Chapter 3
The Downed Monster
Haddock Residence
Batwings was doing his best to hide how apprehensive he was. Aside from the beads of sweat pooling on his brow and the conspicuous rustle every time his wings twitched, he thought he was doing a good job of remaining calm. Especially considering that he was currently awaiting an audience with Berk's own Chief, Stoick the Vast, with the possibility of having a permanent home in the village. The outcome of this interview was about as uncertain as they came.
He had never bothered to hide his identity from anyone else. Wings, fangs, and claws were too much of a hassle to keep hidden twenty-four hours a day. Besides, trying to pass himself off as human would only make him look that much more untrustworthy when it came time for the inevitable reveal. Sirens weren't exactly welcome in most human settlements, on account of them being devious sea monsters adapted specifically for tricking and eating Vikings.
Frankly, the more Batwings thought about it, the more he was certain that Stoick would simply point him back toward Siren Island and wish him good fortune. And that was the best scenario.
When he and the two girls he'd met at sea – Arachne and Snaketail, he reminded himself – arrived at Stoick's residence, they found it to be a dim, spacious room with a fireplace in the center that produced a warm, cozy light. Shields adorned the walls, a table and chair meant for the Chief stood upon the floor, and a set of stairs on the left side of the room led up to a second floor. For an instant, Batwings caught sight of green eyes and a mop of brown hair at the top of the stairs, which then vanished.
With a grunt, Stoick pulled his chair up beside the fireplace and sat down with a force comparable to a small earthquake. "Well then," he began, once comfortable, "why don't we start with the young lass over here? Tell me, what brings you to Berk?"
Arachne began to speak in a small, halting voice, looking as small as a mouse next to the imposing Chief. As she did, Batwings waited his turn and tried not to fidget too much. To quell his nerves, he focused on everything Arachne told Stoick. The Philston girl spoke in vague terms, alluding to some disaster that had befallen her home island and then being separated from her fleeing tribe. After she described how she'd picked up Snaketail and Batwings on her aimless path south, Stoick tried to press her for greater detail, but she clammed up and shook her head emphatically. On the surface, Arachne looked uncomfortable about spending this much time talking about a disaster that had clearly been traumatic, but her behavior implied that she was hiding something.
"I'm sorry to hear of your loss, Arachne," Stoick said, with unexpected gentleness. "If I may say so, that's quite an unusual name. Not a typical Viking name, anyway. Could you tell me what it means?"
"Spider," the ten-year-old replied. "My, um… village soothsayer gave it to me. I ended up being really quiet and stealthy for my age… when I want to be."
To Batwings' surprise, Stoick looked interested at that. "Really now? Perhaps when you're older, I can arrange for you to undergo monster training. It sounds like you could be a skilled warrior."
Arachne shuddered and said nothing more, which Batwings took note of. Maybe she doesn't like the idea of fighting monsters? he considered. Is it fear or something else at play?
The Siren also noticed Snaketail brighten with excitement at Stoick's proposal. Figured as much from her short temper. So she likes combat, huh?
Appearing satisfied with what Arachne had said, Stoick turned to regard Snaketail next. "And what about you, lass?"
"I'm Snaketail Grundenson, sir," she exclaimed in a rush, eyes twinkling. "I come from a small fishing village far from here, and I got lost at sea after our boat was attacked by sea monsters. My parents trained me a little bit with the Sword and Shield, and I'd love the opportunity to get better in combat! Nothing gets me going like a good fight!"
Reacting to her enthusiasm with a startled blink, Stoick soon shook it off and belted out a hearty laugh. "Well, there's no way I can turn down such an eager young warrior!" he guffawed. Calming down, he continued, "I'll see what I can do about training you to fight monsters. Given Berk's current… ah, situation, I simply can't say no to someone so ready to fight. In the meantime, if you want weapons training, see if you can track down the Hofferson lass – she's the best warrior your age that Berk has got."
