A large part of being a Viking Chief was having the ability to read the people, and Stoick considered himself quite well-versed in that skill. Tradition demanded that he throw a huge feast to celebrate successfully fending off a raid from an enemy and capturing their Chief, as well as separately for killing a legendary Skrill, but he could tell from the general murmur that nobody was in the mood for it.
They would of course celebrate Astrid's achievement, and the warriors they lost, but not victory. It just didn't feel like one.
"Tuffnut," he called out, spotting the teen admiring the carnage. "Will you find somewhere quiet for the Furies to rest? Even I can tell they're restless." He sighed; he really couldn't blame the pair for being skittish.
"Huh? Nah, just set 'em up with Stormfly in her stable and put Kingstail with them." Tuffnut didn't even turn, continuing to stare at the ruined house front with a revered awe. Hmph, he needed to learn to respect his Chief… but, miracles didn't happen overnight. Why Kingstail though? Spitelout was busy with him.
He nearly started the argument that it was the teen's job to actually do what he'd suggested, but then realised he should probably have Fishlegs check them over anyway, if he wasn't already. He could do it.
It was just after midday, and the rain had finally let up to no more than random spitting, unnoticeable other than the occasional fat droplet audibly splattering over the glum bustle of the village. The sun had yet to break through the clouds, but some of its warmth shone through. Enough to see how much damage the Skrill had inflicted during its short rampage; there wasn't anywhere Stoick had found that he could not see some ruined roof or shards of debris.
He returned to the Great Hall with purpose in his stride – more for morale than anything – where his eyes were immediately drawn to the far corner and the two big green eyes warily surveying the empty room. As he should have expected, quiet murmuring accompanied the rotund bulk crouched by them. "Fishlegs, how are they?"
"Chief," the boy acknowledged; there was someone who knew respect. "Both took lightning bolts, but we think they were less… focused? So they didn't hit as hard. Kind of like-"
"I don't need the details," Stock politely interrupted. "If they don't need anything else, put them with Stormfly."
"But she's injured too."
That explained that. "Aye, Kingstail will be along shortly."
"...Ah, yeah, that makes sense." Fishlegs listened to one of the Furies for a moment. "Hiccup wants to know how Astrid is."
"Bedridden, and picking up a fever," Stoick replied sadly, and there was a sad draconic sound. "Doesn't look serious, she'll be up again in a few days." He eyed the two Furies, considering what they'd been through today. "Can you walk to the stables? I don't mind carrying you again."
The dragon chuffed agreeably. "He says he'll walk it," Fishlegs translated.
"All right then. Fishlegs, go with them." He watched, deep in thought, as the two dragons stiffly trudged out of the hall. They were his, as far as they could be considered anyone's, but where had he been? Where had he been the first time they were taken? Where was he when the Speed Stingers attacked? When things had gone wrong on Meathead Island?
He considered Astrid. Separately, he considered Dagur's attack. If it was good enough for the Chief of the Berserkers…
"Fishlegs," he called out just before the teen stepped through the doors. "When things have settled down… get me my own dragon."
"Yeh got 'till the count o' three ter surrender!" Spitelout shouted from Kingstail's back, high above the Berserker boat that still floated in Berk's waters. "One…! Two…! Three!"
Two boats worth of Hooligan warriors roared and clambered up both sides, quickly securing the empty deck and warily surrounding the stairs at the back leading down to the hold. Kingstail landed heavily shortly after, Spitelout holding his axe at the ready.
Kingstail put his nose to the deck, then clucked uneasily with his spines and quills flexing. It set Spitelout on edge, this was weird enough as it was without his dragon being strange about it too.
"You lo', be ready ter storm in," he ordered, pointing at the warriors by the stairs. "Rest o' you, get ready ter ge' this hatch open." He walked Kingstail off the big hatch on the deck, a common feature of trade ships, and it was quickly surrounded.
He held his axe up, everyone keeping a tense eye on him, then gave the signal. The hatch was hauled open at the same time the other half of his forces disappeared into the stairs with another battle cry.
No sounds of fighting rang from beneath, and what he could see of the hold was empty. He dismounted and leaned over the edge, watching the Hooligans inside and looking for the inevitable ambush. None came.
"Clear!" came the eventual shout from below. What in Odin's name…? He dropped down and turned warily, axe held at the ready. Even if there even was such a thing as a Berserker who wanted to hide, however, the hold was open and very clearly empty.
