A/N:

Planning on updating chapters every 1-2 weeks; 2 in general, 1 if I get finished early and like what I have. Wasn't planning on this chapter being so long, but there it is. In case of confusion; this story takes place 11 years after the 10 Years Later scene at the end of "How to Train Your Dragon: The Hidden World". For reference, Hiccup, Astrid and the other Riders are all in their early 40's (Heather and Fishlegs married and have 6 kids), Zephyr and Nuffink are 18 and 15 respectively. I've rated the story M for graphic violence (yet to come) and adult themes.

Brief Glossary:

eldhusfifl - "good-for-nothing"; a Viking insult

karve - the Norse word for a longship

Chapter Two: As the Terrible Terror Flies…

The Kingdom of Brittany

Zephyr Haddock glanced at the small compass on her wrist, finished the calculation and wrote the distance down in her notebook.

Nine days and Ten hours (roughly), stopping once back in Barcelona. Then to the furthest reaches of the Byzantine Empire, sailing the rivers into Arab Caliphate land.

She smiled to herself at the thought of going to the farthest reaches of Byzantium and beyond. So much about it was different—completely different from the life she had known—from the hot, arid climate to the way people dressed to the architecture of their buildings. It was hard to believe that the last time they'd been there was five months ago. They'd only stayed in Constantinople for two weeks and even though they'd seen plenty, her urge to move on had taken precedent; and so they'd left—touring the rest of the Mediterranean, the Byzantine Empire, Frankish territory and even a brief stay in Slavic Rus.

Then there was that terrifying stay in that unknown land south of the Mediterranean…that huge unknown land, with its humid weather and people dark like the night. The ones they had met were friendly enough, but it had quickly become clear that they could be just as terrifying as Norsemen, and just as savage.

It wasn't easy to scare off Norsemen. In a way, though, it was an honor to be frightened off, knowing there was at least one other worthy adversary.

Fellow Norse, Danes, and Swedes they met on their travels had said to sail directly West, where there was told to be more land, undiscovered. While that definitely piqued her interest, Zephyr was fine with causing a ruckus here in Frankish territory.

She turned her attention to the market stalls around her.

Brightly colored paint, signs and fabric drew her eye in every direction. A cloth vendor called out to the women roaming the streets, flaunting deep greens, rich reds and jarring yellows. Food vendors hawked their wares, vibrant fruits and vegetables, the tantalizing scent of cooked meat and fish accompanied the crackling of fires. A Potter's shed displayed jars, pots, plates, containers of all kinds, glazed in striking colors and patterns as well as plain, men and women alike stopping by, picking them up to examine them, admiring their beauty, then returning them to their places if they could not afford them.

The familiar metallic clang of blacksmith hammers caught her ear. She noticed the forge, the grunts of the master smith and his apprentices punching the air. Finished shields, swords, and daggers hung from the awning and displayed across a large table, glinted in the sunlight.

She smiled, memories of her dad in New Berk's forge filled her mind, his face knit together in focus as he tapped on a piece of jewelry in the making, sweat beading his brow as he beat an ingot with the other smiths. Dad would love this.

Markets were the best places. They showed a people and a culture in one place, and just how different the known world was. It fascinated her. If she had the time to sail it all she would.

A twinge of guilt stabbed at her. New Berk was home, and it always would be…but the wanderlust she felt was just as strong today as it was the day she'd departed—nine months ago, now. Would her parents feel bad if she decided not to return after the year was up? She had roughly a little more than two months left to decide, so there was still time.

"Zephyr!"

She turned to see Erik Eretson waving to her from just outside the tavern where she and her group of friends had decided to stay: Thora Ingerman—her best friend and Uncle Fishleg's second daughter, Haldor and Erik Eretson, Eret Son of Eret's oldest boys, Ingrid Thorston, Uncle Tuffnut's eldest, and Rangvald Thorston-Throckson, Aunt Ruffnut's oldest son.

Gods, that man is fine. She thought as she walked towards Erik. She shook her head seconds later, embarrassed. Come on, Zephyr, now's not the time to be ogling your friend. But was he still that?

Zephyr inwardly cringed at herself. All of a sudden last month when they'd been caught in a skirmish she'd noticed just how well he fought, how powerful his body was. He really was built like a Norse god—but that hadn't been attractive before. And now every time she looked at him, something different caught her attention. This time it was his eyes, those deep hazel eyes. They could pull off terrifying in an instant, but Zephyr noticed that they were, more often than not, thoughtful, contemplative.

She shook her head and exhaled as she approached him.

"What's going on?"

Erik jerked his thumb behind him. "Ingrid's about to bring Ragnarok to a bunch of muttonheads for saying our party must be weak because of all our women aboard, and they refuse to fight her."

Zephyr gave a look. "We're in Brittany; there's fellow Norse everywhere. Don't they know any better than to insult our honor?"

"These guys aren't Norse or Franks; they're Romans. They tried to make passes at Ingrid, and of course she wasn't having it, but when she challenged them, they just laughed."

Zephyr raised her eyebrows in disbelief, then scoffed as she pushed past Erik. "Make passes at my friend, will you?" she said under her breath.

The tavern door creaked as Zephyr pushed it open, listening to it bang against the wall. All eyes turned on her, some lit up in surprise as they recognized her. She smirked, then saw Ingrid, dagger drawn, poised to strike, a group of swarthy looking men smiling at her "cute" ferocity. Thora stood to her right, hand upon her own dagger, ready to draw at a moment's notice.

