A Quick Note
For those who have seen the series but not read the books, the original Alvin was not outcast from Berk, and as there's a lot I don't like about franchise Alvin I'm using the book version almost in his entirety. So there's no chance of anyone recognising him.
Astrid was going to have words with her dragon later. What had that been about? Someone floats in and she just attacks him out of nowhere!? Even now she was flitting from house to house as they moved through the village, keeping a wary eye on them.
They couldn't have met before… could they? Astrid eyed the man's long sleeves… There was no way he was from the Archipelago, Vikings wore no sleeves until they were at risk of frostbite. Cold encouraged muscles to work for warmth, and the body reacted by building fat, resulting in the traditional burly build. This man was tall and thin, and obviously unaccustomed to such traditions. There was also his accent, which sounded foreign.
No, she couldn't know him. Before partnering with Astrid, Stormfly had been a raider for the Green Death, and Astrid certainly had never met him. She shot a glare at the Nadder.
Normally she would take the man to Stoick for at least an introduction, but today was Gripe Day so he was liable to be tied up until much later. Spitelout was out visiting the Meatheads, so Gobber it was. "Hey, Gobber!" she called as she neared the forge.
There was some stern but muffled words at his apprentice before he appeared at the counter. "Oh, 'ey Astrid. What brings you 'ere on this fine day?"
"New guy floated in, wants to learn about dragons. Need a witness."
Gobber eyed the man curiously, then adjusted his trousers around his enormous waist and walked around to the door. "Awright, ah got the time, not much ter do these days. Other than train mah brick of an apprentice." A muffled shout came from inside. "Yeh you 'eard me! Anyway, le's get this over with."
"Just need to check your back for brands, make sure you're not Outcast," Astrid explained to Aldin. "Turn around and lift your shirt."
The man's eyebrows went up in surprise – definitely foreign – but he shrugged and complied. His back was smooth and brand-free, there were a few scars but none that could have obscured the telltale mark.
"Eh, 'e looks awright to me," Gobber said mildly. "So wha' brings yeh to the ass-end o' the world? Surely not ter lose s'more limbs." He gestured to the Aldin's polished prosthetic with his own, currently sporting a pair of long tongs.
"Indeed, I'd rather learn how to keep them. But I bear the dragons no ill will for taking the one. It's in their nature, after all."
Astrid scoffed. "It used to be. Sort of. There was a big dragon… it's complicated. Most dragons are pretty friendly now, once they know you don't mean them any harm." She shot another glare at Stormfly. "Most of the time." Maybe that was the problem? Stormfly thought he was going to hurt her? No, that couldn't be it, he'd been reaching up and from low, unsteady ground; no way he could have done anything aggressive even if he'd wanted to. She'd leave the 'why' to Fishlegs, he was much better at that sort of thing.
"Awright, ah'll be 'ere if ya need me," Gobber said and waddled back into the forge. "Gah! What're ya doin' ya lightnin' blind skiv weasel!? Ge' tha' ou' o' there!"
The sounds of Gobber berating his apprentice faded into the distance as they worked their way across the village, towards the no-clan huts. Olga was a true Hooligan, but the last of her clan and past the point of expanding it, so took in every wayward soul who needed a place to stay. Not everyone got along, but she ran a tight ship, claiming the task trivial compared to running a kitchen for hundreds of Vikings.
It was mid-morning, so she would be done with breakfast and have returned to the big common room to relax with her knitting. Something that came with running a tight ship was apparently being totally predictable, but that just meant everyone always knew where to find her.
Astrid knocked on the door to her house, and let herself in at the curt admission. The big woman sat in her usual chair by the fire, warming her feet on the hearth with a tightly knit garment sitting in her lap. Olga inspected them with a frown, her gaze lingering over Aldin as he followed Astrid in.
She hummed in amusement. "More 'ands fer the deck? Where ya from lad?"
Aldin was peering at an old shield on the wall, hand clasping hook behind his back; the way he held himself suddenly reminded Astrid of some sort of bird of prey. "Nowhere, really," he said casually. "Been a drifter all my life, sailing here and there. Never found a place that felt right."
Olga made a low sound of amusement. "Not sure 'bout the place, but Hooligans're good people. We'll see." She set aside her knitting and heaved herself from her chair. "C'mon, le's find yeh somewhere ter sleep."
"Thanks Olga, holler if you need anything," Astrid said as she exited the house, leaving them to it. Now, to have that talk with Stormfly…
She looked around, but the dragon wasn't on any of the rooftops. She whistled, but no Nadder descended from the sky. She loudly and angrily demanded her dragon come to her. No Stormfly.
Astrid threw her arms into the air and gave up, storming off to work off some of her frustration in the forest. That dragon had better not do anything rash in the meantime.
Flitting from den to den, watching, always watching. A vile predator had slithered into the nest, and a Spine-Tail was well suited to skewer it before it could make off with any hatchlings.
She watched as her Long-Paw led it into the nest and now into a den, blind to its greedy eyes and predatory gait. But it was its scent, the scent she remembered layered over a tortured Nightstriker fledgling, that had her spines rippling along her tail. It was a scent that brought pain and misery.