Speaking of, he looked around at the hold itself. One side consisted mostly of a single large cage, big enough for a Nightmare, lined with straw and featuring a huge iron shackle attached to a chain that ran through a hole in the floorboards. The other side held six smaller, individual cages. Probably where they had held the hapless Gronckles that had been released from the boat only to be slaughtered in sight of the island.
He looked up at Kingstail above, who was back to scenting the deck and hissing fretfully. "Everyone off," he ordered grimly, waving to the stairs. "We burn it all."
"Bu' it's a good ship," someone protested.
"It's a cursed ship," Spitelout growled back as he strode to the stairs. "Bu' feel free ter go down with it if ya want."
If there was going to be an ambush, however unlikely, it would be-
…Nothing. He walked right outside without issue, other than the cold chills creeping down his spine. Kingstail also seemed overeager to get him back into the saddle. None of this sat right with him. Where in Thor's name could the crew even have gone? Dagur certainly hadn't sailed this big boat all the way here by himself.
A boat this size required several sailors to operate, but they didn't seem to be on the boat. They also hadn't attacked the village, the docks had of course been secured as a precaution. Maybe they were on the island, waiting for an opportunity to rescue their Chief, but that would imply they'd thought failure was a possibility in the first place.
"Burn it, Kingstail." The deck was bathed in white-hot fire, the wood struggling to catch but eventually relenting, and the remaining Hooligans finally showed some haste in departing the vessel. For good measure they aimed some fire down into the hold too, easily setting the straw alight, then flapped up into the air.
That was a sensation Spitelout was certain he would never get used to, seeing the enormous boat shrink into the distance below him, but by Thor he would never get tired of it either. Gone were the days of efficiently plotting routes through the village, though he wasn't about to admit it had taken him six months to realise he was spending more time planning than he was saving in travel.
After wheeling around long enough to watch the flames completely engulf the deck, he brought Kingstail over to the village to alight near the cells. He wanted answers.
The firm lock gave way to his key and he let himself in, navigating the dark corridor with practised ease. Dagur was awake in the far cell, sat on the cot and staring vacantly through the bars, wearing the simple clothes that had been under his armour.
"So," he announced himself, "a Berserker wearing clothes. Armour, even, an' their Chief a' tha'. Wha's this world comin' to?"
"Yeah, I dunno either," Dagur replied mildly, "but apparently you need it to ride a Skrill. Learned that the hard way, whuhoohoo."
"Armour don' protect agains' lightnin'," Spitelout replied with no small amount of disdain.
"Apparently, it does! When built right. I know, craaaazy, right?" He then giggled madly.
Spitelout sighed, he was getting nowhere with that. "Was on yer boat jus' now," he tried instead.
"She's a beauty, right? Designed by the finest shipmasters we could raid for." His tone switched to mockingly authoritative. "Don't go getting any ideas now!"
"No ideas," Spitelout said casually, "I sank it."
"Hahaha, you did WHAT!?"
There was the Berserker attitude Spitelout was expecting. The conversation so far had been just as eerie as the boat. "Tha's wha' I'm here for, actually. Where did ya crew get to?"
And then the conversation slid right through comfortable territory and off into insane. Dagur lunged forward, slamming his hands and face into the bars so savagely that they shook in place and rained down rock dust. "Don't you DARE pretend they never existed!" he screeched, spittle flying from his mouth. "That was thirty of my best men, they deserve to die to FAR better than your WORTHLESS TRIBE!"
Spitelout just glanced at where the bars met the ceiling, deeming them still solid, and otherwise didn't react. "Sorry boyo, we ain't killed nobody today. 'Less you count yer Skrill. Yer the only Berserker 'ere."
"Don't LIE TO ME!" he shrieked, shaking the bars and then pacing anxiously in the cell, arms moving in a variety of strange motions.
"Got no reason to lie," Spitelout said simply. "Ah'll respect a good warrior as much as any Viking."
The pacing stopped, and Dagur suddenly stared at him with an intensity beyond his years. "You killed my Skrill," he grit out. "I will kill your Night Furies."
"I doubt it," Spitelout said casually as he walked away, "yer killin' days are over. Maybe if yer lucky, yeh migh' ge' to kill some rats."
While normally he would have smirked at the furious roar behind him, it was with a grim stride that he emerged out into the light. This didn't make sense, and he didn't like things that didn't make sense.