Zephyr stood tall, chin held high and walked towards the group of men. One with thick, close cropped black hair and brown eyes looked her up and down as she approached; the leader, she assumed. He placed his hands behind his head and smiled, flexing his arm and chest muscles.

She snorted. Cocky Bastard.

She drew her dagger and twirled it in her fingers, looking the man in the eye.

"So, you like making passes at my friends, do you?"

She glanced to her right as a young Briton man spoke her words in Greek. The man smirked and made his reply, the language lilting and rolling off his tongue.

The young Briton swallowed before voicing in Norse. " 'I like women; I see a pretty one and I make a move."

Zephyr turned to Ingrid. "Is this the eldhusfifl who tried to make a pass at you?", pointing at him with her dagger.

Ingrid nodded. "He slapped my ass and said he'd like to see what's under my clothes since my hair and face were apparently beyond comparison."

Zephyr raised her eyebrows. "And he won't fight you?"

Ingrid shook her head. "He said he wouldn't lower himself to marring such a beautiful specimen as myself, that beauties like me were best served in bed."

The Roman spoke again, his voice dripping with lust.

"I'll fight you if you want," the Briton man translated, indicating Zephyr, "I've heard rumors that fire-haired Norse women are fierce in all their dealings."

Zephyr's cheeks burned with fury. She whipped back towards the man and got in his face, pressing the tip of her dagger into his crotch.

He tensed and eyed her, his gaze faltering.

"You insulted my friend's honor. You fight her. If you manage to survive that, then you can fight me for insulting mine." She waited for the Briton to translate her message. When he had finished she pressed the dagger closer. A small, almost inaudible whimper escaped his lips. Zephyr smirked.

"Or," she continued, "I could just relieve you of your manhood," she traced her dagger to prove her point, her voice changing from threatening to sultry. "I've done it before; it wouldn't take me very long. What's it gonna be?"

Zephyr listened as the Briton translated. The Roman swallowed, his eyes shifting back and forth from Zephyr to Ingrid as he made his decision. He nodded towards Ingrid and spoke, the Briton translating.

"I'll fight her."

Zephyr released her dagger and sheathed it, the blade sliding into the leather scabbard with a soft snik. She stepped away and nodded at Ingrid, smiling.

"You got yourself a duel."

A vengeful grin spread across Ingrid's face. She may have been petite, but she packed a battle punch more than worthy of the berserker title.

Zephyr and her friends followed Ingrid out of the tavern and into the square, followed by the Roman and his posse.

Ingrid stopped in the middle of the square and pulled the pins from her bun, shaking down her corn silk colored braids, two along each side of her head, and one over the top, fierce. She removed her skirt, leaving her leggings, took off her leather armor and removed her tunic, then replaced her armor.

"Going full-out Berserker, Ing?" Thora asked, her mouth curved into a smile and her eyes glinting with vengeance.

"I've had it with mutton-headed jerks like that underestimating me," Ingrid spat, "He wants Norse fury?" She unsheathed her two short swords. "I'll show him fury." She turned to face the man, short sword in each hand and stood ready.

The Roman leader unsheathed his own short sword, a long, rectangular metal shield in the other. He balked at the change in Ingrid's appearance.

Ingrid used the opportunity and charged, yelling a war cry so fierce Zephyr's spine tingled. Ingrid struck in quick succession, the swarthy Roman barely blocking her strikes with his shield.

Ingrid continued to yell and strike. The man blocked and struck as well, always just shy of drawing blood.

Zephyr swallowed a surge of resentment as she watched Ingrid fight. Why couldn't she fight that way? No matter how hard she tried, how fierce and terrifying she made herself to be whenever they faced enemies, she fell short. She had the foreplay to a fight down pat: steel her eyes, whip out her daggers, twirl them, show off her skill, smirk, and come to within an inch of actually striking or following through on one. That tended to be enough; the opponent backed off, then. But when the situation called for further action, Ingrid and Thora stepped in, taking the lead, defining the terror that was Viking Women.

Sure, Zephyr could sling a blade as well as them, could be just as deadly, but she always stepped back at the moment her friends pushed forward. I don't have the talent for this. Thora and Ingrid were made to fight, made for battle. They had no problem killing their opponent if that's what the situation came to, and if it were the opposite, neither of them would hesitate to impale themselves on their opponent's sword, ensuring themselves a place in Valhalla.

Hot shame crawled up Zephyr's cheeks. She hadn't made a battle kill. Sure, she'd wounded, and probably maimed for life more than a few muttonheads, but actual killing? Thora and Ingrid did that—well, Rangvald and Haldor did too, but boys took to killing things easier—except for Erik.

Come to think of it, she'd never seen Erik openly kill anything either (except for fish and livestock, but they could all do that). Like her, he seemed to prefer wounding and/or maiming just enough to get the point across. "No need to be excessive", she remembered him saying.

Zephyr shifted her gaze towards him, noticing how one tendril of his shaggy dark brown hair curled perfectly under his ear. Her eyes roamed over it, starting with the short half ponytail at the top, tied with a piece of twine, thick, and curling naturally into a point, the rest in waves to the nape of his neck. Gods, I'd like to run my fingers through that…

Like all Vikings, Erik took care of his hair; combing it every day, washing it every Wash Day. Watching him tie it back into that short half pony had become the highlight of her mornings. Of course, she liked it when he wore it down too, then she got to see how full and wavy it really was.

An angry shout and the clash of sword striking shield snapped Zephyr back to reality.

Ingrid lunged and cut the Roman man's shield hand, causing him to drop it. She lunged again, but he blocked her strike. Ingrid swung her other arm around and bashed his head with the pommel of her sword. He stumbled and fell to his hands and knees. Ingrid dropped her short swords, kicked him onto his back, planted herself on top of him, drew both of her daggers and pressed them to his throat. She spit in his face.