With both girls out of the way, Stoick shifted his attention to Batwings, and his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. Batwings felt a new wave of uncertainty prickle across his body, as though Stoick's narrowed gaze was a series of needles jabbing at his nerves.
"That brings me to you," he stated, keeping his voice pointedly neutral. "What brings a Siren to my shores?"
How was he to convince the Chief to keep a man-eating dragon around?
Just start with your life with the Peaceables, he advised himself, and the rational thought calmed him somewhat.
"Um, my name is Batwings. Should be easy to remember," he half-joked, and gave his wings a flex. "I can assure you that I'm absolutely no danger to Berk or its people. I spent most of my time on Siren Island away from other Sirens, and sort of lived peacefully amongst the Peaceable tribe."
"What do you mean by that?" Stoick asked.
"Well, I never did anything brave or noble to win Chief Erick's trust," Batwings elaborated with an uncomfortable shrug. "I mostly just hung around long enough for the tribe to decide, 'oh, if he wanted to eat someone he would've done it a long time ago'. Of course, I had to earn my keep, so I worked in the farmer's fields by scaring other dragons away from the crops and livestock."
The Chief stroked his beard, thinking. "And you've never felt the urge to eat any of the villagers?" he asked, sounding skeptical.
Batwings scrunched up his nose in disgust. "Odin, no. You never know where they've been. I much prefer fish, thanks."
Stoick's otherwise judgmental gaze turned thoughtful. "Does that have anything to do with your preference for Vikings over your own kind?"
The bluntness of the question hit a sore spot in Batwings, and he shifted his feet restlessly. "I'm not much of a Siren if I don't do what the rest of them do, am I?" he muttered, the rhetorical question bitter on his tongue.
Rather than answer, Stoick changed the subject by asking a new question; "Why did you leave Siren Island? If what you say is true, then you sound as though you were perfectly comfortable with the Peaceables."
This question cut deeper than the last, and the Siren positively bristled with indignation. His face twitched, starting to twist into a snarl, but he kept his temper down. Showing his fangs was an action he didn't want to take in front of the Chief, no matter how involuntary. There would be a time and place for his anger, and this wasn't it.
"I was forced to flee with my life after the recent treaty-signing between the Peaceables and the Berserkers," he answered with as much dignity as he could muster. "Chief Oswald's deranged son attacked me out of what I assume was boredom, and I barely got out alive."
Stoick sat up straighter, recognition all over his bearded face at the mention of the Berserkers. Taking a step forward, Batwings pulled at his scarf with a clawed finger, revealing the angry red necklace of a scar that curved around his throat. At the sight of the injury, Stoick's expression darkened, although whether that was good or bad for Batwings, he couldn't tell.
"Alright," the Chief said at last, heaving himself out of his chair. He stood over his audience and addressed them with the stern authority befitting a Chief. "Arachne and Snaketail, I'll see about finding the two of you someone to take you in. In return, I expect you to help out around the village. I'll take it up with the rest of the council and let you know with whom you'll be staying and what your job assignments will be.
"As for you," Stoick went on, now talking to Batwings specifically. "I'm choosing to believe that you're telling the truth – the anger in your eyes at the Berserker tribe is genuine. However, if you're to stay here, then I must also consult with the council, and if they agree to let you stay, you will still need to be monitored closely. Not everyone on this island is as willing to accept a Siren into the village as I am, and even I have my doubts."
Batwings' relief was so strong that his knees almost buckled. Instead, he remained standing in place and bent at the waist in a respectful bow. "I completely understand, sir. Whatever precautions you feel you need to take, I won't complain. I know how hard it must be to take my word that I won't try to eat any of your people."
Giving a satisfied nod at that, Stoick pushed past him and Snaketail on his way toward the door. "Gobber should have the Meade Hall ready by now," he said over his shoulder. "Wait here until I return. I'll have more news for you after the meeting has concluded."