Wanderer sighed as he watched the shadows creep across the damp stone from Stormfly's den, of which the primary occupant slumbered nearby. He was exhausted, but the pain in his wing was a little too strong to allow him to drift off; he really shouldn't have flown on it after it was struck by the Storm-Wing's lightning, not that he'd had much choice. Grrr, if only…
It seemed as if he was always waiting for things to get better. When he'd first flown these cold winds he'd hoped for somewhere safe, then that the trap would lure more of his own kind, then they'd hatched again and he needed his thinking, hoping that Dreamer woke up, then he waited for his body to grow, and now… "I happy we get fire next hot-season." There was a bit of growing to do after that, but it was essentially the last defence to develop.
Dreamer raised his head to stare at him in confusion. "Next hot-season?" He continued to stare when Wanderer grunted an affirmative. "…You say four hot-seasons."
"Yes, we get fire in fourth hot-season," Wanderer grumbled. "This our third hot-season."
"You say four hot-seasons after we already live one hot-season," Dreamer groaned, then batted at him.
"We get fire next hot-season," Wanderer replied flippantly, ignoring the half-hearted swatting; they were both too sore to even consider tussling.
"…Good," Dreamer grunted quietly.
They returned to silent rest, listening to the quiet breathing of each other and Storm-Fly, staring at Alpha-Tail as he lay across the mouth of the den. Too weary to do anything, but minds too restless to even doze.
"I still think I should killed that Long-Paw," Wanderer mumbled.
Dreamer growled quietly. "Long-Paws think we kill always. Even some in this nest. We not kill always." He then let out a dark purr. "But he want you kill him. Now he trapped, grounded. This much more bad for him. Let him rot."
Wanderer tilted his head where it lay with a curious murr. Was Dreamer insisting on this out of mercy or spite? Both, to be sure, but which did he feel more strongly about?
Personally, he didn't care about either. "He not will hunt us again?"
"No," Dreamer said with a reassuring nuzzle. "He not let free again."
That helped… but Wanderer didn't like knowing he was still out there, still a possible threat, however unlikely. He growled, relaxing his head back onto his paws. When they got their fire, he would again be the strongest hunter. Maybe then he wouldn't worry so much.
And so his thinking looped around and around, only finding true rest when the sky-fire neared the end of its long trek in the hot-season sky.
Despite his words, Dreamer was no longer sure of his decision. He'd now had two days to think on it, and regret and fear were worming their way under his scales. It would be so much easier and less stressful to have just let Wanderer kill Dagur.
He stretched, working his stiff muscles, but so much laying around was making him restless, and no amount of stretching was helping the dull aching through his body. A thought crossed his mind as he watched the light fade from the sky, but he pushed it away.
It was a persistent thought, however.
He sighed as the first of the brighter sky-sparks became visible, and rose to his paws, slowly working his body into moving. Wanderer was still fast asleep as Dreamer padded out of the den.
Kingstail quietly chirped enquiry at him, Dreamer responded with a low croon but didn't turn or stop. The big Nadder grumbled and rose to plod over. Instead of grabbing and carting him back to the den, however, he followed behind at a short distance as Dreamer walked out of the training ring and around towards the village.
How nice of him… But the distraction didn't last. The path was long, and while the walking felt good he wasn't even up for as much as a slow trot, so he couldn't stop his mind going back to that one question. Why did I spare him…
Hiccup eyed the tiny bird as it struggled to traverse the grass. "What's wrong with him Dad?"
Stoick knelt down next to him, then looked up and sighed. "Fell from its nest, and broke its wing." He sighed again. "Very sad. But these things happen, son. The only right thing to do is to end its suffering."
"No, Dad! Can't… Can't we help him? Can't we help him get better…?"
His father stared at him, and he hurriedly wiped the tears from his eyes. If only they weren't immediately replaced, knowing he was only in for another lecture on being weak…
"…Fetch me a twig."
Hiccup froze, then stared at his father. His expression was soft. "Okay," he said hurriedly, and stumbled to a nearby tree to snap one off.
"Now hold him, very carefully…"
Dreamer glanced back at his own wing as he walked, splinted and bound. It was only a very minor fracture, if even that, on the leading edge of his wing halfway between the wrist and the tip. It certainly felt fractured, given the deep and dull aching that came and went.
"What… What happened, Dad?"
Stoick sighed mightily and sat down at the table to look at the bird, laying on its side, unmoving. "It's dead, son. There's nothing more we can do."
Hiccup struggled to find words. "But… why?"