"Only good for bed sport, huh?" She withdrew her daggers and sliced him on the inside of his thighs. She smiled at his cries of pain as she got off.

"Yeah, Ingrid!" Thora shouted.

Ingrid watched as his posse pulled him from the ground, their eyes filled with sheer terror. She gave an evil grin and licked the blood from her blade. The posse and the people who had gathered to watch the fight shuddered in horror.

Ingrid smeared the blood across her teeth and grinned again, her eyes glinting. She raised her arms in triumph, blood streaked daggers in each hand.

"Who's just a pretty face now, hot shot?" she said as she leaned her head towards her opponent. she twirled the knife in her left hand and pointed it at him. "Cross me again, and I'll send you straight to Hel," she waited for the Briton man to translate before grinning one last time. She pointed to her smile. "With this smile on my face."

The Roman and his companions turned tail and ran, helping their limping leader to a healer. The crowd that had gathered dispersed, giving Zephyr and her crew a wide berth.

Rangvald slapped his cousin on the back. "Nice touch, licking the blade, Ing. You've made the Thorston clan proud."

Ingrid smiled as Rangvald handed her a wineskin of water, took a swig, swished, and spit the drying blood onto the ground before cleaning off her daggers with the rest.

"Don't you think that was a little much, Ingrid?" Zephyr asked.

Ingrid shrugged her shoulders as she sheathed her daggers. "Thorston blood, Zeph," she picked up her short swords from the ground and sheathed them as well. "When it boils, the crazy comes out."

Zephyr chuckled and high-fived her friend. "Well done, regardless. No one will make passes at you anymore."

"Not unless they want to risk Ingrid's blood-stained smile," Rangvald finished.

Zephyr's attention turned to the sudden familiar sound of sharp panicked voices.

What in Odin's name…?

A crowd had gathered at the docks, many hands pointing towards their karve. A few men nocked arrows to their bows, fingers ready to draw.

Zephyr looked towards her ship to see a sight she had not seen in years: a dragon.

She blinked to make sure her eyes were not playing tricks on her. A Terrible Terror? In broad daylight? Here? The small green dragon hissed and screeched at the crowd as it hovered above the longship.

Zephyr bolted through the crowd and onto her ship, steadying herself as the ship rocked from her movement. Her first instinct was to calm the dragon and get it out of here before someone shot it. The second was that something was wrong. No one in the Archipelago has used Terror Mail since the dragons had left for the Hidden World, long before she'd been born. The fact that her parents had managed to get one in the first place, and then have it find her, forcing it to risk its life…a chill ran down her spine.

She carefully stood just under the mast, put her hand to her lips, and whistled. The Terrible Terror squawked at the sound, turning in her direction, then dove down until it landed on the deck railing. The dragon growled, its pupils thin slits as it faced the crowd and spat a short burst of fire.

Zephyr's heart jumped into her throat as she watched multiple men in the crowd draw swords. A few archers drew back.

"Don't loose!" she cried, holding her arms out. The soft ring of swords being drawn caught her attention, this time from her friends, who had pushed their way to the front of the crowd, guarding her and the dragon, making plain a fight would ensue should any man try to engage.

Zephyr turned back to the small green dragon, its scales glinting in the late afternoon sun. A leather tube case was attached to its right hind leg.

"Hey," she said, softly. "Hey there."

The dragon faced her, and snarled.

Zephyr slowly held out her palm. The dragon backed away and bared its teeth, releasing a hissy shriek.

She continued holding out her palm until her arm was almost straight, stopping a couple feet from the dragon's nose. "It's okay," she murmured, "I won't hurt you."

She cast her eyes to the ship deck floor, and waited.

The dragon huffed and grunted in confusion, looking back and forth from the crowd to Zephyr, then, sensing it would not be harmed, the Terrible Terror placed its nose in her palm.

Zephyr breathed a sigh of relief, chuckled at the gasps of amazement from the crowd. "Thanks for trusting me," she whispered to the dragon as she opened the case and pulled out the letter. The dragon curled itself up and basked in the sunshine. Unfolding it, she read the familiar runes in her mother's handwriting:

September 9, 710

Zephyr,

I wish I wrote with better news. Yesterday eve, a small fleet of Pictish ships sailed into New Berk Harbor and catapulted fireballs into the village. The entirety of New Berk, with the exception of Great Hall, our war ships, and the Armory, has been razed to the ground. Even worse is the news that the winter stores—all of it—was lost to the flames. We have not yet counted the dead. Your father has written to all of the other tribes in the Archipelago asking for aid in the form of food, temporary shelters, tools, and labor, but that will take time, weeks at the very least.

It pains me to write this, but I must unfortunately request that you cut your journey short and return to New Berk as swiftly as possible. We are in need of all the help we can find. I know your heart longs to continue seafaring, my daughter; I would not ask this of you if our need was not dire.

Please send word as soon as you can.

With all my love,

Your Mother

Zephyr's mind reeled. New Berk is…gone? She scanned the letter again, noting the date. Today's the 12th…New Berk was…razed to the ground…only three days ago? She read the letter again, slapped it onto the deck railing, whipped out her notebook and pencil, dated the paper, and scribbled a swift response.

September 12, 710

Message received via Terror Mail (how, by the way?). Am currently in Brittany, a three days sail away. Will tell news to crew, gather supplies and be home as soon as we can—Njord willing—with good weather and fair winds.

I love you.

