Chapter Five.

Snotlout wore the brand of his captors beneath his shirt silently and in shame.

Seared into his skin was Master Carlisle's insignia and seal: a dagger that pierced a hand. He kept his head low and eyes averted - for a long time following that night, the guards that watched over the slaves would wink in suggestion at the Viking, or make a cryptic comment that only he could understand. At this he would flush and immediately be on the verge of sickness, feeling as if ropes constricted his chest. He dreamt often of that night, thrashing upon waking and with a wet face. He no longer rebelled.

He worked in the shipyard quietly as the seasons moved from one to another: the searing hot summer gave way to a crisp autumn, where he could see the trees in the distance change their color, and winter rolled in with a cold sea wind. Carlisle was seemingly having a hard time finding a buyer, for Snotlout still remained at the fortress as the year passed. He no longer spoke to the other slaves, and he watched as more and more collapsed in the yard to their death. Ships were always in and out to replace the fallen. And despite the deterioration of his morale, he remained physically hardy as any resilient Viking, and to his own surprise, seemed to flourish under the hard labour of a slave.

It happened slowly and steadily over the passing seasons. Though he was never able to see a reflection of himself, the men about him became shorter and narrower, and soon he was a head taller than the average man that he worked with. Compared to the burliest Vikings of Berk he surely would still be of smaller standing, but here was a different story. He should have been ecstatic, and his father would have probably sighed in relief if he saw - Spitelout was always ashamed of his son's stature. He remember words his father would say, "The weed that's deprived of sun grows the strongest!" This usually was said as the two would train gruelling hours together, and was his father's way of hoping that with excessive and hard work, maybe Snotlout would finally hit his growth spurt. There may have been some wisdom in those words, after all.

But here, he didn't seem to care about it. He was beginning to care less about anything at all. The guards wore apprehension on their faces at this size change initially, but any worry died down. No longer rebellious, he had become docile over time, never wanting to relive that night in the guard's quarters again.

If anything, they grew to view him as a dumb mute. He heard a guard explaining to a new recruit one day, "Aye, that one, he's big but shouldn't give no trouble. Dumb and slow as a cow, does exactly as told."

Even Master Carlisle was beginning to lose his interest, though Snotlout would occasionally overhear guards talking about potential buyers for him - they always seemed to fall through, not offering enough.

There was one day when Carlisle was in the yard inspecting his newest arrivals when he did a double-take in Snotlout's direction, who now towered above him. "Good God, Flemming," he said incredulously, "I said keep him well fed, not to fatten him! Cut his rations in half."

So they began starving him.

It was one morning, the second spring of his arrival, when the slaves were lined up to work in the shipyard it occurred to him just how much things have changed. As the men delegated the work for the thralls, he was pointed at. "You there, Viking. Split the wood."

And a woodcutter's axe was placed in his hands. He felt the firm handle, and the weight of the iron head. So they finally thought it safe to give him a tool… he was no longer a threat to these people. Snotlout felt his chest constrict, and he looked at his discolored wrists as he held the axe. The overlapping scars sliced across his back seemed to burn. What has happened to him? How did he allow himself to be broken so easily? He had grown to think that escape was futile, and was well aware that no one from Berk was looking for him. And he had just accepted it. He feared that Carlisle would order his men to have their way with him so greatly that he had become mentally enslaved as well. How could he possibly call himself a Viking now… he would never be accepted back home as he was now.

There was a time when he could have slipped away.

The men were given their small amount of water in the middle of their shift when there was a shout. "Dragon! Dragons above the woods!"

Mass panic instantly set in. Everyone, slave and sentry alike, took cover. Snotlout saw the opening: a few archers cowered and raised their shaking bows to the sky, and all else sought shelter… rather than the villagers of Berk who would fight back with relish during the dragon raids, these people were absolutely terrified. He could make a run for it. But then he heard a loud squawk and turned his head to the source. He had almost forgotten what it was like, the sight of dragons. There, coming in from over the woods, was a flock of Deadly Nadders. Instantly he thought to Astrid and Stormfly.

Their scales were an array of bright and colorful patterns, and as they passed overhead, their intelligent eyes examined the people below. Despite his exhaustion and the painful hunger of starvation, he felt his spirits rise at the sight. Arrows thrummed close to the dragon's outstretched wings from those brave enough to take a stand, yet they were indifferent to the threat and continued on their way, calling and chirping amongst themselves. Snotlout was rooted to the spot, unable to move as he watched the majestic animals glide out over the sea. And his spirits crashed in an immeasurable sadness. He missed Hookfang more than anything else. It was his fault the dragon had been killed. There was so much excitement from the Nadder sighting, no one noticed the tears threatening to spill from his eyes and his window of escape closed.