"It could have been anything. Maybe it was scared, or just sad it couldn't fly."
Tears were streaming down Hiccup's face. "But we saved it! We…"
The image of the lifeless bird on the table was burned into Dreamer's mind. The other details were fuzzy, but that he remembered vividly.
"We shouldn't have tried, should we?" he sobbed. "I should have been stronger…"
"Oh, son," Stoick whispered, pulling him into an awkward embrace. "Life isn't weakness. To try isn't weakness. To fight for life is the hardest path, and the heaviest burden…"
He hadn't really noticed it at the time, but his father's words had cracked and hitched at that point, heartbroken.
"But… sometimes… you fight for life, for the slightest chance… and it's the hardest thing you've ever done… but you're rewarded with the greatest gift of all…"
Dreamer staggered to a halt, unable to hold his head up or stop the quiet keening gripping his throat. Stoick had to be talking about him. Of the baby, born far too early, that everyone was sure would not make it. Everyone except the father.
Kingstail warbled worriedly as he approached and gently nuzzled Dreamer's side. Dreamer leaned into the gesture, gradually wresting himself back under control, then resumed walking.
Yes, letting Wanderer kill Dagur would have been the easy thing to do. That didn't make it the right thing to do. Would it also be safer to kill Gobber, or Astrid? Where did he draw the line? Who decided where that line was drawn? Did anyone even have that right?
How much worse than Dagur was Stoick, really? At the point Stoick sailed off to the Dragon Nest with Toothless in chains, what made him any more deserving of life than Dagur?
Life was the hard way of doing things. It would lead to responsibility, conflict, heartbreak, and much, much more… but sometimes, it would all be worth it. It was already worth it; both Nightstrikers owed their lives to a choice of life.
With that in mind, how could Dreamer ever choose death, when there was a choice to make? Sometimes there wasn't a choice, he could admit that, but in that case all there was to do was ensure that the one who died was the one who had decided on death in the first place.
Dreamer purred as he stepped off the bridge and into the village, not really paying attention to where he was going. That was a simple definition, a narrow line in the sand with little room for interpretation or bias.
Hrrr, but would Wanderer see the same reasoning? Dreamer's thoughts went back to when he'd freed the injured Nightstriker after finding him in the woods… He'd known who had shot him down, had every reason to take revenge… but he hadn't. Dreamer suspected he wouldn't be averse to the logic. They could talk about it later.
A youth suddenly surprised Dreamer from his thoughts by walking within a few paces, crouching down, and offering him a large fish. After briefly wondering what he was doing out after sunset when the nights were still so short, Dreamer carefully took it from him and secured it in his belly, then nuzzled the hand with a purr thrumming in his throat and continued on his way.
The path he'd taken was convoluted due to his inattention, reflecting on his choices and thinking about the future, but eventually he was staring at the door to the village's cells. Locked, of course.
Dreamer snorted; he'd probably made that lock. He stood on his hindlegs to inspect it, poking a hooked claw into the wide keyhole – and then grunted in surprise as the mechanisms moved easily, unlocking with a click. Probably one of Gobber's locks then.
Kingstail cawed warily as Dreamer pulled the door open, as even just his head was too wide for the door. Dreamer warbled reassuringly and nudged the Spine-Tail's snout before padding inside.
It was already quite dark outside, and even darker inside, but all that meant was that the dull and dreary interior was duller and drearier. He was nervous, but that was more borne of not knowing what to expect rather than any sort of concern.
Dagur had been put in the deepest cell, and was peering curiously around the bars in trying to see down the hall. There wasn't really any hiding from him; even without the pale cloth bandages over the splint on his wing, he could not totally silence the rough pads of his paws or the quiet clicking of his claws. Even still, it took several moments for Dagur to see him in the dark.
Dreamer didn't really have an expectation for how this would go… but Dagur calmly looking him over as if he was a piece of plain furniture was unnerving to say the least. He tilted his head with a quiet, discontented rumble in his throat. Dagur mimicked him.
He huffed. It didn't feel like Dagur was trying to get in his head… More that he was just curious. He'd been caged up in here for two days and the intervening night, Dreamer knew from experience that did strange things to a person. At least you're getting fed.
Dagur frowned briefly with a light grunt, then sat back cross-legged in the middle of the cell. "You didn't kill me," he stated flatly.
Evidently, Dreamer thought with a roll of his eyes.