Powerful legs took her in a long loop around the big den, keeping distance by leaping and flapping across the surrounding dens. She moved silently, swiftly, focused in her hunt.
But, she realised, she was hunting a hunter. She needed to be cautious. She slowed her pace and kept low and hidden to complete her loop of the infested den, but found only the one entrance.
Hunters were tricky prey, she needed to keep moving, stay unpredictable. Her Long-Paw called summons, but she'd been the one to let it in… What was important was ridding the nest of this predator.
The sky-fire burned higher in the sky, but there could be no relaxing. She would pace this tainted den as long as she needed to… but doubt began to set in. So much time had passed since it had entered the den, she had not seen it leave but she could no longer be sure it was still there.
Her sense of danger expanded from this small den to encompass the entire nest. It could be anywhere, nowhere was safe. She became skittish about all the sounds around her, and her wary eyes looked every which way.
The Nightstriker fledglings were safe, not in this nest. She didn't need to worry about them. But, her Long-Paw was little more than a fledgling herself, mature enough to mate but not yet adult. She could be in danger.
She jumped straight up and flapped her agile wings to catch the air, then flew swiftly towards the forest. Her Long-Paw liked to flick her heavy claw at trees when she was agitated, and she'd definitely sounded agitated. A quick scenting of the treeline confirmed this, and from there it was easy to follow the salty Long-Paw scents they sometimes scattered around. Though she was sure to remain wary, these familiar trees no longer felt safe either.
It was even easier to follow the sounds, when they could be heard. An aggressive call, an impact, then a splintering and wrenching sound, over and over. She felt proud of her Long-Paw, who pushed her Spine-Tail to do nonsensical things but pushed herself to do them more. Whatever it was accomplishing, she took her own share of the burden despite her small and frail body.
Bitter, angry, her Long-Paw said as she came into sight, then heaved her heavy claw into a distant tree, striking it precisely in the middle. She hissed her agreement in response, warily looking around for those greedy eyes. At least her Long-Paw seemed to have seen sense, even if she did not look wary herself.
Frustrated, her Long-Paw continued to chitter and growl. "You attack him why?" she asked suddenly.
Quills went up in confusion, rattling against each other. She didn't know how to respond to that. "You attack him why?" the Long-Paw repeated.
Long-Paws thought in strange ways… maybe she wanted a more specific reason. "Danger for fledglings," and a warning hiss for good measure.
Her Long-Paw leaned forward a little in a way that meant she didn't understand. "Why?" she persisted.
"Hurt fledglings," she hissed back angrily.
"Fledgl-ing what?"
Her Long-Paw didn't know what a fledgling was? Krrah, she was still learning to talk… "You fledgling," she said, gesturing with a wing.
"Fledgling?" the Long-Paw asked, gesturing to herself. "He not hurt me!"
A step backwards, flaring wings with a warning hiss. The big, heavy claw in the Long-Paw's paw was angled to strike, and to strike at her. "Hurt fledglings, danger," she repeated anyway; anyone else would find themselves regretting behaving like this, but she liked her Long-Paw, and wanted her approval…
Her Long-Paw made a frustrated noise and heaved the big claw through the air, striking a tree off to the side. This behaviour did not need to be put up with, however much respect had been earned. She took to the air with an angry squawk, hopping off a branch to break through the canopy, and flapped back to the nest. She would hunt this predator herself.
There were two tricks to getting either Vikings or children to like you. Alvin was dealing with Viking children, so they should be doubly effective.
The first was to quantify competition.
"Four and a half," he announced. Really, it should be five-and-thirty, but the two rules with this trick were 'bigger is better' and 'keep numbers below ten'. This also applied to both children and Vikings.
"Ha!" the child shouted, tossing the axe into the pile. "You only got three!"
"Three is better than four!" the target of his boasting argued.
"No is not!"
"Four is bigger than three," Alvin confirmed. Doubly effective, maybe, but twice as much work… "Have another go at it. Ready?" The kid scrambled to his feet. "Go!" He knew for a fact this kid was faster, so the one now sprawling over the scraggy grass to catch his breath had probably cheated and grabbed the axe from somewhere other than the designated storehouse. That was a perfectly acceptable tactic, of course; one with honesty had to be stronger to best one without it.
The Deadly Nadder he was keeping in the edge of his vision, crouched in the shadows between two buildings, took a slow step forward. Alvin gave it a sideways look and patted the nearest kid on the back with his hook. It stepped back again.
"Keep telling us how you got your ticking thing!" The voice was echoed by a chorus of agreements and pleas.
"Alright then," Alvin said with a smile. The second trick to working with children or Vikings – or both – was to lie. Spin crazy impossible tales and the ones who believed looked up to you, and the ones who didn't ignored you. Both were useful. "So I stormed through the big doors… and inside was a giant hall! Fit for a tribe of jötunn! I bravely sallied forth, looking for treasure… but instead… I found… a giant… snake!"
Half the kids gasped.
"You said it was an evil dragon!"
"Nuh uh, it was a hydra!"
"A giant snake," Alvin repeated, ignoring the objections, then drew his sword – awkwardly, for he was sat down – and held it high. "'To Valhalla!' I shouted, and charged the evil creature! SNAP! With one bite, he ate everything except my hand…"
"You died!?" one kid exclaimed incredulously.