Zephyr

She quickly rolled her letter and stuck in into the leather case. After fastening the cap, she stuck her mother's letter into her belt so it wouldn't fly away, then picked the Terrible Terror up, and thrust it into the sky.

The little guy squawked again at the sudden movements, but swiftly caught the air currents and soared high into the sky until it disappeared into the clouds.

A light breeze ruffled Zephyr's hair. Memories swept her mind of the feeling of air rushing around her as she flew on the backs of dragons—a Night Fury and a Deadly Nadder—her dad's face happier than she'd ever seen it, her mom's smile bright and wide, Nuff's excited laugh. A brief ache pierced her heart. Oh, to fly once more…

"Zeph?"

She snapped back to reality as Erik called her name. The crowd had dispersed, only her friends remaining. Each of them stared at her, concern creasing their faces.

"What's going on?" Ingrid said, "What happened?"

Zephyr pulled the letter from her belt, stepped off the ship and onto the dock. She held it out to her friends.

"We've been attacked," she said, her words incredulous to her ears.

"What?!" Thora exclaimed, snatching the letter from her hand. Ingrid leaned over and read the letter as Thora did, gasping at the news.

"Let me see," Haldor said as he took the letter from Thora. Rangvald and Erik read alongside.

Erik's eyes widened at the news. He looked at Zephyr. "Is it true?"

Zephyr stared at him, stung. She snatched the letter from Haldor and stuffed it into her hip pouch. "My mother would never lie about something like that, Erik!"

"So, what do we do?" Thora asked.

Zephyr exhaled and half shrugged her shoulders, her eyes pricking with tears as the reality settled in. The journey was over. There would be no more adventures. The dreams of revisiting Arab land faded away into mists she could not enter. She clenched her teeth. I don't want to go home. Not now. I'm not ready…

But they had to; they were needed. To not go back would bring dishonor. Dishonor to her people, dishonor to her village, dishonor to her parents, to her father…she couldn't do that…not to him. Zephyr squared her shoulders and looked her friends in the eye.

"We have no choice. We sail for New Berk—or what's left of it—as soon as supplies can be gathered. We're going home."

Ingrid shifted, the look on her face catching up to the reality. "But…the year isn't up yet…"

"We're going," Zephyr said. She pulled out the letter again. "We're needed, all of us." She turned to Erik. "New Berk is a three day's journey from here; how long will it take to gather supplies?"

"If we start now we can get most of it before the market closes. We can pack the karve full by midmorning at the latest."

"Will we have enough room to bring extra supplies?"

"We can bring an extra two day's worth, but any more than that would slow us down."

Zephyr nodded, and started walking towards the market. "Let's get going then. We leave at noon tomorrow, weather permitting."

Later That Evening…

Zephyr spread the map onto the table. She pulled out a spare pencil from her leather hip pouch and marked the map of the known world: an 'x' at the tip of Brittany, and another deep into the Byzantine Empire, then trailed her finger from one x to the other, around Spain, and back into the Mediterranean Sea, to the furthest point of Byzantium, running through all of the landmarks in her head. She still had to use the sunstone to navigate from time to time, but her memory had become sharper the longer she'd been at sea; this pleased her. She knew the longer she sailed the seas, the sharper her memory would be; she would reach the point where a map was not needed, able to recall everything by her senses.

She pulled out her mother's letter, smoothing it as she laid it next to the map. Grabbing her mug of ale, she took a swig, rereading the letter for the tenth time.

…Pictish ships sailed into New Berk harbor and catapulted fireballs into the village…

Zephyr looked at the map of the known world again, looking this time towards the top. Her eyes rested on the dotted group of islands in the Northern Sea—the Archipelago—then trailed down to the two island land masses to the south east, across from each other, Irland, England, and Bretland, with Skotland at the top. She drew a circle around Skotland—Pictish territory.

At the beginning of summer, a letter had managed to reach her from New Berk, her mother mentioning that some Picts had moved into the area and that the fishing waters had been crowded, but nothing serious. Now they had burned her home to the ground? That didn't make any sense.

Nothing about that previous letter made sense, now that she thought about it. Why would the Picts move to the Archipelago in the first place? The only time she'd seen them was during a very brief raid in their own territory at the beginning of their year-long journey. She had not seen Picts since then; and from what she had seen, it didn't look like they moved around much. Why would they move out of their own territory?

Shouts and voices melded together in the tavern, combined with the scent of beer, sweat, and body odor.

Zephyr cringed as two burly Franks stumbled past her table. Gods, does no one here bathe? It shouldn't have been a surprise considering that that had been the case more often than not wherever they traveled, but still. It was gross. I don't know how people can stand each other smelling like that, but I'm going to need a bath tonight after being around all this.

Luckily there was a bath house attached to the tavern at the back, indicating that Norse and other Vikings had come through enough to need one. Ingrid and Thora had decided to take occupancy of it first before bed.

Zephyr returned her attention to her mother's present letter.

…the entirety of New Berk, with the exception of Great Hall, our war ships, and the armory, has been razed to the ground…

She puzzled her brow, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that the home she grew up in, the village she grew up in—the colorful houses and buildings, the docks—was nothing but a pile of ashes, Great Hall the only building left. She couldn't do it. It just didn't seem real.

She was jolted from her thoughts as Erik sat down across from her, mug of ale and a plate of bread and cheese in hand.

He noticed her pensive look. "You okay, there, Ice Eyes?"