"Oh, that was weird," Dagur muttered in a suddenly harried and somewhat frantic tone. "Weird, ha, I'm talking to a dragon, crazy, HAH, no I'm not crazy, maybe sometimes!" He teetered back and forth on his tailbone, giggling and staring somewhere above Dreamer's head.
It's not really crazy to be talking to dragons these days, but I think you're an exception, Dreamer thought as he watched the scene incredulously.
"But you didn't kill me," he said suddenly, leaning forward to rest his chin on a fist and staring intensely at Dreamer. "You're still not killing me. You wanted to, or the other one did, doesn't matter, you both didn't kill me, both aren't killing me. Dragons always kill people. Kill or run. Mostly run. Who wouldn't? HA, HAHA! Hmmm. You're not a dragon."
A growl rose in Dreamer's throat; yes, I am.
"Dragons kill people. Night Fury, Night Fury, you're different, nobody's ever seen a Night Fury, dangerous, ooooh so dangerous, but you didn't kill me."
This was progress, of a sort. Dreamer warbled encouragingly-
"It's going to be glorious when I kill you! Hehehee, I can't wait!"
Snort. Maybe there really was no saving him, no showing him how wrong he was. And the rest of the Berserkers… There was no telling how crazy they were, though if everyone was this insane the tribe simply wouldn't function. Would they go back to infighting, or elect a new Chief?
Part of him wanted to laugh at Dagur now that he was the one trapped and caged – it was half his reason for coming here in the first place – but he couldn't summon a shred of mirth. He could only sigh sadly as he looked over the madman in the cage, who now sat primly and stared at him with a childishly innocent smile.
"Buh bye, Night Fury!" he called out cheerfully as Dreamer turned back to the entrance and padded outside. He can't hurt anyone now, he thought as he closed the door. It didn't hurt to give him the chance.
But what if he did somehow escape, as unlikely as that would be? What if Stoick did decide to set him free, for better relations or whatever? What if…
Then I will kill him. Next year they would have their fire, those extraordinarily powerful explosive shots that had levelled catapults and the towers they were built on. It would be frighteningly easy to kill whoever they wanted.
But the circumstances were different now, if Dreamer's hunches were correct. There would be no handing Dagur back to Berserk as a peace offering. He likely wouldn't be executed – he was still a Chief, after all – but one way or another he would not go free.
He felt inside the lock with a claw, and easily slid the pins back into place. Strange, it was far too loose to be secure, but then again it wasn't as if these cells saw much use. He shrugged and glanced around, then eyed the shadow of a nearby building… It was a long walk back, he should rest here a bit. Kingstail wouldn't mind, surely.
Kingstail initially offered him a lift, but he didn't want to risk the splint and his wing in those teeth. He only needed a few minutes anyway.
A metallic scraping and rattling pricked at Dreamer's ears in his semi-aware sleep. It seemed to go on for a long time, overlaid with muted cursing, until finally a door swung open and the sound ceased.
Something wasn't right about that… It felt like claws resting on Dreamer's head, something that might be dangerous and that he needed to check before he could go back to sleep.
He sighed and nudged Kingstail's wing off himself, then groaned at finding himself in the village. He'd only intended on a brief rest, but Kingstail's side had been so relaxing…
And then suddenly, Dreamer was very much not relaxed – the door to the cells was ajar. Dagur!
Dreamer huffed anxiously in Kingstail's face, the Spine-Tail waking with a start, then crept over to the open door and peered inside. There was a cloaked person walking quietly down the corridor. He huffed warily over his shoulder at Kingstail, who seemed to understand he needed to be silent, before creeping down after the person; he could not totally silence his steps, but masking them alongside the comparatively loud footsteps was easy.
Similarly, while he couldn't hide his splinted wing from the cells, he could angle his body a little so that if this person turned, he would not be immediately seen. But they did not turn, they walked ahead quickly, quietly, and purposefully.
Instincts layered onto each other, the need for stealth suppressing a growl before it could rise in Dreamer's throat. Vikings didn't sneak around in the dark like this.
Vikings also wouldn't point a bow and arrow at a prisoner.
Dreamer leaped forward, the scuffing of his paws on the stone causing the intruder to violently flinch in surprise in the moment before he shoved them aside. A deafening scream echoed off the stone walls, but Dreamer fought through the sharp pain it inflicted and pounced the woman, standing on her chest and strangling the crippling noise.