"If he ate everything but your hand, why is only your hand missing?" another, older kid asked smugly. "You should be missing…"
What an amusing thought process to watch. "I daresay if I were just a hand telling this story, it would be far less interesting." The kids laughed. "No, what happened was I was inside the snake, and my hand was outside… But would that stop a Viking?"
"No!"
"No indeed! I was down a hand, which was still holding my sword, and inside the beast smelled like Stoick's bum-" That was met with uproarious laughter, and he cast a wink at the amused but disapproving look of the big woman overseeing him. "-but I still had one hand, and a trusty dagger! So I started cutting my way out.
"Now, if you have ever tried cutting your way out of something, you'll know it's hard to know which way you're going. By absolute luck, I cut all the way to its heart. Except… it didn't have one!" He lifted the ticking thing, a thick gadget the size of his palm, by its chain. It spun slowly as it dangled from his hook. "Instead of a heart, it had a ticking thing. So I ripped it out, and cut my way free during its dying throes."
"Was there any treasure?"
"Piles of it! But I kept the ticking thing as a memento… and to remind myself to never get eaten by a snake." And speaking of the ticking thing… Six and a half minutes to run halfway down the village, grab an axe, and run back up with it. That wasn't bad at all. "Three and a half," he called over to the kid hauling himself up the hill. "Better, but not as good as four and a half."
"Enough games," their minder announced with a grateful nod at Alvin. "Put all those weapons away and come practise your runes." Her words were met with a chorus of groans. "If you make me impatient you won't be allowed to play with the ticking thing tomorrow." That got them moving.
Tomorrow… Alvin considered that as he eyed the shrinking pile of weapons as they were taken into the conveniently close storehouse, and then glanced at the Nadder watching from the shadows. An insurance wrapped in a safety under the cover of a gesture. He would need to keep this up a few more days at least. Easy enough, this 'Aldin' persona had no real pitfalls to avoid; he nearly hadn't even bothered to change his name, but there was no reason to raise suspicion from what Heather had told them of him.
It was a simple matter to move with the group of children and slip away amidst the maze of buildings. As long as he moved faster than it tracked him until he found some other form of safety, he would be fine.
The darkness had a tempting call about it this night, an energy to the air and a tingling in the ground. Dreamer only needed a glance to know Wanderer felt it too. They were both practically buzzing.
Of course, the Chief's word held them to the barn; outside of it, they were to be escorted by both a Hooligan and a Meathead at all times. Working the scepticism and prejudice out of Mogadon was going quite well actually, but the growing paranoia he expressed every time he looked at them was unexpected, and Dreamer didn't know how to handle it yet.
So he was being a good little dragon, locked in the barn where they'd been told to stay. The stifling, smelly, deafeningly quiet barn…
Dreamer snorted as he loped through the forest with Wanderer. As if. Sneaking out had been practically expected of him as Hiccup, as the alternative had been to spend literal days cooped up inside; enough to drive anyone mad, even him. Stoick really only had himself to blame.
And who wouldn't want to be out? A sliver of sky-ice amongst the uncountable sky-sparks in the majestically clear sky, an invigorating chill to the caress of the wind, a hallow quality to the expansive silence of night. He also had to acknowledge the exhilaration of sneaking out, giving his stride a frantic glee.
Their gait was swift and silent, laughably easy across the flat terrain. They ran for what felt like half the night, but also somehow no time at all. The sky-sparks told him it was still early, however, when Wanderer bounded to a stop to nose at a trail. Boar, Dreamer recognised when he scented it himself.
Wanderer's hopeful expression turned disappointed when Dreamer cast a wary glance back to the Meathead village, and they moved on; sneaking out was one thing, stealing wild game and leaving evidence was another. Besides, it wasn't long before they crossed the trail of some rabbits, which were a far more appealing hunt.
The soft ground under his paws, the way his pounding strides violated the tranquil silence, the crisp and clean air rushing through him, he tore after the rabbit in a giddy, frenzied chase. The quarry was faster, but just barely, and with the two of them it wasn't long before he bore down on it with claws and teeth and a crackling snarl.
The critter squeaked as its life was abruptly cut short, and Dreamer rolled to a stop with it hanging limply in his teeth, fur tickling his mouth with his heavy panting. As Wanderer approached, he dropped it and rolled onto his back, revelling in the post-hunt simmer of achievement, and just how soft the ground was here.
There was only one rabbit between them, which Wanderer picked up and prompted him to take his share. There was a hopeful, pleading gaze in his expression… Dreamer wasn't really hungry, so he just huffed and rolled in the grass. A happy warble preceded crunching and tearing.
Not hungry… And yet, he'd been desperate for that hunt… for the kill.
His mood instantly soured, and he rolled to his paws. What had been the point then, if not for food? Had he really just killed something for the fun of it!?
He curled the base of his tail forward and sat back on it, then looked at his paws, really looked at them. Rounded and robust, with four 'digits', hard and sharp. Five flat, pale pads on each, which felt very warm but very pleasant when held against the ground or breeze. The paws were connected to thick, sturdy wrists with short fins running down the backs.