Zephyr chuckled at the shortened nickname. In its entirety, her nickname was The Ice-Eyed She Dragon, coined by some Mediterranean dwelling merchants after Zephyr and her friends had raided their ship, and the name had stuck, following her all over the known world. Erik had shortened it to Ice Eyes, telling her that when she was all business, her eyes glinted ice-cold, especially when decisions had to be made. A part of her didn't like the name because it made her sound cold-hearted, but Erik never used it that way. He used it in jest, and as a term of endearment, saying it gave credit to her ferocity. If indeed I have any.

She shook her head. "Wasn't planning on returning early," she replied.

"None of us were," he replied as he popped a piece of bread into his mouth. He noticed the map spread before her. He nodded towards Byzantium and the Arab Caliphate beyond it. "It's a shame we won't get to explore that," he continued.

Zephyr swallowed back tears. "Yeah," she said, her voice tight.

Erik put down his mug as he finished sipping. "You don't want to go home."

Zephyr gave a ragged exhale and wiped a tear that had managed to escape from her face. "I want to keep going, not turn around and sail home." Gods, why did she have to cry now? She looked at him. "You know me, I'd rather do this," she pointed to the map, "Explore, sail to unknown places, see different lands, different people… I'm not finished yet, but—"

"But what if there isn't a home to come back to." Erik finished.

Zephyr nodded, taking a swig from her mug. "The fact that the Picts had the audacity to attack my village," she glanced at him again, "at our village, in the middle of harvest?" She picked up the letter and snapped it. "If I'd gotten this three days earlier I would've sailed home already and set fire to their village."

Erik smirked as he remembered the Terrible Terror. "It's too bad we can't rustle up some dragons and do that."

Zephyr folded the letter and put it away. "Believe me, if we still had them, I would have scared the hoo-hah out of all of whoever attacked New Berk. I would've taken Dart and followed the ships back to wherever they came from and blasted them." She noticed the cheese on his plate and pointed to it. "Mind if I have some?"

Erik pushed the plate towards her. "Not at all."

Zephyr took a piece of both bread and cheese and noshed on them, the combination of the creaminess of the cheese and the heartiness of the bread reminding her of home.

"Silver armlet for your thoughts?" Erik said after awhile.

Zephyr sighed. "I don't want to go home, but knowing I have to…I'm just not looking forward to it. I know that's a terrible thing to say, but it's true."

Erik knit his brows together. "Don't you miss your family, though?"

"Of course I miss them," she replied, "But now there's worry and other unpleasant situations on top of it." She sighed. "My mom didn't say much, but from her tone it sounded like everyone in my family's okay…"

"But that's not what's worrying you?"

Zephyr picked up the pencil and twirled it between her fingers. "There's just…pressure at home, you know? I'm Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III and Astrid Hofferson's daughter. Daughter of the Dragon Riders, Firstborn of the Strongest Vikings of Them All. It's a lot to live up to. Out here, I don't have that legacy. Out here, I made my own name. Out here I'm known for who I am, not the people I come from."

"Hey, at least your legacy is positive," Erik half-chuckled. "My dad was a Dragon Trapper before your parents taught him otherwise, and prior to that…well, it's a dark family history of dragon trapping and killing."

Zephyr eyed him. "You forget, my grandfather used to be that way too."

"Used to, though," Erik said as he pointed at her, "That's the difference. Your grandfather came around."

"Only because thinking differently runs in my family on my grandmother's side."

"And that thinking changed the Archipelago. That's no small feat, Zeph, nor is it anything to be ashamed of."

Zephyr creased her brows. "I'm not ashamed."

"Then what is it?"

Zephyr sighed and looked at him. "How am I supposed to live up to that? My dad is everything—great, brave, selfless—he and my mom together are unstoppable, and my brother is a Viking chief in the making, so…where does that leave me? What am I supposed to add when everything is covered in some way by someone else?"

Erik tapped the top of her hand with his finger as he spoke. "You're brave and selfless too, Zeph. Choosing to go home when you clearly don't want to because your family needs you? If that's not selfless, I don't know what is."

Zephyr scrunched her face. She didn't know whether to melt at his words or cry.

Erik tapped the map. "We can always come back, Zeph. It's not like we're giving it up completely."

Zephyr shook her head. "But we are. For the near future at least. It will take months to rebuild New Berk. We'll only be able to get so far before winter sets in, and then we'll have to wait until spring to finish."

"Well, maybe it won't be so bad, going home," frustration tinged his voice.

Zephyr knit her brows together. "Why? Are you homesick?"

Erik's cheeks turned the lightest shade of pink. He lowered his voice. "Don't tell Haldor and Rangvald that, but yes; and so is Thora."

Zephyr inhaled, stung that Thora hadn't told her. "Why didn't either of you say anything?"

Erik shifted his eyes and rolled his shoulders. "You're the captain. This is your journey. We knew from the moment we set sail that you wouldn't want to stop unless you absolutely had to—"

"You assumed I wouldn't listen to you?" she cut in, her voice pitching up in disbelief.

Erik sank his head. "No, that's not what I'm saying—"

Zephyr leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "I'm just inconsiderate of my friends?"

"You get caught up in the travel!" Erik said, exasperated. "It's not a bad thing, it happens to be one of my favorite things about you. We just, have to remind you to come back to earth every once in awhile. We were going to tell you."

"When?"

"Tonight, actually. And then the Terrible Terror showed up and did the job for us."

Zephyr turned her head at the sound of her name being called. Ingrid stood at the top of the stairs leading up to the rooms, giving her a thumbs up.

"Bath house is free," she said as she rose from the table. "Thanks for letting me know how you really feel."

"Zeph—"

She didn't look at him as she left the table, heading upstairs to grab her towel.