Her hands rose and clumsily tried to fend him off, but a flash of his teeth and a snarl dissuaded them from trying anything other than pushing at the paw on her chest. She was still forcing out a shrill wheeze, so he didn't relent.
Kingstail barking through the door cut through the lingering ringing in his ears, and he barked back confidence to communicate he had the situation in paw.
A sharp pain in his side got his attention – when had she drawn a dagger!? Grrr, all the metal in this corridor was throwing him off the subtler scent of sharpened iron. But it had barely made it through his hide, if at all, and he quickly stood on the offending arm with his hindleg.
Actually, what was he going to do from here? It wasn't as if he could throw her in a cell, he had no way to lock it. He needed help. A bark of summons was echoed in a loud roar by Kingstail outside.
She struggled feebly against him as he held her down, bumping her knees into his side and pushing at the paw on her chest. He took a moment to inspect her, recognising a deep scent of the kitchens, and her contorted face was somewhat familiar.
Finally, a weary voice spoke outside. "Ah Kingstail, what'ya gone and got me into this time…" Dreamer smirked; it sounded like they'd been on more than a few adventures together already.
The woman struggled more frantically, daring to try pushing at Dreamer's chin with her free hand, but a twitch of his claws had her back to trying to pry them off. It was awkward, but he manoeuvred around to face Spitelout without releasing the pressure on her chest or allowing the arm holding the dagger to rise. For good measure, he worked the knife out of her grip and flicked it over to Spitelout's feet.
Spitelout frowned at the weapon, kicked it into the cell next to him, then continued forward to stand over them. "Neither o' you should be 'ere," he said casually as he folded his arms, though to a dragon's ears there was a subtle tension to his voice. "Stand down, 'Iccup." Dreamer complied, wary of more screaming, but she just coughed and wheezed heavily. "Now, care ter explain yerself?"
She continued coughing as she stood, then doubled over and stumbled forward – and suddenly shoved her way past Spitelout and sprinted towards the door. Dreamer was about to bolt after her, but paused to stare incredulously at Spitelout as a leg was put in front of him. The man just sighed in resignation and watched her disappear outside.
A surprised shriek and angry hiss had Dreamer release the breath he was holding. Kingstail had been trained well.
With a start, he realised Dagur was just sitting there watching them, his face totally blank. He was holding an arrow in his fingertips.
Dreamer growled warning, but Dagur just casually held out the arrow for Spitelout to take, which he did warily. "You want this too?" Dagur suddenly asked, reaching across the floor and holding out a knife. "I don't cook, but I don't think this goes in a soup." A quiet giggle, the slightest smile, but otherwise no emotion at all. It was eerie.
On the other paw, Spitelout's expression was downright murderous as he took the blade. "Come, 'Iccup," he ordered tersely as he turned to stride to the exit. Dreamer snorted disdainfully at the tone, spared Dagur a last wary glance, and padded after him.
There were actually quite a few people around as Dreamer emerged outside, Kingstail poised to skewer anyone trying to push through while standing with a paw on the would-be assassin.
"Nothin' ter see 'ere, clear off," Spitelout said to the crowd, not really sounding all that enthusiastic about it, but Kingstail made a far more convincing argument with teeth and growls that had everyone at least backing away. "Are yeh gonna talk, lassie, or we gonna do this the hard way?" She just continued trying to push at the long talons holding her down. "Alrigh' then, suit yeself." He grabbed her as Kingstail stepped off, and hauled her into the cells – Dreamer realised he was standing in the doorway and hastily moved out of the way – then reappeared a few moments later without her.
Dreamer left him swearing at the lock, starting the long walk back to Wanderer and Storm-Fly. He had a feeling that when he reached them, he would have no trouble sleeping long into the light.
"He found it while sorting out the forge, took until now to work it out," the teen drawled bitterly. "I kinda wanted to beat him half to death with it when he asked me, but given you haven't already I figured I'd just see what you wanted to do."
Dreamer scowled off to the side, then sighed and tilted his head promptingly at the iron ingot Tuffnut was holding. He scented it as it was held forward, definitely the one he and Wanderer had been happily licking and gumming over the winter, and it was true that it wasn't showing any sign of rust or weathering. If anything, it was gleaming in the mid-morning light.
With the prospect of an interesting thing instead of boring talk, Wanderer padded over to stick his nose into matters. He also scented the ingot, then casually grabbed it in his gums and walked off with it. "…I not think you get that back," Dreamer observed as Wanderer curled up with it at the back of Storm-Fly's den.