He wasn't about to fall into another rejection of his body, but… sometimes it caught him off-guard just how ruthlessly efficient it all was, right down to the tiny fins on his head, legs, and tail. Right down to the instincts that drove him to hunt, to kill, to keep himself strong and independent.
A croon touched with concern sounded to his side, and Wanderer gave his shoulder a brief nuzzle. He nuzzled him back with a purr; this wasn't anything for either of them to worry about. The rabbit was food, it had a quick death and was eaten. Its life had provided experience, and its death, sustenance. It wasn't a pointless kill.
He dropped forward and stretched, flexing his claws into the grass and arcing his back. Mrrr, he wanted to find somewhere warm and cozy to snuggle into, ideally with a view of the sky, though anywhere but the barn would cause problems. Oh well.
Wanderer hummed mildly, then scurried his way up a tree and watched Dreamer from above. He recognised Dreamer wanted to return to their 'den' to sleep, and flitting between the branches as Dreamer trotted along below was just his way of burning off his extra energy on the way back.
But partway back, a rancid scent lingered in the air. It wasn't so much on the wind as permeating it, a pungent smell that seemed to stick to the area. He immediately recognised it, and it pierced his heart, but he had to see.
A concerned, uncertain croon sounded above, but Dreamer ignored his friend as he tracked the scent. Ignoring this would not make it go away.
It took time to find the source, but finally Dreamer was staring into the sightless eye sockets of a Nadder corpse, a few weeks dead if he had to guess. It had been dragged here, contributing to his difficulty finding it, to a small clearing through which he could clearly see the sky above. A warning, to any dragon who thought the clearing a good place to land.
It wasn't a pretty sight. All its spines, quills, and hide had been removed, and not gently. The air was heavy with rot and death, and even the grass around the corpse seemed sick.
He doubted the poor thing had attacked first. Had the Meatheads surprised it, or had it been curious about them? It didn't matter, really. Once he got them familiar with dragons, seeing them as more than just a nuisance, this would stop. Probably. Hopefully. He might need to lean on Johann to stop buying the pieces.
Yes… Create a demand for life, and cut off the demand for death, a simple and sturdy plan. But it hadn't helped this poor creature.
He bayed sadly to the sky on the Nadder's behalf, promising his efforts would stop this foolishness. Wanderer, now beside him, added his own mournful tone.
They had to leave it there, there wasn't anything they could do for it. At least it would serve as a warning for now, exactly what the heartless Vikings wanted, though in Dreamer's mind the message spoke far louder than intended; here there are monsters.
But it wasn't their fault either… they didn't know of any other way. Yet.
The village was quiet and deserted, save for the guards doing their rounds. Easy to avoid, as long as they kept their eyes hidden from the torches. They reached the barn without issue.
Though, looking at the door, Dreamer realised a bit of a problem. The latch, an iron bar loosely nailed to one door that hooked into a loop on the other, was on the outside. It took him a minute to puzzle out the solution, which was to simply do what he'd done to get out but in reverse. He opened the door and ushered Wanderer in, then held his tailfin against the edge to rest the latch on. Walking forward and pulling it with his tail, the door closed with his tailfin poking out the gap between them, allowing him to lower the latch into the loop.
Wanderer purred from a very inviting niche in the big pile of hay that took up one corner of the barn, and Dreamer trotted over to nestle himself up against his friend. A paw lifted to pull him in, and the arrangement quickly devolved into a tangle of limbs. He had paws around his neck, lightly kneading and scratching his shoulders to his contented groans, and he was wrapped in wings while one sort of covered Wanderer.
Several rounds of fidgeting and kneading later, Dreamer's tired body was more interested in the ridiculously comfortable warmth than the pointless fussing of his mind. He would fix things; it was only a matter of time.
"Astrid, wha's go' into yer Nadder, lass?"
The familiar voice cut through Astrid's focus as the blacksmith waddled towards her, and she cast another glance around herself before shaking her head. "Wish I knew. I've barely seen her in days."
"Yeh mean apart from 'er chargin' through the village half the day?"
"Maybe she's sick or something… I'm pretty close to sending the twins to get Fishlegs, I'm really worried."
Gobber scratched his enormous stubbly chin and tucked his hook under his elbow. "Yeh gotta be desperate ter consider tha'. Can yeh nae talk to 'er? Though' tha' was somethin' yeh could do."
Astrid grimaced. "A little. Talking about the now is easy, 'do this', 'do you want that', 'I'm hungry'. Whatever this is, it's more complicated, and… Fishlegs seems to have taken his books with him."
"After 'e was told not to," Gobber muttered in a tone that said he would have some stern words for when the group returned. Fishlegs of course didn't really need his notes, and taking them was a needless risk; it was strange because he'd agreed with all that, but there wasn't another explanation. He must have changed his mind at the last moment or something.
"Yeah. And his shorthand is nonsense, so I can't even read his notes. Just…" She growled in frustration. "This had to happen now, of course. Every time something happens, there's something to stop us from dealing with it properly."
"No' really. Remember when 'Ookfang 'ad tha' busted tooth? We jus' asked 'im wha' was wrong an' 'e told us. Can yeh imagine if we could no understand 'im? We might'a assumed 'e'd gone mad or somethin'. Might'a taken all day ter work i' ou', if we did a' all. Yeh just don' remember the easy stuff.
