with…?"
He sighed and nodded to Spitelout, who shrugged and sauntered off. "This isn't how I wanted to have this conversation, but… we're here now.
"Everyone in the tribe must trust the Chief implicitly. We have a council of elders to keep us in check, but I can't run to them every time I make a decision. That means everyone has to trust me, not only that I will be fair and act in the tribe's interests, but to follow me into those decisions without question.
"That means you too. I know you just want to understand, and you will, but you need to trust that I am acting with the tribe's best interests at heart. You need to understand both sides of that blade, so that you can better decide who to tell what. It's far too easy to tell people everything, or nothing."
Astrid lowered her eyes to his knees. "And when you were telling me everything… I expected you to keep telling me everything…"
"Aye. You understand." The enormous weight of his hand rested on her shoulder. "I will tell you everything you need to know, but there will be things I will not tell you, things you need to learn yourself. That is part of being a Chief, and it is all for the good of the tribe. That includes ensuring it has a capable successor."
She nodded numbly, head bowed as her shame heated her cheeks. "Thank you, sir. But, if I may ask one more question… just so I understand. Why aren't we using the dragons? I'm sure we could have found some safe way to use them, dropping rocks or something…"
"Because, if we fight like every other tribe, with hammer and blade, they will remain wary of us as we do of them. If we fight with dragons they will fear us, and seek to alleviate that fear. They are unhappy with your dragons as it is."
Tension flared in Astrid's chest and stiffened her body as she realised the repercussions of her fantasies. Not just the Berserkers, but possibly a united Archipelago converging on Berk. From their perspective, it would be the Dragon War all over again, but this time everyone would know exactly where to find the nest…
"I don't know if I can do this," she gasped, eyes burning and threatening tears. "You, you're in control of everything, always two steps ahead of everyone, how–…"
The hand on her shoulder squeezed. "You'll get there, and you won't be alone. For one, I intend to retire." She met his eyes again. "Just focus on our new guest for now. One step at a time, and before you know, you'll be ready. Ready enough, anyway." He chuckled. "Some things you learn on the job."
She refused to shed tears as she looked up at him, but they welled in her eyes regardless. "Why me? Why are you so sure…?"
His eyes seemed to twinkle as he gave her a soft smile. "Because you know to ask these questions." With that, he turned and strode away.
Astrid stared after him. Oh mum… Why did you have to leave me now… I really need your guidance…
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and ducked back inside, one step at a time, I can do this. "Hey," she said a little shakily as she approached the prisoner, then took a slow discrete breath to steady herself. "Sorry about that. And… all this. I'm Astrid, I've been… I guess I've been asked to sort of induct you into the village. Everyone else is kind of busy what with… erm…" She realised, as she fumbled with the lock, that she had no idea how much this girl knew.
"…Yeah. I, er, saw." There was silence until the rusty lock clicked and the door swung open with a grating squeal, but she did lower her hands to her midsection where she wrung them. "It's… nice to meet you, Astrid. I'm Heather."
Author's Notes
Sooo it was pretty obvious the last chapter was somewhat out of my expertise, eh? xP Thank you to everyone who chipped in with helpful suggestions, it can only improve things going forward! And again to Aelan for allowing me to bounce things off him.
Chapter titles are interesting things aren't they? I come up with them before posting, sometimes a few days earlier, but occasionally I look back and wonder how I keep accidentally writing these themes into the chapters xP