Before any of them could answer, Stoick had stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. His natural Viking strength caused it to slam with a huge BANG that made Arachne jump.
"You can relax now," Snaketail advised Batwings, nudging him. "You were twitching the whole walk over. It sounds like you got the Chief in your corner, so odds are good that you're staying, right?"
"Easy for you to say," he snorted. "You fit right in here, and you legitimately have nowhere else to go. I'm still expecting to be booted back to Siren Island – quick, easy, and no more worry about a dangerous sea dragon terrorizing the women and children."
Arachne spoke up then, a confused note in her voice. "Well, why don't you just head back to Siren Island then? You had a home there. No danger, no monster raids, no… um, natural disasters. And the Berserkers were just there for a peace treaty, you said."
She had a point, Batwings hated to admit. He stared blankly at the shields mounted on the far wall, frowning as he mulled it over. If he got lucky, and he did get a place on Berk, then there were certainly things he'd miss about Siren Island. The peace and quiet was nice. The people there were accustomed to his presence, even if they didn't fully trust him. There was this cute black-haired girl he sometimes fantasized about asking out. He didn't have a good answer for Arachne's question. Why would he risk settling on Berk, a strange island with untrusting locals and constant monster attacks, over Siren Island, which already provided a good, safe home for him?
Before his brain could come to any conclusion, a small teenager raced down the stairs like Hel herself was after him. Arachne and Snaketail shouted in fright, but Hiccup didn't pause for an instant, speeding past them and flinging the door open. It slammed shut of its own accord behind him. BANG. He was gone before the trio could even comprehend what had just occurred.
"What was all that about?" Batwings asked, an eyebrow raised.
Meade Hall
The Meade Hall was large enough to fit the entire population of Berk inside, although when they actually did – such as now – they had to cram in a bit. The eating tables that usually stood on its stone floors had been moved aside to accommodate the mass of Vikings that had been summoned inside. Enormous pillars stood like towering oaks within the massive chamber, carved intricately with decorative patterns, and along the walls hung colorful tapestries depicting Vikings emerging victorious from battle. A stranger to these halls would have noticed a trend amongst these decorations glorifying combat – the dead or dying victims were all some species of monster.
In the very center of the Meade Hall sat a huge slab of stone with a fireplace carved into its center. The edges of the stone were rimmed all around with wood, providing a table on which to hold council. Directly above the piles of coals that glowed dimly even in the generous light provided by the hall's torches, there hung a slab of solid gold molded into the shape of a draconic monster with a sword piercing its body through.
Stoick the Vast stood at the head of the table, looking grimly across the room at the many faces gathered with him – the faces of his people. Most of those faces displayed worry, even those of the higher-ranking Vikings that stood closest to him. It filled the Chief with a great regret, knowing that his people were suffering. It was up to him to lead them to a safe and happy future, a responsibility that he did his best to uphold. But looking out at the many fearful and uncertain expressions that stared back at him, Stoick was reminded that such a future was farther away than ever these days.
Berk had been home to the Hooligan tribe for over three hundred years. Under Stoick's rule, the tribe had, despite its name, enjoyed civil and thriving relationships with many foreign tribes. Conflicts between them and other Vikings were almost nonexistent, with the barbaric Outcasts being the only exception. The feared Berserker tribe hadn't gone to war against them in fifty years.
However, it only took a quick look at the Meade Hall's tapestries to be reminded that Berk had a problem far worse than ill inter-tribal relations.
Which brought Stoick back to the meeting that was currently underway.
"Either we finish them, or they'll finish us!" he decreed, slamming his fist down on the table for emphasis. "It's the only way we'll be rid of them!"
He was speaking, of course, of the monsters. The raids had been getting worse lately, and after tallying up the damage in terms of stolen food and property destruction, the council had agreed that this one had been particularly severe. They'd managed to capture a Teostra for the training arena, which was a remarkable feat, but Stoick couldn't help but think bitterly of how much of Berk's limited food supply would go into keeping it alive.