"Stop telling me things I don't want to hear," Astrid shot at him irritably, but with a wry smile.
"Awright then, 'ow abou' tha' ah found yer dragon?"
"Wha-?"
Stormfly barrelled past them, a blur of colour that quickly rounded a building and disappeared from sight. Gobber wobbled and staggered, she hadn't actually touched him but having a dragon practically charge you would test anyone's reflexes.
"Stormfly!" Astrid called out in vain, running after her. Since their little spat in the forest the dragon had ignored her; she now regretted how she'd acted, though Stormfly had been no better really. They needed to make up and go for a flight.
If only Stormfly would slow down long enough to make up with!
Thump thump thump thump, paws beat the ground to accelerate the Spine-Tail they were attached to through the nest. Kraah, the things Long-Paws wore on their paws made it very difficult to track them most of the time, they all only smelled of whatever they'd walked in. They were unique enough to track once the scent was found, but the scent changed frequently so needed to be re-acquired regularly. Sometimes they spread a salty smell where they went, but only sometimes.
She was weary, but she couldn't rest. There was danger in the nest, she had to eliminate it, and she set herself to that goal as long as she could see; most nights were too dark, but this one was clear and bright.
But this predator was like a slippery little furred thing that scurried around her claws before she could close them on it. Waiting and watching hadn't worked, it was small and fast and every time she caught up to it there were other Long-Paws who would be badly hurt in a confrontation; it would do no good to burn the nest she was trying to protect.
So now she raced up and down the small-land, hoping to stumble on the predator or spook it out of hiding; it did not belong here and it knew it.
She spotted a form skulking in shadows a little way up the nest and veered towards it, running swiftly and low to the ground; she had flushed it out. It spotted her and ran as well, but with its tiny legs and lack of tail, it had no hope. It would not escape now, not at night with a lack of Long-Paw fledglings to protect itself with.
It rounded on one of the dens and disappeared into it, but that den would not save it. That den was small and squat, the type that smelled of fish and did not have any Long-Paws in it at night. It would offer no protection. She let out a cry of hunting, satisfaction.
A gout of fire burned through the thin trees that covered the entrance to the den, and what remained stood little chance against her horned head. She wanted to rip this predator apart for all the hassle it had caused her, but her wings caught on the wall of the den, which was much sturdier and did not give way to her shoving.
The fire spread rapidly from the burning splinters, and by the suddenly bright light she saw her quarry at the other end of the den. Alone and trapped. Though it was still moving, planting a paw on a raised surface and swinging its hindlegs up to kick at the wall of the den… The walls should be strong against a Long-Paw, but a small part of this one gave way with practically none of the expected splintering sound – and the Long-Paw continued on through it!
A thick torrent of cleansing fire streaked across the den and splashed off the edges of the hole, but the yelp of pain was not encouraging. Dead things did not yelp. She screeched in frustration and wrenched herself from the burning den, then leapt up on top of it and hopped to the other side. There was no sign of her quarry. She hopped down with a roar and followed the trail, but it quickly passed through a narrow space she could not follow through. The trail did not appear from the other side, though the gap was empty.
Kraah! Every time her claws closed around it, it found a way to scurry away! She wouldn't even just be able to track it through the empty nest, as it was no longer empty, Long-Paws were shouting and starting to run around, but she ignored them.
That was a mistake. A weighty blow to the side of her head staggered her, and a heavy force crashing into her side sent her to the ground despite her flaring wings. Her mouth was clamped shut and her wings, legs and tail were all quickly pinned to the ground. Unnecessary, as she had little strength to struggle against so many, and would not kill these Long-Paws for whatever they were doing; they were not trying to kill her, their flat claws were still by their sides.
The ground wouldn't stay still below her, and the side of her head throbbed dully, but she didn't fight. Not even when something wrapped around her wings, holding them firmly to her sides. Especially not when her Long-Paw approached her, wet eyes full of concern and disappointment.
It had taken nearly a week, but Fishlegs had finally convinced the Meatheads to let some kids play with the Furies – under very strict supervision, of course, that came in the form of three Meathead warriors. At least they didn't even look twice at Meatlug, dozing off to the side and perfectly content to laze around all day. Regardless, things started off very well.
One of the earlier kids stuck in his mind though. Fishlegs had introduced him to Hiccup and they chased each other for a little while before Hiccup allowed the boy to pet him. He'd disappeared without Fishlegs thinking anything further of him, but returned after Toothy had been rotated in and Hiccup was taking his turn sunning on his back in the grass.
"Umm… Mister dragon person?" the somewhat weedy boy asked hesitantly, flanked by a pair of curious friends who had also seen Hiccup.
"If you want to see him again we'll see if we have time later," Fishlegs said with a smile. Depended how long the Furies wanted to play for, he supposed.
"Ummm okay, sure, but… Are you sure he's a boy? Because…" He trailed off and pointed at Hiccup, still splayed out and showing a complete lack of modesty… and a complete lack of any masculine weaponry.
Fishlegs laughed, a little nervously given the subject – but right before he could start explaining, he reassessed his assumption and closed his mouth, staring into the distance with his brow furrowed.