Later…

Zephyr knocked on the door to the bedroom she, Thora, and Ingrid shared. She sighed as she held her towel tight around her. The bath had done her good, sweating out everything that had happened during the day.

"That you, Zeph?" came Thora's voice.

"Yeah," she replied, "and it's not getting any warmer out here."

Light scuffling sounded and then the door pulled open.

Zephyr stepped inside, taking the nightgown Thora handed her. Once the door shut, she donned the nightgown in one movement, pulling her waist length wet auburn hair from beneath it. Both Thora and Ingrid were dressed the same, Thora's hair loose, lush brown locks falling to her hips, Ingrid's hair still braided.

Thora held up her comb. "Braiding party?"

Zephyr smiled and nodded. She grabbed her own comb from the dresser and joined her friends on the bed.

Ingrid began un-plaiting her hair. "Gods, I need a good comb through," she said, "I might sleep with it down—"

"We're braiding it!" Zephyr and Thora said together.

Ingrid looked at her friends, stung. "I'm not that bad!"

"It turns into a literal rat's nest when you sleep with it down," Thora said as she helped Ingrid loose the braids, "You don't want to have to cut it again, do you?"

Zephyr bit back a chuckle. Ingrid was a restless sleeper and whenever she slept with it down, it ended up a tangled mess in the morning, which became impossible to undo. Zephyr had numerous memories of seeing Ingrid with long hair one day, and short hair the next. After the umpteenth time of that happening, Ingrid slept with braids in, and since then her hair had become quite long, and Ingrid vain about it.

Ingrid ran her fingers through a loosed strand, "No," she replied, chastened. Thora turned her back to Ingrid, who combed the ends of Thora's hair. "But what if I want to wear it down at my wedding?" she continued.

"It's down to your butt, Ingrid," Thora continued, "We're going to have to braid some of it just to keep it out of your way."

"Plus," Zephyr added as she sat behind Ingrid and started brushing her light blonde locks, "I don't think you want to be whipping people in the face during the dancing."

"Getting hit in the face with a braid hurts more," Ingrid countered. She tilted her head to the side, speaking over Thora's shoulder, "By the way, what hairstyle are you planning to do for your wedding? You are, after all, the only one of us spoken for."

Thora smiled as Ingrid ran the comb through her mahogany colored hair, her cheeks turning pink at the thought of her fiancé, Ivar Bengtsson.

"I plan on curling it," she said.

Zephyr an Ingrid "oohed" in response.

"I'm going to roll it up with rags the night before, and then pile half of them on top and let the rest hang down."

"That will look gorgeous," Zephyr said from the back, continuing to brush Ingrid's hair, "Ivar already drools when he sees you; he won't be able to take his eyes off you!"

"What do you want me to do?" Ingrid asked, running her fingers through Thora's hair.

"The new one, the one we learned in Bordeaux—the French braid, I think they called it, just one, though. I like they way it holds."

"Speaking of, which one do you want, Ingrid?" Zephyr asked.

"The same," Ingrid replied, "The French one, but two please."

"What hairstyle are you thinking of doing for your wedding, Zeph?" Thora asked.

"I liked the way Ingrid had her hair today: the big braid on top and the small ones on the side, only I would leave the ends loose." Zephyr finished parting Ingrid's hair down the middle, and began threading the strands of hair together. "Or," she continued, "I might do one braid on each side, still leaving the ends loose." Guilt stung as she remembered the conversation with Erik. "Have you heard from Ivar?"

Thora sighed. "Not since we left Slavic Rus. It's hard to reach each other considering how often we're at sea, but he knew that before we set sail. Spring planting was happening then, and everything looked good; naturally he misses me and can't wait until we get back…and I've missed him too…"

Silence permeated the group.

Ingrid finished braiding Thora's hair and tied it off. She wrapped her arms around Thora and hugged her from behind, the unbraided half of her hair falling forward. Thora smiled and hugged her back.

Zephyr gently tugged on Ingrid's finished braid. Ingrid sat back on her knees while Zephyr started braiding the other side.

Thora turned around and scrambled over the bed, sitting behind Zephyr as she took her comb in hand, running it through the gnarled auburn ends.

"Speaking of boys," Ingrid voiced breaking the silence, "how old is your brother, Zeph?"

Zephyr glared at the back of Ingrid's head. "He's fifteen. Why?"

"If he hasn't found a girl yet, does that mean he's up for grabs?"

Zephyr yanked Ingrid's braid.

"Ow!"

"My brother is not a pawn in Maces and Talons, Ingrid. I've seen how you flirt. My brother's not smart enough to evade your tactics."

"You'll have to get in line anyway," Thora voiced, "My sister Anika's had dibs on him for a while now."

Ingrid whipped her head around to face Thora. "Anika likes Nuffink?"

Thora gave Ingrid a look. "She's had a crush on him since she was seven."

"And Nuff still doesn't know that," Zephyr added as she finished braiding, "He's a bit dense when it comes to girls. Even if you obviously flirted with him, I'm not entirely sure it would register until after you gave up. He may be the Chief's son, but he still acts like every other teenaged boy in New Berk."

All three jumped in surprise as a loud knock sounded on the door.

"Who is it?" Zephyr called.

"It's Erik," came the voice from outside, "Is Ingrid in there?"

Zephyr's leapt from the bed and pulled her hair over her shoulder. "You can come in!"

The bedroom door opened and Erik stepped inside.

"You need to come downstairs," he said to Ingrid, "Rangvald's had three more too many and is on the verge of brawling with an equally drunk Anglo-Saxon."