He resisted the urge to rub his temples and sigh. He was the Chief, for Odin's sake. Now was the time to act like it.
"We need to find the nest and destroy it," Stoick stated. He turned his eyes downward to the map of Berk that lay in front of him, to a foggy region labeled "Helheim's Gate". "If we do that, the monsters will leave. They'll find another home."
With a single smooth motion, Stoick grabbed a dagger and plunged it into the map, its blade piercing Helheim's Gate. "One more search," he decided, "before the ice sets in."
His notion was met with uncomfortable silence from his men, which wasn't a good sign. Someone in the back yelled, "But those ships never come back!"
"We're Vikings!" Stoick tried to motivate them. "It's an occupational hazard! Now, who's with me?!"
Over the years, Stoick had built up a reputation as a strong leader amongst the Berkians. Normally, any call to action from him would inspire them enough to answer with a rousing cheer, and they would follow his lead without question. But this was different. They'd simply suffered too many raids, lost too many ships, failed too many times in their ongoing search for the monsters' nest. Stoick knew that his tribe was beginning to lose hope.
He couldn't let that happen, or else they would be wiped out.
"Okay then," he said, upon receiving no answer except quiet mutterings. "Those who stay will look after Hiccup."
Every hand in the Meade Hall shot into the air and a roar of supportive shouts almost deafened the Chief. His only reaction was a satisfied, "That's more like it," uttered to no-one in particular.
Before the crowd could file out of the hall and begin preparations, Stoick raised his hands and gestured for quiet. There was still one more order of business that needed taking care of before they could begin preparations.
"Three newcomers landed on Berk's shore during the raid last night," he announced. "Two of them are young girls that have no home left to go back to. One of them has demonstrated an interest in serving our village as a warrior, while the other is too young as of yet. I've already decided that they should stay in the village, but I need a volunteer who is willing to shelter them."
The Vikings spent a few moments muttering amongst themselves, intrigued by this unexpected news. Soon, a pair of hands rose above the crowd – the Hoffersons, who already had a daughter but had plenty of room under their roof for two more girls. This worked out perfectly, as said daughter was one of the best young soldiers on Berk already, and so could act as a mentor for Arachne and Snaketail. Stoick nodded, silently giving the Hoffersons his blessing.
"The third," he forged on, "is a Siren."
Gasps and horrified whispers spread throughout the Meade Hall, followed by an angry shout that was taken up swiftly by several others at various spots within the crowd. Undeterred by the protests, Stoick remained stoic (no pun intended) and forged on with his voice raised specifically to drown out the objections.
"I have spoken with him already," he shouted, his firm tone carrying an unmistakable warning to anyone else that might speak out of turn. "For reasons of his own, the Siren has no desire to return to his home island. I have judged his words to be truth and his intentions to be pure. However, I also understand that taking him in would still be a great risk. I'd like to ask the members of the council to come forth with their thoughts so that we can put this to rest immediately."
The debate that followed was brief but heated. The council was split right down the middle as to what they thought should be done. Half wanted Batwings shipped off the island – Spitelout was the most vocal opposition, as usual, since he always insisted on being a thorn in Stoick's side. The other half, however, was willing to let the Siren stay, so long as precautions were put in place to prevent any… accidents. In the end, it came down to Stoick to make the final decision. Since he'd already made the leap of faith to trust Batwings' intentions, he announced that the Siren would be made a resident of Berk. More mutters echoed across the vast hall, an audible cornucopia of unease, confusion, and annoyance.
The meeting was then dismissed, and the villagers filed out of the hall's immense double doors. Some were simply off to continue their daily routine, others were to repair the damage to the village, and still others would be preparing the ships for the upcoming expedition to Helheim's Gate. At last, the only individual aside from Stoick was Gobber, casually sitting down on a bench at the back of the hall. A tankard of mead had been attached to his prosthetic arm, which he sipped heartily as Stoick approached him.