Snotlout, amongst many other slaves, was sold for a period of time to be taken to the mines. The journey to the mountains took several days, with the slaves sleeping uncomfortably in their horse-drawn cart. The men watching over them dozed peacefully in tents and warm by fire as they took alternating watches. The land had changed from the flat and even shoreline to rolling hills with thick, golden forests of autumn, and they arrived after three days of travel. It was similar to his first trip… at the base of a mountain was a passage, and there were several tents laid about it. He eyed an especially large one, where a familiar insignia waved on a banner. The same image was seared onto his skin, just above his left hip. It had to have been Master Carlisle's tent.

This was confirmed when he was working in the mine. He was entrusted a pickaxe to work with, and thought back to when he had resisted long ago. But memories of lashings and men tearing at his clothes came to mind, making his entire body shudder, and he chipped away at iron ore obediently. Torches illuminated the tunnels, and because the air was so stagnant and thin deeper within the mountain, Snotlout was glad to be working within the mouth of the cave. It was then he looked over and saw Carlisle talking animatedly with his men. He experienced the usual foul taste when he caught sight of this person, but then his blue eyes flicked to the rest of the company. Was that… a Viking?

He made eye contact with her. The woman standing behind Carlisle was much taller and fair-skinned compared to the others. Like many women of the Archipelago, she was a bit plump with a full figure, and her deep black hair was plaited in a familiar style. If he had to guess, she was about the same age as his mother. He was openly staring, and she noticed. He watched as she spoke to Carlisle, who seemed very annoyed by her interruption, and then they both looked his way. After exchanging words, she began to walk over.

"Here, sit," she said and her thick accent was music to his ears. How he had missed home.

He followed her, no questions asked, and she gestured him to sit on a rock outcropping and took a seat behind him. "I told Carlisle that I need to do something with this hair. You know, make you look more Viking-like," she said and snorted with her last words, "Because it's all about show with that one. Complete arse."

Snotlout was confused. His hair had grown just as his height did - it was unruly and fell past his shoulders. But what did that have to do anything? As if reading his mind, she tried to run her fingers through his hair and he jerked away from the touch reflexively. "I just needed an excuse to have a word with you. I haven't seen one of my own since I came to this Gods-forsaken place."

Snotlout flinched under her hands again as she went to braid his hair, mind instantly racing back to men that held his head down. He grimaced, trying hard to push the thought away, but still shuddered and squirmed with every movement her fingers made, having to grit his teeth down hard to resist striking out. "Who are you?"

"My name's Vilega," she replied.

He thought of her name. Vile-ga. She must have been of a tribe close to Berk, where it was common to give 'offensive' names to your children - the nastier the name, the more intimidating. "Are you a slave?"

"Oh yes," she said and her voice dripped with hatred, "I was sailing out past the usual territory when my ship was overtaken. And I was brought here to become that cretin of a person's trophy," she looked towards Carlisle as she said this.

She was pulling his bangs back and working them into braids. "And how long have you been here?"

Snotlout paused. He did not know for sure… he had lost track of the days and was only relying on the changing of seasons to tell him. "I think - I think it's close to two years."

Vilega clucked her tongue at that. "This is no life for a Viking. They're starving you, aren't they?"

The hunger pains in his stomach could have answered that on their own. "...yes."

"I could tell. You're far too thin," she said, and she was purposefully being slow with her hands so their conversation could last. He felt one of her fingers pull the collar of his shirt from his neck as if to look down and his skin crawled from the touch. Lately all human touch was adverse. Upon seeing the streaked scars about his back she hissed a breath in through her teeth. "These people are animals."

"I don't understand… if you're a slave, why aren't you working?"

"This Master Carlisle arse," she began and Snotlout felt content familiarity with her typical give-no-fucks Viking attitude, "Seems to think I'm some sort of rare commodity. Has never seen a proper lady Viking I suppose… so he keeps me like some trophy. Shows me off to his friends, they apparently get quite the rise out of my looks. I reckon I'm a bit more woman than the ladies around here in all the right places. So. They gawk, I have to pretend to care."

"Do.. does he…" Snotlout began, afraid to say it.