Ingrid rolled her eyes and groaned in frustration as she got off the bed. "I swear I'm going to tell Aunt Ruff and Uncle Throck about every single time he made an idiot of himself on this trip!" She followed Erik out the door and down the hall, Erik shrugging at Zephyr and Thora before disappearing. "IF YOU WEREN'T MY COUSIN, RANGVALD THROCKSON I WOULD HOG-TIE YOU AND SET YOU ON FIRE—!"

Zephyr sighed as she shut the door. As she turned around, she caught Thora smirking at her from the bed.

"What?"

"You have a crush on Erik."

Zephyr felt her cheeks grow hot. She crossed her arms. "I do not."

Thora raised her eyebrows and gave her a knowing look. "I saw you checking him out during Ingrid's fight. The man does have sexy hair."

Zephyr gave an exasperated sigh and dropped her arms to her sides, certain her cheeks burned a deep red. "Is it that obvious?"

Thora nodded.

Zephyr walked back to the bed, falling backwards onto it.

"So, when did this happen?" Thora asked, her tone anticipatory.

"About a month ago, back in Barcelona. I passed by his door one morning as he was washing up, and the way he combed his hair and tied it back in that half-pony was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. I've wanted to run my fingers through it ever since." She turned to Thora. "Do you think he knows?"

"Do you want my honest opinion?"

Zephyr thought for a minute, then sat up, facing her friend. "Yes."

Thora quirked a half smile. "He's caught you looking at him a couple times when you thought he didn't notice—"

Zephyr groaned and smashed her face into her hands. "Oh, gods, I knew it! Now everything's going to be awkward—"

"But," Thora continued, "I've seen him looking at you too."

Zephyr head shot up as she looked at her friend, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Really?"

Thora nodded, smiling. "I've caught him watching you steer the karve pretending to look at the horizon on multiple occasions during the voyage here," She motioned for Zephyr to turn around. "I haven't done your hair yet. What braids to you want?"

Zephyr sighed as she turned around. "Just double French braid the top until you get to my neck and then tie ponytails underneath; I guess now it's just a matter of which of us is going to voice our attraction first."

"Hey, at least it's mutual; I feel bad for Anika sometimes, waiting for Nuff to notice her. She always looks so crushed when he doesn't. Half the time I want to tell him myself so he can make a decision and put her out of her misery."

Zephyr shrugged. "He's so busy helping my dad out he hasn't thought of much else," she smiled, "he likes looking important and making sure everyone sees that. He wants to be the best. He'll make a good chief one day."

Thora frowned as she wove Zephyr's hair into braids. "You're not upset that your dad didn't ask you?"

Zephyr thought back to the letter from her parents a few months back, her dad explaining that Nuffink had shown an interest in running the village and that he had agreed, hoping that she didn't feel slighted because he was the younger sibling. Thora had asked her about it when it had arrived, but they hadn't had much time to discuss it with all the raiding they'd been doing.

She shrugged. "Not really. When I got the letter I felt relieved more than anything."

"But you're the oldest. Shouldn't the role go to you?"

Zephyr shrugged again, indifferent. "Chieftain is passed down from father to son, not father to daughter. As the letter said, Nuff has a knack for leadership."

"And you don't?" Thora said, tying off the ponytails.

Zephyr sighed as she scuffled around and faced her friend. "Not in the way the village needs."

"Doesn't mean you couldn't do it."

"New Berk needs a leader who's…everything I'm not."

Thora cocked an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"A full-blooded warrior for one," Zephyr said, gesturing to her.

"You're just as good in combat as the rest of us, Zeph."

"But I don't have the talent for it. Yeah, I'm good, but I'm not like you or Ingrid…or Nuff. I don't get high off the thrill of the fight. I back away when it gets too intense," she felt her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, "I haven't made a battle kill; and to be honest, I'm afraid of doing so."

Thora exhaled before speaking. "It's not all it's cracked up to be. It's just something you have to do in that situation because there's only two choices—you or your opponent. Self defense kicks in faster than you think."

"Again, I hesitate; and that's not the Viking way."

"Didn't stop your dad from becoming the strongest Chief New Berk's ever had."

"Yeah, but he wasn't ready; he told me so many times. It's the main reason why he's letting Nuff help him out: he wants him to be prepared. Also, Nuff doesn't hesitate, he just goes for it."

"Yeah, but you think things through. A chief needs to be able to do that, too." Thora smiled. "You're like your dad that way. And because you have that same tendency, we've come out of a lot more dangerous situations alive than I thought we would. Don't count yourself out just because your strengths are different. Look at your dad: he made being completely different work in his favor."

"With the added help of a dragon."

"Still, we haven't had war in the Archipelago since my mom was pregnant with my older sister Sigrid. And if not for you, we wouldn't have had this chance to sail around the world. All those times at sea when we've fought off pirates, you were fiercest out of everyone."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. You act like you own the waters—Njord forgive me—and you do. You have no fear when you're at sea, and whenever the gods decide to stir them up, you take it as a challenge. You command when you sail."

Zephyr started to smile, then remembered Erik's words. She winced. "Even though it blindsides me to the needs of my friends?"

Thora creased her brows in confusion and was about to ask when realization struck her. "You talked to Erik."

Zephyr nodded, swallowed back tears. "Why didn't you tell me you were homesick? You don't keep things from me."

"Would you have turned around and sailed home if I had?" Thora countered.

Guilt shot through Zephyr. "No…" she sighed before looking into her friend's deep green eyes. "Erik said I get caught up in the wanderlust and that you guys have to reign me in. It…made me feel like a bad friend. Have I been?"