…Was he sure? Their proportions matched what he knew of Toothless, and Fishlegs had made use of plenty of opportunities to examine both Fury fledglings, but without a female to compare to – or getting really personal – he couldn't be absolutely certain. Furies were different to other dragons in many ways, there might not even be any outward differences.
Toothless wouldn't… have turned Hiccup into a girl dragon, would he? That line of thought just did not bear thinking through… but he was smaller, limber…
"Yes, I'm sure," he asserted with a confidence he wished he felt. "Their, um, boy bits just, uh, hide away…"
"See, I told you they was like dogs," one of the trio said as they turned to leave, pushing each other playfully.
The kids continued to roll through, all having a great time, but Fishlegs couldn't put the thought from his head. Hiccup's smaller stature was due to several weeks of malnutrition, but he'd always been smaller, and he'd said they weren't going looking for female dragons… Dragonese used a single term to reference someone, not 'he' or 'she', and he couldn't remember Hiccup ever saying he was male… Actually, what had made Hiccup sure Toothless was male in the first place? Fishlegs highly suspected his assumption was layered on another. Small doubts burrowed their way into his mind.
The question was… would it haunt him more to not know for sure, or to trample his pride and ask?
Actually, if he asked, there was a possibility he'd be told contrary to his assumption, and at best he'd probably be laughed at. He could live with a few doubts, and Hiccup was embracing his new life whichever way that went. It wasn't Fishlegs' business.
Aside from his little crisis, it had been a roaring success, kids lined up all almost all afternoon to get some careful guidance on how to pet and play with a dragon. In fact, Fishlegs was almost completely certain that they'd been through every kid and were now working through them a second time, because the faces were starting to look familiar. Or maybe he just needed a break.
Actually, he probably really did need a break, it was becoming a lot harder to remain focused. He stared at Hiccup vacantly, almost as vacant as the boy he was playing with; a young kid with light freckling and sandy blonde hair. He was having fun, but Hiccup was getting pretty bored, so was excited when Toothy coasted back to the ground with a bark to announce his presence; mainly for the benefit of the three drowsy but somewhat skittish warriors overseeing things.
They had a brief conversation, something about good winds and probably that they would swap again soon, when the boy reached forward. The action stood out to Fishlegs, which was strange, Hiccup and Toothy happily played with grabby infants all the time on Berk. It was probably to do with the realisation that Hiccup had his tail tucked to his side, and always had for a while. Toothy was much more relaxed with his.
Still, he didn't see why it would be a problem, and therefore nearly jumped out of his skin when the kid grabbed Hiccup's tail, and Hiccup spun with a shrill growl and then skittered backwards, low to the ground with his eyes wide and narrowed.
The warriors suddenly standing behind him had him spin again and quickly back up towards Fishlegs, and Toothy was quickly by his side and ready for a fight; no longer a little fledgling, he looked very intimidating.
"Woah, woah, everyone calm down!" Fishlegs said loudly, stepping in front of the Furies and moving to check over the kid, who looked to be in shock. "If you want to do something," he said to the burly men, "keep the other kids back." They were all edging closer, murmuring loudly and trying to get a better look at what was going on.
The warriors and the Furies circled around each other until the kids were behind a wall of muscle, though they looked more to be trying to protect the kids than hold them back. Whatever; the result was the same.
Fishlegs spent the time inspecting the kid in the middle of it all, finding gashes down the back of his hand; he'd not even seen Hiccup strike, but the pattern was irrefutable. "Only some cuts," he explained, "he'll be fine. Just take him to your healer."
He received three stony expressions, but then one stepped forward took the boy by his arm. "Ah'll get the Chief," he said quietly to the other two, hefting the kid and carrying him away as the exclamations of pain began.
Great, there went this little venture. Still, it was pretty stupid to just grab a dragon's tail, and they had been cautioned against it. Fishlegs groaned frustratedly, he should have done an intelligence and sense test instead of just taking a minimum age. Everything was so obvious after it all fell apart.
But come on, this was Hiccup!
Well, Mogadon would want answers, and he should probably have them. He took a deep breath and approached Hiccup, doing his best to ignore Toothy's wary gaze, and sat down; Hiccup could stare eye-to-eye from all fours now, but currently he was hunched low to the ground.
"You okay?" he asked gently, quelling his agitation with logic – this was Hiccup's project, he wouldn't mess it up over something trivial. He was glancing around with those frighteningly narrow eyes, but then blinked and looked at him as his pupils began to dilate. "What happened?"
Hiccup lowered his eyes to the ground and shrank back a little further. "Not know," he said slowly. "I felt… I…" He whined piteously. "I… felt attacked. I know it not attack… I just…"
He pawed at the ground while Fishlegs ran through possibilities and scenarios. And when he factored in when it all started…
"Berserk," he whispered, and Hiccup flinched.
They both flinched when a loud voice boomed over the whispers of the kids. "Wha's gone on 'ere?" Mogadon asked.
"Ahh, err, s-sorry sir," Fishlegs stammered. "Just a bit too much curiosity… and an… overreaction."
"An' wha' kind o' overreaction sends a kid ter the 'ealer?" Mogadon demanded, leaning on his peg leg and fingering his sword.