But she just laughed. "Oh Valhalla, no! These men are terrified, they're too afraid to try to bed me. I just have to keep them company. Sit at their tables, let them ogle me and comment on how much of a savage I am…" and then her voice got dark, "And I'll play the part for a bit. Let them think they can drop their weapons a bit more each day, or maybe one of these men will try to get me in the sack alone from the others. They'll take me for an easy-tempered yak heifer... they already are on their way to that. And just when they drop their guard, out comes the bull!"

And she tugged on his scalp at this, feeling her words passionately, and then nodded towards Carlisle still talking away. "I'll be excited to put my hands around that one's neck. He certainly won't try anything with me."

Snotlout swallowed. He felt as if she knew something, something deeply personal and humiliating. "He doesn't care for women," she said and then added with a spit to the ground, "But you're much too old for him, so no need for you to worry. Sick bastard... I've seen what kind of young boys he brings to his chambers…"

He never thought that he could think any less of Master Carlisle, but her words stung Snotlout to the core. He felt sick to his stomach and could have actually been ill if Vilega didn't distract him. "And you, I haven't even let you speak. What's your name?"

"Snotlout," he answered quietly.

"Say, do I know you? You look a bit familiar. From what tribe do you hail?"

"The Hooligans of Berk."

She gasped in excitement. "Berk! I know, now! I was there many years ago for the Thawfest with my husband. I thought I recognized you… you won the games! And I have heard so much of the dragons being tamed... it's amazing."

He could not believe what he was hearing. Of all the chances to run into someone, in this place… and he found himself smiling. The expression felt so alien, he couldn't remember the last time he smiled. "There," Vilega said with satisfaction. She had pulled his bangs back and braided them so they met behind his head, and let the rest of his hair hang behind his shoulders. She added a small ornamental braid behind his left ear. "Isn't that better, now that you don't have hair in your eyes?"

"It is," Snotlout said with thanks in his voice. It wasn't exactly an unmanly thing to know how to braid and style your own hair or beard for a Viking male. In fact, the more intricate the plaits the better… he just hadn't put any thought towards it. So now the two sat facing each other.

"Aye," Vilega said, "I remember you now. You were just a young welp then. But Gods, you and your axe throws! Like art it was for such a young lad. Of course, this was all before the dragons… I've heard of the races and have wanted to see for myself. But I was busy sailing, I was making maps before all of this happened."

"Yeah, things are-" Snotlout began with a chuckle but then corrected himself, losing his smile. "-things were different."

Just then, someone called over. "Viking woman! Come back here at once."

It was Master Carlisle. Vilega, turning her face away from the man's sight, rolled her eyes as she stood. "Like I said… one day, the bull! I'll come find you again."

That night, Snotlout slept with the other captive men outside in the grass. They had no fire or furs to warm them, and other slaves shivered in the cool breezes, but Snotlout was comfortable in the crisp autumn air. He had taken his shirt off and bundled it behind his head to serve as a pillow and laid facing the sky, fingers intertwined on his stomach. He could hear the crackling of fire from the guard's tents and the occasional murmur of men taking turns to keep watch, but all else was quiet.

He looked up at the stars splashed across the deep and dark night sky. For the first time in a very long while, he felt a small sliver of contentment. By this point, the constant dull ache of hunger was something he was used to, and all of his muscles hurt from swinging the pickaxe all day… but that was another familiar ache as well. He was gazing at the night sky for the first time in close to two years, and it was humbling to say the least. He was looking at the same stars that could be seen from the Jorgenson house in Berk. He recognized the constellations - the fisherman, the wolf's mouth… he wondered if anyone from his home island still thought of him. If he was remembered. Mostly likely not.

Snotlout became aware of whispered words coming from the direction of the flickering fire where guards sat and listened.

"-get that Viking to teach us a thing or two."

Snotlout looked over towards the fire without moving his head. He recognized the silhouette of Flemming, and he was holding something round in his hand. "Carlisle won't know what to do when we're gone," Flemming chuckled and spoke in a low voice, "We'll see how well he does when I'm not there."

The man sitting beside him was a familiar guard, but Snotlout did not know his name. "What if he won't teach us?"

"The fool won't have a choice," Flemming hissed, "He either teaches us how to raise and tame this dragon or he gets beheaded. Easy enough."

"But what if," the other man asked with doubt in his voice, "What if the Viking uses this dragon against us instead?"