"I wouldn't call being enraptured by travel a bad thing, it's just…there were a few moments over the past couple weeks where one or a couple of us mentioned home and/or going back and you flat out ignored it."

Zephyr exhaled, then met her friend's gaze. "I'm sorry."

Thora smiled and clapped her hand on Zephyr's shoulder. "All's forgiven."

Zephyr smiled and ran her fingers through her right ponytail. "Thanks." She sighed. "Now I just have to apologize to Erik."

"What for?"

"I was upset that you hadn't told me about your homesickness and so I left in a huff…and I might have been a bit sarcastic in my remarks about him telling me how he really felt about everything—homesickness-wise."

"Well, as my mom says: "Mornings are new for a reason.""

Both girls turned their heads as the bedroom door opened, Ingrid striding inside, shutting the door loudly behind her, snapping her left hand, knuckles bloody, wincing in pain.

"Why am I not surprised you have literal blood on your hand?" Zephyr said from the bed.

Ingrid flashed them a look as she grabbed the pitcher and poured water into the washbasin on the nightstand by the bed.

"Somebody decide to make a pass at you again?" Thora asked.

Ingrid hissed in pain as she submerged her hands. "It wasn't at me this time," she replied. She grabbed the bar of soap, dunked it into the water, lathered, and washed her hands. "Rangvald managed to hurl one last insult before collapsing into a drunken stupor—Erik has amazing reflexes, by the way—" She looked at Zephyr. "Have you told him you like him yet?"

Zephyr's face turned beet red.

"Finish the story, Ingrid," Thora said.

"Right," Ingrid continued, "So Rangvald is drunk off his ass and has somehow managed to get into an insult hurling contest with this big Anglo-Saxon guy. I come down the stairs—the entire crowd parts for me like I'm a chieftess—not gonna lie, it was pretty fulfilling—and Rangvald hurls this terribly aimed punch at the guy—misses—and practically falls into his lap. Erik catches him and pulls him out of the chair and starts taking him towards the stairs when the Anglo Saxon aims a badly timed punch back at Rangvald. Out of reflex and defense for my inebriated cousin, I punched him square in the nose. I guess I still had some fury left from the fight because I broke the man's nose, and now my hand hurts like it's been crushed by Mjolnir."

Thora motioned for Ingrid to join them on the bed. "Here, I'll wrap it for you."

Ingrid obliged, bringing a few spare rags from the basket on the floor next to the nightstand.

Silence filled the room as Thora wrapped Ingrid's hand. "Wiggle your fingers for me," she said when she had finished.

Ingrid winced, but wiggled them.

"Well, the good news is, you didn't break it."

Ingrid gave her a sarcastic look. "Thank you, healer Thora, for that obvious insight."

Thora chuckled. "You didn't break it, but it'll bruise and be sore for awhile. I've got some salve we can put on it tomorrow. It'll help it heal faster."

"Are you sure you don't want to take over as healer for Uncle Fish?" Zephyr said. She indicated Ingrid's hand. "You have a knack for it."

Thora rolled her eyes. "While watching my dad work was appealing for all of two minutes, I don't have the heart for it or the memory. What little I can do is from listening to him talk about that stuff all day. It sticks in your head after awhile. I'd much rather run my enemies through and rip out their throats."

Ingrid pointed to Thora. "That's an Aunt Heather phrase if I ever heard one."

Thora chuckled and shrugged. "Berserker blood. What can I say? Besides, my little brothers are much more suited to taking over for my dad."

"Anika doesn't have an interest in that?" Zephyr said, surprised. "I thought she'd be the one to take over."

"Anika definitely has the heart for people," Thora said of her youngest sister, "but she can only handle their pain for so long. She's great at the minor things—cuts, scrapes, bruises—and she can handle some bigger pains like broken bones, but anything more excruciating than that, and she can't be anywhere near the healing house. She's a gentle soul. Forcing her to look deep pain in the face all the time…I think it would drive her insane."

Ingrid nudged Thora's knee. "You never know. She could be hiding a real ferocity underneath all that gentility."

Silence permeated the group as they ruminated on home and family.

"The letter said there's nothing of New Berk left?" Ingrid said.

Zephyr nodded. "The only building left standing is Great Hall."

"I can't wrap my head around that," Ingrid replied, "It just doesn't seem possible."

Thora turned to Zephyr. "Did your mom say anything about the death toll?"

Zephyr shook her head. "They hadn't counted the dead yet." She thought back to earlier in the evening, the last minute scramble into the market. "Did we manage to get everything? I forgot to ask."

Thora nodded. "We got everything; plus an extra two day's worth."

"We can leave at first light, then," Zephyr finished. She looked out their bedroom window, the sun just setting, gold and vermillion streaking through ink and purple against the silhouettes of the town. Red sky at night, sailor's delight, she thought, We'll have fair winds tomorrow. She turned back to her friends. "We should turn in. We've got a long three days ahead of us."

Thora and Ingrid nodded. "See you in the morning, Zeph," they said.

Zephyr smiled. "See you in the morning." She glanced once more out the window, watching the last streak of sunlight fade from the sky.

She prayed to Njord, the god of the seas and winds, patron god of sailors as she fingered the tarnished silver necklace bearing his image around her neck. Give us fair winds and calm seas on our journey; hasten it so we may reach home swiftly.

She prayed to Thor, god of protection. Protect us on our journey home. Protect my family, protect my people, protect my home.

She prayed to Frigga, goddess of family. Keep my family safe, my father, my mother, my brother. Keep us strong in this hard time.

She prayed last to Heimdall. Shield us. Guard us from all enemies…within and without.