"What would I do with it?" Tuffnut asked plainly. "Other than throw it at someone I guess. But there's better things to throw at people."
Wwrr, Dreamer was hardly going to suggest giving it back to Gobber. It was a good thing to have access to, he noticed that his energy had improved dramatically when they'd had it over winter. Which was odd because he wasn't actually eating any of it… but his body apparently liked it, on occasion.
Try as he might, he couldn't distract himself with details. He'd refrained from thinking about his old mentor, of what he'd done, but he couldn't really ignore it either. What he had done with Astrid wouldn't work, Gobber didn't want their trust, he just wanted their saliva.
It was something they had an abundance of – now that he was thinking about it, his mouth was filling up by itself – so it wasn't as if it was anything valuable to the Nightstrikers…
"Don't worry Hiccy, just say the word… so to speak… or not speak, as you do… don't… Just say the word, and I'll pay him back tenfold. Astrid too. I have… ideas… for her."
"No," Dreamer snorted with a roll of his eyes. "Also, we good with female now, not worry." Grrr, they'd need to come up with some way to address people in Dragonese…
Tuffnut wrinkled his nose and looked at Dreamer sceptically. "Because she killed a dragon for you? Even if it was trying to kill you, you did as much for her, for everyone, with the Speed Stingers."
Oh yeah, Dreamer had forgotten about them. "Not that. She trust me again. She understand now." It wasn't so much what Astrid and Gobber had done – he would have been happy to help if given the choice, or at the very least they could have warned them of what they were sending them to. It was that they'd been trapped and handed over without thought, like livestock. That sort of attitude was the exact opposite of what he was trying to encourage.
"Well, whatever you did, can we do the same thing with Gobber?"
"No, he not want us trust him." But he did want something from them, and he wasn't getting it while he thought they were yaks to be milked. Dreamer groaned and curled around to scratch behind his ear while he thought. He was getting frustrated with his inability to communicate with anyone but the teens.
…There was an obvious solution to that, one that was ideal while he was temporarily grounded and still recovering from the Skrill attack. He glanced back at Wanderer, wondering how long it would take to teach a dragon to write.
The village's cells always held a grim, oppressive silence. No sound made it through the rock, and while sounds could be heard through the open door, it was as if they remained outside, like observing a calm meadow from across a barrier of sea. A quiet, regular scuffing from the furthest cell and a desolate tapping from the closest did little to change the mood.
Stoick paused to glance into Runa's cell on the way past. She kept her head down, tapping a spoon against the stone ground to a slow tempo. Found a day's sailing away on a boat so wrecked they couldn't be certain of its origins, she'd been hurried back to the village to treat several burns she'd suffered from dragon fire. Her family was gone, but she proved herself a young and brash soul and had begged to stay to make up for her treatment.
But there was something more going on here, clearly. Had she been the one to sneak a knife to Dagur? Why? And had she actually then tried to kill Dagur as Fishlegs claimed the Fury witnessed, or was she just bringing it to him?
The latter made much more sense… or it would, had Dagur not happily handed over both weapons. But then why sneak him one in the first place?
Stoick sighed disappointedly as he moved on. Whatever the case, she wasn't talking, so she wasn't innocent. It was simply a case of keeping her here until she decided talking was easier.
He reached Dagur's cell and found him doing push-ups, showing no signs of fatigue or even strain. The memory of his brutal strikes with sword and axe was suddenly fresh in Stoick's mind, his bizarre fighting style ruthlessly effective with the raw strength the somewhat wiry man could summon.
"Get up," he ordered as he unlocked the cell. "You're going home." He chuckled when Dagur paused to stare at him suspiciously. "Don't worry, you're not staying there."
"Oh, good, I mean I know you've gone soft but that would just be whuahahaaHA! Ooh, gonna do some blackmailing?" He scurried to his feet, holding his arms out for the manacles; even he had to realise there was no point in trying to escape, there was nowhere to go. "I've never been ransomed before… Am I presentable? How's my hair? OH, can you rough me up a bit? Wait, not now, maybe, a day before we get there?"
Stoick grit his teeth and roughly dragged Dagur out of the cells and into the mid-morning light by the short bar connecting his manacles. He continued to spout nonsense in a friendly, amiable tone as they walked through the village, showing no sign of aggression or scheming. Stoick kept his guard up in case it was a front, there was the knife to consider, and perhaps other people with Runa's motivations.