"The 'what happens if I grab this dragon's tail while he's not looking' kind," Fishlegs shot back before he could stop himself, then clamped his mouth shut. He didn't know when this had started, but he really wished it would stop.
Mogadon opened his mouth, still the picture of distrust and anger, but then closed it again with a brief chuckle. "Aye, that do seem a stupid thing ter do," he admitted. "Bu' you said you 'ad them under control."
Fishlegs held in a groan. "We don't control them. Just… Argh, if I walked up behind Thuggory and pulled his hair, what sort of injuries could I expect to walk away with?"
"Yeh'd be lucky ter walk away a' all," Mogadon said quickly, then grimaced. "Ah see where yer goin' with this."
"Right." But he still wasn't convinced. Fishlegs winced, realising he needed a demonstration. So, if Hiccup was like that with his tail… then… he just hoped this wouldn't hurt too much…
His hand edged along the ground, striking a delicate balance of haste. The moment his finger brushed against Toothy's paw, said paw was suddenly pressing claws into his arm with a growl. "S-See?" he squeaked out. "I'm not c-controlling him…"
"Tha' proves nothin'."
Fishlegs did groan then, he didn't want to explain the whole trauma thing… But maybe he didn't have to… "Can he see your paws?" he quietly asked Toothy.
Toothy growled at him again, but Hiccup nudged him and they stared at each other for a moment. Toothy huffed, then nodded slowly. "Only look," he growled.
"Thanks. It'll help, I promise." Toothy huffed again, then lifted himself onto his hindlegs, and Fishlegs beckoned to Mogadon. Given the Chief's hand firmly grasped the handle of his sword, he stopped him just outside of melee range, at which point Toothy fixed them both with a level look and held up his front paws, displaying the pale scars crossing over the pads.
"Wha' am ah lookin' at 'here?" It was a good thing there was still light actually, though there would not be for much longer.
Hiccup answered the question by standing up, awkwardly walking over, and holding up a paw as well, his dark pink pads unblemished. Mogadon turned back to Toothy with an unreadable expression. "Given wha' you been sayin', ah no think you did tha'," he said.
"No! We…" How much to say, what to explain? "We rescued him from some Outcasts when he was younger," Fishlegs hedged, thinking fast and watching Hiccup in case it was too much. "They weren't being gentle."
Mogadon just stared at him, running his fingers through his curly mess of a beard.
"Hiccup was similarly rescued," Fishlegs continued warily. "His tail was injured, but we–"
He was interrupted by a loud screech echoing over the village from somewhere outside it.
Dreamer hissed at the unfamiliar Nadder call, echoing Wanderer. "Not ours," he said quickly to Fishlegs, dropping back to his paws and scanning the evening sky. The sound seemed to have been purely for volume, he couldn't read anything into it, which had him worried.
Fishlegs barely had time to stumble over an explanation to Mogadon before a figure became visible, a Nadder flapping hard and headed for the village. What was it doing? Wild dragons avoided Viking settlements without the influence of the queen…
Apparently not this one. It swooped down, and Dreamer barked in alarm as he saw and heard it breathe a torrent of fire just before he lost sight of it behind the buildings. He remained frozen in place by the shouts and screams, startlingly clear despite the distance and obstructions.
Mogadon began shouting orders, but Dreamer wasn't listening, and it didn't matter. He had to work out what was going on, and couldn't think of a possibility that was even remotely plausible.
The Meathead Chief suddenly went quiet, then shouted something at Fishlegs. "-rescind the condition tha' the Furies 'ave fire, now take tha' thing ou'!" Fishlegs started responding in a panic, but it was irrelevant. The Nadder was back in sight, and it was just swooping down on random buildings and setting them ablaze, and if the Meatheads took it down…
"We need stop it!" Dreamer implored Wanderer, who was watching the Nadder with narrowed eyes.
Those green orbs turned on him, full of concern, but then became set with determination. "Stay," Wanderer ordered, and leapt into the air.
Dreamer leapt up after him, but just cruised above the village. Spitelout was already chasing it on Kingstail, and it was not paying him any attention, and he was fairly certain he could outfly it if necessary; he had a better chance up here than from the ground, anyway.
Wanderer kept going up, quickly shrinking into the sky. His descent was announced by the telltale whistle, building into a chilling screech that painted the ground in vague outlines, even where Dreamer wasn't looking. Shouts could be heard from below as the wail grew in volume and pitch, the first time Meathead Island had heard such a sound since that last raid on Berk.
The growing form of Wanderer hurtled towards the ground, pulling up sharply and shooting past the Nadder so fast it squawked in alarm and pulled out of the dive it was in. Wanderer banked around so smoothly and tightly it looked like he was a weight on a rope, making another strafing run on the Nadder. Again and again he shot past it, far out of reach before it could turn to slash, snap and flame at him. Frustrated, it suddenly lunged for Kingstail and several quills sprouted in both Nadders' sides, but Kingstail was the only one to go down.
Wanderer shot up into the air while it was distracted, arcing over and down on top of it. He flipped at the last moment, falling tail-first past it, then righted himself and screeched back into the sky. By the way the Nadder stumbled in the air, he must have slashed its wing.