"Mountin' another expedition, eh?" Gobber chuckled, and the bench creaked as he began to stand up. "I'll go an' pack me undies."
"No, I have a different job for you, old friend," Stoick answered. He motioned for the blacksmith to settle back down. "Well, make that two."
"Oh, this should be interestin'," Gobber quipped.
Ignoring the playful sarcasm, Stoick instructed, "You'll need to make sure that the Siren is well-supervised and abiding by the rules I will ask him to follow. He'll need to be kept busy – maybe send him off with the fishermen. Perfect job for a sea dragon, and it'll limit his contact with women and children."
Gobber quirked an eyebrow. "With all due respect, Stoick, the dragon arrived by boat with two young girls. He had plenty o' opportunities ta eat 'em on the way here. Don'cha think yer overreactin' a bit?"
And this was why Gobber wasn't the Chief.
"I have to take every precaution I can, Gobber," Stoick huffed. "My duty as Chief is to my people, first and foremost. To allow a dragon as cunning and vicious as a Siren free reign of Berk is an unnecessary risk to them."
"Yeah, yeah, I hear ye," Gobber muttered, and took a draught from his tankard. "Ye said ye had two jobs fer me, didn'cha?"
"I was getting to that," Stoick replied. "The real reason I need you to stay behind because it's time you start training new recruits."
Snorting, Gobber responded, "Oh, perfect. An' while I'm busy, Hiccup can cover the stall. Molten steel, razor-sharp blades, lotsa time ta himself… what could possibly go wrong?"
Only now did Stoick allow his exhaustion to manifest in the form of a sigh. Hiccup.
He loved the lad, as much as any father loved his son. But it was so frustrating. He was Stoick the Vast, stalwart leader and powerful warrior. Hiccup was… just Hiccup, so un-Viking-like that sometimes it was hard to believe the boy was really his son. They had nothing in common, nothing they could bond over. And Hiccup was constantly making trouble, building strange machines and messing around during raids, needing to be pulled from the jaws of death time and time again. Today's incident with the torch… gods, Stoick hated to confess that that was merely average when compared to some of Hiccup's past stunts. And the boy never appeared to learn.
"What am I going to do with him, Gobber?" Stoick asked wearily.
"Put him in trainin' with the others," the blunt reply came.
"I'm serious," Stoick dismissed him.
"So am I."
"He'd be killed as soon as the first monster was let out of its cage."
"Oh, ye don't know that."
"Yes, I do know that."
"No ye don't!"
Deciding to abandon the argument, Stoick began to pace. "You know what he's like. From the time he could crawl, he's been… different. Doesn't listen, the attention span of a Jaggi… I took him fishing once, and he went hunting for trolls!"
"Trolls exist!" Gobber declared, pointing emphatically with his tankard. "They steal yer socks. But only the left ones… what's with that…?"
With another sigh, Stoick reminisced, "You know, when I was a boy…"
("Here we go…" Gobber mouthed in the background.)
"…my father told me to bang my head against a rock, and I did it," the Chief continued. "I thought he was mad, but I didn't question him. And do you know what happened?"
"Ye got a headache?" Gobber replied sarcastically.
"The rock split in two," Stoick answered his own question, too caught up in the story to notice Gobber's cheek. "It… it taught me what a Viking can do, Gobber. He can crush mountains, level forests, tame seas! Even as a boy, I knew what I was and what I had to become…"
He sat down, slumping in his seat, and he turned to Gobber with eyes filled with concern. "Hiccup is not that boy," he finished.
The blacksmith took a long time to reply. When he did, he turned in his seat and fixed Stoick with a serious, sympathetic, compassionate gaze. It reminded Stoick of who Gobber was, truly. He wasn't just a mangled, aging man with a lazy streak and bad sense of humor, but a genuine friend with startling insight that belied his simple, cheerful nature.