He sighed in relief as the torrent of insanity trailed off, but then hesitated in his stride as he noticed Fishlegs standing just off the path with two stony faced Night Furies by his side.
They were growing at an impressive rate, even if not by dragon standards, and were definitely now large and strong enough to instil wariness with their cold expressions. Stoick felt a familiar pang of guilt and regret at that, there should not be such weight behind the stare of anyone with so few years.
"Don't get any ideas," he growled under his breath as he yanked on the chain again, but Dagur remained silent.
He happened to glance back after passing them, in time to see them fall in line behind him and Dagur, who was craning around to watch them. "This'll be no place for young dragons," he shot at them, "you'll not be coming."
"Heh, yeah, I don't really think that's your call to make, Chief," Fishlegs said in amusement. A draconic snort voiced its agreement.
"My ship, my rules, no dragons, no buts." He yanked on Dagur's manacles again and quickened his pace through the village.
They were still following him when he reached the docks. "You'll not be coming," Stoick repeated himself loudly, enough to be overheard by the crew preparing the longboat, then roughly tossed Dagur aboard; credit to him, he landed on his feet. Stoick watched in stony satisfaction as his men appeared to accidentally block the Furies from just walking aboard in the moments it took to cast off. Subtle, Vikings were not, but they were well practised in passive aggression.
Maybe if the Furies had their fire, he would have let them come, or at least offered to let them join the second wave. He would have thought about it, at least, but as it was there was no point in even that. They watched him watch them as the boat departed.
It was a beautiful summer night, the wind blowing warm across the endless waves and the stars lighting the sky with their majesty, so bright and numerous that the only dark patch in the sky was behind the crescent moon. Not even a Night Fury could sneak around this night, as startlingly clear as it was.
The first night of sailing was always Stoick's favourite, when there was a bit of breeze to keep them going. He liked to man the till through it, because it made it easier to sleep the second night, because minimal effort was required to keep the steady pace so everyone else could rest, but mostly just because he could. There was nobody vying for his attention, no duties to attend, minimal inventory he needed to keep, and best of all, no record keeping. And he could trust Spitelout and Gobber to keep things running well enough while he was gone that he would not be inundated on his return.
Out here, there was absolutely nothing to worry about. There was just the water lapping against the hull and the wind jostling the sails.
A squeak distracted him, and in his peaceful state he didn't even think about what he would find when he turned. Just the Furies, lounging along the aft railing.
…
He did a tense double take. "Odin's beard, you two, you'll scare a man to death one day," he muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Should you even be flying?" One of them languidly raised his head to look lazily at him, then yawned with a cavernously toothy maw and another squeak before resting back on the rail, tail tapping idly against the deck. "I said, no. Go back to Berk, I'll not sail you into Hel myself, not after what you've been through."
One of them favoured him with a snort.
"I'll throw you overboard if I have to." Nothing. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He locked the till, then took two menacing steps to reach the nearest Fury. It didn't react, not even when he hefted it aloft and, after a moment's hesitation, heaved it high into the air behind the boat.
Only for the dragon to drop like a stone and disappear into the water with a splash.
Stoick grabbed the edge of the rail and leaned out over it, trying to see where he'd hit the water and watching for him to surface; with the still water and bright sky, it shouldn't be difficult, and they weren't moving all that fast.
One minute passed.
Two.
The other Fury was disinterestedly looking out over the water behind the boat. Should he be worried? Could dragons swim? Did he need to turn the boat around? Why hadn't the damn thing just flown!?
A dripping wet dragon was suddenly beside him, peering down into the water, causing him to stumble back into the rudder with a startled grunt. It looked down the back of the ship, then out across the water, and lastly at Stoick with curious and innocent eyes and a slight tilt of the head.
"Scare a man to death one day," Stoick muttered as he took up the rudder again.
Author's Notes
So, as much as I've prodded fun for tripping over the calendar (you know who you are) I must admit I didn't so much trip over it as faceplant into it, somehow thinking we were an extra year into the story.
Two small corrections have been made in recent chapters – the Nightstrikers are currently two and a half years old, for anyone who was paying attention to that. And then I revisited my overall planner and discovered I hadn't given myself enough time later on, so shifting everything forward a year works out perfectly. Talk about landing on your feet!
I'd also like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has been leaving their thoughts, or even just acknowledging they enjoyed the chapter! The hallmark of a good author is of course to write for yourself, but it's great to know others are enjoying it too.