Dreamer soared over as the Nadder spiralled down, screeching and roaring madly as it went, and alighted on a nearby roof as it staggered to a halt on the ground in an empty clearing. It didn't even have time to find its balance before Wanderer slammed into it, knocking it to the ground. He landed on its wing and grappled the other, using them to pin it to its side.
It kicked, bucked and snapped its teeth, but Wanderer held it down, though he seemed unable to do anything else. Dreamer swooped down and landed in front of it, barking to get its attention, but only succeeded in getting it to snap at him instead. He barked again, and again, then roared at it, to no effect.
"Dreamer!" Wanderer shouted as he struggled to hold it down, deflecting spines with his wings and holding himself away from its teeth and talons. "Kill!"
No… That couldn't be the solution! He couldn't just kill it, not like this! He roared at it again, but it was as if it didn't even see him.
A loud crack echoed off the nearby buildings, Dreamer cringing violently at the sound of Wanderer breaking its wing. "Dreamer!" he implored desperately.
Dreamer whimpered. He couldn't, just couldn't kill it, couldn't even approach it as it snarled and snapped at him, apparently oblivious to being grounded. He was frozen, his mind was frozen, and everything was happening in a sort of hazy slow motion. He could only watch it thrash and buck.
Could only watch it buck, catching Wanderer's side, then slap him with its tail and throw him off.
His paws moved of their own accord, propelling him forward to slash at its eyes. It blindly threw its head back, screeching and snapping its teeth, but too slow. There was no analysis of the situation, no thinking at all, he simply did the only thing he could to immobilise it – sink his teeth into its exposed throat, and tear it out.
All sound abruptly ceased, leaving a horrible ringing in Dreamer's ears and head. Reality crashed back in. He gagged on the blood in his mouth, lamenting his inability to spit and almost making himself sick, but could only try to drool it out onto the trodden dirt.
Wanderer. He turned to his friend, staggered to the side, then strode forward, forcing his distant and hollow body to move forward. Wanderer was pulling himself to his paws, using his front right paw gingerly, but it didn't seem to be broken and he was holding his wings well. Dreamer whimpered in relief.
They staggered and limped up to each other and bumped heads, both panting heavily and purring relief. Dreamer allowed Wanderer to clean the blood off his face, then hooked a paw behind Wanderer's injured leg and gently lifted it to inspect it. No Nightstriker blood, and no breaks. "How?" he asked.
"Landed on it," Wanderer grumbled, pulling it back. "It not bad hurt." He touched his nose to Dreamer's head and sighed. "I could have bad hurts…"
"I not could fight," Dreamer whined sullenly, quite aware of just how badly that could have gone. He ignored the crowd growing around them, just as he was ignoring the Nadder corpse bleeding into the ground; it wasn't difficult with the fuzziness that still gripped his mind, and this was all that mattered right now.
"You did fight," Wanderer said with an edge of frustration. "But only after-…"
Dreamer pulled his head back to find Wanderer staring at him with his mouth open. "…I could have bad hurts…" he repeated slowly, apparently to himself.
"Ya did i'!" The booming voice of Chief Mogadon cut through the murmur of the gathering crowd, striding into the clearing – it appeared to be a plaza of some sort – with Fishlegs in tow, who hurried forward and insisted on inspecting Wanderer's leg. "Ah'm sold. When can yeh get us our own dragons?"
Perhaps it was just the shock lifting the blindfold his vision had over him, but he couldn't help noticing the way that was phrased, hear the desire and greed in Mogadon's voice, see it in how he eyed the dead Nadder… and realise what a stupid idea it was to try to give dragons to Vikings. He wasn't interested in making peace with dragons – he wanted to weaponise them.
Fishlegs, oblivious to this, beamed and began talking, but Dreamer cut him off with a pleading bark. "Uh, we'll talk later," he promised instead, casting Dreamer a confused look before returning to Wanderer's leg.
Dreamer groaned and slumped wearily, looking forward to just collapsing somewhere dark and quiet. He didn't even care where at this point, as long as it was with his friend.
"…Yeh'll need ter come with me, boy," Mogadon growled suddenly, his voice dark and tense. Dreamer snapped his head up to find the Chief staring at him, his one eye now glaring suspicion, anger, betrayal, and his hand on his sword. How could things have possibly gone even worse? "Yer dragons too."
What!? What was going on here!? Dreamer turned his dazed attention to the crowd, catching snippets here and there but very quickly picking up the tense, uneasy attitude.
"Now, of all-" "-couldn't control-" "-happen to be here when-" "-no raids in-" "-backfired-"
He whined as he put it all together. Not a single raid in years, and then a dragon attacks the village within a week of Hooligan paws landing on the island? What were the odds? But this definitely wasn't their doing!
And all the eyes on him, the way they stared… The way Mogadon had asked them to go with him… Dreamer foresaw being tossed into the barn – if he was lucky – to be locked inside, trapped, caged, and a flood of panic washed through him. "You can fly?" he asked Wanderer tensely.
His friend froze, staring at a confused Fishlegs, but subtly flared the tips of his wings. That was all the answer Dreamer needed. He spun and leapt into the air, pumping it hard, and the two Nightstrikers flew from the village as fast as their wings would carry them.