"Ye can't stop him, Stoick – only prepare him," Gobber advised. "I know it seems hopeless, but the truth is tha' ye won't always be around ta protect him. He's gonna get out there again… he's probably out there now!"
Stoick wanted to argue against this, but found that he couldn't. Instead, he considered that, maybe, it was high time he did something to start preparing his boy for the future.
Berk Woods
"He's gonna get out there again… he's probably out there now!"
Gobber had no way of knowing it, but his claim wasn't exactly inaccurate. As soon as Stoick had finished his talk with Arachne and the others, Hiccup had bolted for the door and left the village before anyone could have stopped him. From that moment onward, he'd been wandering through the forest around Raven Point – the region he'd seen the Gore Magala plummeting towards.
For the umpteenth time that morning, Hiccup held his breath and opened his eyes, expecting to see the helpless – and hopefully dead – form of his quarry sitting at the bottom of the slope. All that greeted him, however, were the same trees and shrubs that he'd been walking amongst for the past couple of hours. Disappointed, he walked away from the hypothetical crash site and marked an 'X' in his open notebook. The book's pages depicted a rudimentary scribbling of Raven Point's topography, Hiccup's own estimation of the Gore Magala's falling trajectory, and a plethora of other 'X' marks. Each one represented a previous failed attempt at locating the monster.
Hiccup breathed a frustrated sigh and drew a few more 'X'es in the few blank spots that remained, only to immediately scribble all over his map and snap it shut in frustration. With a huff, Hiccup tucked the book away in his jacket and decided that it was hopeless. Even within a relatively precise area such as Raven Point, Berk's woods were simply far too expansive for one person to locate a single target. And even if he did find the monster's crash site, who was to say it hadn't managed to free itself and escape? It might be long gone by now.
"Oh, the gods hate me," Hiccup mumbled as he strolled deeper into the forest, no longer with any goal in mind. "Some people lose their knife or their mug… no, not me! I manage to lose an entire monster?!"
His irritated outburst ended up flushing a bunch of Terrible Terrors from some nearby bushes. He flinched at the sudden appearance of the hidden dragons and didn't move until their chattering had faded amidst the trees. Once they were gone, he let out another sigh and kept walking, this time with the added reminder to refrain from making unnecessary noise.
Berk had been home to a population of dragons ever since Hiccup's distant ancestors had colonized it centuries ago. Dragons weren't anything to worry about as long as they weren't provoked, though – despite being huge fire-breathing reptiles, they were unaggressive and kept to themselves. Thanks to their placid demeanor, most Vikings didn't consider them to be the same as monsters. In some cases, they could even be tamed; Hiccup was pretty sure the Thorstons had a pet Zippleback.
Hiccup kept walking past the Terrors' hiding place, choosing a route that looked relatively clear of obstructive foliage. Brushing a low-hanging tree branch out of the way, he was surprised when it sprang back into place and bumped against his nose. The annoyance was enough to bring the Haddock boy's frustration back in full force, and he gave the limb a good smack. Of course, the tree made sure to punish his lack of common sense when the branch whipped him across the face. He cringed back, gasping at the stinging pain that lingered across his nose and cheeks.
When he looked up at the offending tree in anger, he noticed something that drained his temper immediately. The tree had been torn in two; the top two-thirds were intact and resting against the ground, while the bottom part was split into a jagged mess. Normally, this would look like the work of a lightning strike, except for three important details: the tree wasn't burnt, there hadn't been any storms lately, and there was a deep furrow in the earth that stretched from the foot of the tree to the top of the next slope. The track of plowed dirt clearly wasn't natural, and had been dug recently. Hiccup's breath hitched in excitement as his imagination supplied the image of a monster crashing down and skidding along the ground at high speed.
Maybe… just maybe…
Hiccup went sliding down the track of exposed soil and followed it up to the crest of the hill. It got steeper at the top, prompting him to get down on all fours to climb the rest of the way. His hand reached the top, and he pulled himself upwards…
…to find himself staring at a massive black shape in the middle of a clearing.
By reflex, Hiccup ducked back down behind the hill, squeezing his eyes shut. The mere glimpse of the monster was enough to turn his pulse from normal to that of a frightened Gronckle's wings, and his breaths into huge, gasping gulps of air as if he was already being chased.
But he wasn't. He opened his eyes and forced himself to remain calm. Straining his ears, he realized that he couldn't hear any reaction from the monster just beyond the slope. He used this reassuring bit of knowledge to steel his courage and peek back over the hill. When there wasn't any sudden movement, he pulled himself back up higher.
The Gore Magala wasn't moving at all. It lay there, perfectly still, either unconscious or dead.
Hiccup slid his jacket aside so that he could grab the knife strapped into his belt, the only weapon he ever carried with him. (It was also the only weapon he could carry, but he liked to ignore that technicality.) He gripped the knife and, white-knuckled, made sure he had his fear under control before vaulting over the hill and racing to hide behind the nearest boulder. Pressing his back to the rock, he slid around its circumference step-by-step with his tiny blade in hand.
Having gotten this far without being torn apart, Hiccup leaned forward and risked another peek at the Gore Magala. It still wasn't moving.
It's dead, Hiccup concluded, and the knowledge lifted so much proverbial weight off his shoulders at once that he almost fell to his knees.
On wobbly legs, weak from sheer relief, Hiccup allowed himself to approach the downed monster. It was the strangest beast he'd ever seen – jet-black all over, with scales along its underbelly but an insect-like shell along its back, head, and limbs. It had six of the latter, four legs and two powerfully muscled arms tipped with wicked claws. The wings flowed off its arms like a tattered cape, and they were even covered in fur to complete the image. The monster's whole body was still entangled within Hiccup's bolas, to the point where its left wing was left in a weird, stretched-out position above it.
"I did it," Hiccup murmured in awe, which quickly gave way to elation. "Y-Yes, this… this fixes everything! I have brought down this mighty beast…!" He lifted his foot and planted it firmly on its side…
…prompting a reaction from the very much alive Gore Magala.
"Shiraaaaaaaah!"
Hiccup's elation evaporated as quickly as it had arrived, and terror surged back through his system as he threw himself back against the boulder. The Gore Magala shifted its leg in a feeble kick, while its body now rose and fell with its breaths, strong and steady now that it was fully conscious. Hiccup stuck his knife in front of him, knowing that it wasn't nearly enough to defend himself from attack. He stood rooted in place, frozen, his fearful gaze fixed on the Gore Magala's head. It was a solid black lump of smooth carapace, its only visible features being its mouth and two ridges resembling brows. What chilled Hiccup's blood most was the fact it didn't have eyes under those brows – and yet, he got the distinct impression that it knew exactly where he was.
For a few moments, Hiccup watched the Gore Magala, and the Gore Magala "watched" him in turn. Somehow, he found himself getting drawn in by the way the monster regarded him, its head slightly tilted. Its posture gave the impression of curiosity and consideration, despite its own exhaustion. Surely, it knew that being found exposed and helpless meant its certain death? So why was it so relaxed in front of Hiccup?
"I'm gonna kill you, monster," he muttered. He steeled himself once again, adjusting his grip on his knife. "Then I'm gonna… cut out your heart, and take it to my father. I'm a Viking… I'm a Viking!"
He shouted at the Gore Magala, to which it didn't react. It simply continued "staring" at him, its lack of action unnerving Hiccup. Wouldn't any monster fight against its end, no matter how futile? No! Now was the time to prove himself – to Astrid, to his dad, to Berk. This was the decisive moment he'd always imagined, when he'd raise his weapon and strike the final blow!
His knife clutched tightly in both hands, he swung it up above his head, ready to end the monster's life.
"Shiraaaaah…"
A small, pitiful sound made Hiccup's arms, prepped to bring the blade down, lock in place. On instinct, his eyes opened and swiveled toward the Gore Magala's head. Its muzzle was still pointed toward him, and as he kept the knife held high, it raised its head further toward him, its featureless face somehow giving the impression of anticipation.
It was waiting for him to end its life. It wasn't going to fight. It had given up…
NO! Focus, Hiccup! Cringing away from its pitiful posture, he squeezed his eyes shut and once again raised his knife. He heard the Gore Magala's final moan, and, unbidden, an image came to mind of its head slumping to the ground, the last of its will evaporating as it awaited its final moments…
The Haddock boy tried. He really tried. Several times, he stood up straighter and held the knife higher, readying himself to plunge it into the Gore Magala's chest.
But each time, his body refused to move. He couldn't bring himself to do it.
At last, he slumped, defeated. His arms went slack, his hands loosening their grip, and his head dropped so that his eyes stared shamefully at the dirt underfoot. His false bravado was no more, shame taking its place.
He was no Viking.
"I did this…" he murmured. He turned back to the Gore Magala, still lying within the ropes that held it prisoner. The sight of its black form slumped on the ground, entangled, made his heart feel heavy with guilt. It wasn't "the offspring of plague and pestilence itself" that his people so feared anymore – it was a helpless animal waiting for death to claim it.
A treacherous thought entered his head, and he looked away, knowing that it wouldn't go away until he acted on it. He may not have had the courage to kill the monster, but perhaps he had enough courage to do something else.
His body moved on its own: lunging at the Gore Magala, dropping to his knees, picking up the ropes, sawing through them furiously. He was so focused on his work that he barely registered the way its body suddenly tensed. Three more ropes… now two… one…
The Gore Magala pounced. Hiccup was seized by its front legs and slammed him against the ground. Gasping for breath, terror blazing through his veins, he dared to stare wide-eyed into the muzzle bending towards him. It was a horrifying black visage, eyeless and expressionless, whose thoughts he couldn't fathom. Its claws tightened on his shoulders, sending pain shooting through his arms and neck. He felt the impact of its powerful wingarms strike the ground on either side of him – there was no escape for him. He'd gone from predator to prey in an instant.
After what felt like an eternity, the Gore Magala raised its head. Its mouth opened, revealing teeth that swirled with deadly black mist. Hiccup could do nothing but brace himself for pain and darkness. It lunged, and…!
"CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
An ear-shattering scream that rendered him half-deaf. A sudden lack of pressure on his body. A gust of wind and swirling black smoke in place of a monster that used to be there only a second before. The Gore Magala was gone, fleeing through a gap in the trees nearby. Hiccup, paralyzed, watched it vanish into the early morning mist.
Somehow, Hiccup found the strength to get back on his feet. His legs wobbled and his fingers barely had the strength to hold the knife, feeling exhausted and clumsy after his fight-or-flight response began to fade. He pocketed his blade with trembling fingers and turned around, his eyes staring at nothing at all. The only thing he could see was the Gore Magala's open maw in his face as it screamed bloody murder at him.
Then the adrenalin's effects faded entirely, and Hiccup pitched forward. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Did you really think that Stoick would let a man-eating shapeshifter just waltz around Berk like he owned the place? I used to, but not anymore. Batwings has some serious trust he needs to build up, first.
Some of you might've noticed some vague hints to Arachne's and Batwings' pasts. In "Monsters of Berk", I revealed Snaketail Grundenson's origins at one point, which had an impact on the finale – however, I have yet to do the same for the other two OCs. If you want answers, though, you're going to have to wait. I've no plans to reveal the entirety of their pasts for a long time.
Finally, Sightless! His first appearance in the timeline! It's difficult to portray the same emotions as the original scene when the focal creature doesn't have any eyes, but I hope I did it justice!
Review and send feedback, please! I'm always eager to hear your thoughts!