"Don't be ridiculous. This egg was a lot of trouble to get my hands on and I will not let some stubborn Viking ruin this for me. We will abandon the post, we will steal this dragon rider, and he will show us the ways of the Riders. Then we'll kill him, and make a name for ourselves!"

Snotlout still lay unmoving but he watched intently as the men rose, and saw Flemming put the dragon egg in the right side pocket of his tunic. As they stepped past he closed his eyes to feign sleep.

The following days he toiled in the mines.

Snotlout was led deep into the tunnels where it would have been black as night if torches did not illuminate the way. The air was very thin below the earth, and sometimes he felt he was only inhaling fumes from the burning lamps and would become very dizzy. It was easy to tell which men spent the majority of their slavery in the mines for they were white as ghosts and drew short, rasping breaths. Snotlout thought to Ralof and the boy's wheezing… would this be his fate as well?

He was surprised one day, as he was swinging back the pickaxe, for Vilega to appear beside him and he startled. "I've brought you something," she said, looking about and making sure no one could see. The guards had their back turned, and she seemed to not want the other labourers to see as well. She thrust her hand down his pocket for just a moment, causing him to jump. She had left something inside. "You need to take care of your own," she said with a wink and slipped away.

Later that night as he lay under the stars once more and was sure no one watched, Snotlout removed the items from his pocket. An apple, jerky and a sort of pastry waited for him. It was the best meal he could ever remember having, yet he immediately became sick and tossed it back in the grass - his stomach was not used to eating these kinds of foods.

Vilega would often find him, bringing him treats. It amazed him how she was able to move about so freely. Unless she strayed out of sight from one of Carlisle's men, she practically was able to do as she pleased. Snotlout realized she was right - the more complacent they viewed her, the more she was able to do. He supposed the same happened with him, with the gradual introduction of tools as his morale faded. However, Vilega seemed to have more freedom being a woman. Little did their captors know that Viking women were just as much a threat to their safety as any man was... and his new friend was taking advantage of this assumption. She brought him all sorts of food that she had taken from the Master's dinner table - smoked herring, fresh baked breads, fruit and vines of cherry tomatoes - and even managed to sneak him a cup of wine once which he downed in one gulp. It had made the rest of his shift a bit more tolerable.

If Vilega had not been there to help him, he may have had a similar fate as Ralof. Then one day, when the mines had been stripped of their iron ore, guards called for the men to line up. They were being taken back to the shore. Snotlout's blue eyes combed the tents beside the mine looking for her. The horse-drawn carts awaited them, and Snotlout jumped aboard as men yelled orders, turning and looking for his friend. He then spotted her, many tents away, standing behind Master Carlisle. His heart twisted. This woman has done so much for him, and he was never able to do anything for her in return. He simply raised a hand in goodbye as the carts began moving away, and caught a glimpse of her winking before they turned a corner, the trees shrouding his view.

Following the labour of the mines, working the shipyard was mind numbing and grueling.

Snotlout worked the woodcutter's axe, splitting wood with hardly a thought. It became his usual post - not many men could swing the axe as deft and accurately as he could without exhaustion. His muscles stayed taut, but without the help of Vilega in the mines, his hunger became overwhelming and his waist grew small and ribs visible.

One day, as he raised the axe, there was a sudden commotion. Men were shouting, and he looked up to see someone darting in his direction. The thrum of arrows filled the air, and he realized he was looking at someone making a run for it. He did not recognize their face - perhaps one of the new prisoners the latest ships had brought in. The man was sprinting across the shipyard, and somehow, the arrows only flew past with whistles and did not find the target. Snotlout's post was just close enough to the wall...

Snotlout, without thinking, called out. "You there!"

The prisoner, not slowing, looked over to see Snotlout drop to a knee and cup his hands. No other words need be spoken. The slave, a lanky and fit young man, ran towards him and thrust his foot into Snotlout's hand. With a grunt, he hoisted and threw the man towards the wall behind him. The escapee, all the while arrows humming past, managed to gain his footing and clambered over. Snotlout grinned when he heard an almost nonchalant, "thanks!" over the other side.

He was still looking towards the spot he last saw this person with a smile tugging at his lips when angry footsteps approached. "You stupid," a guard boomed, "Boorish, slow Viking! How dare you assist an escapee!"

And the man went to shove him with all of his weight, but Snotlout only took a half step back under the guard's push. He had never been more aware of his newfound size. Flustered, the guard then pulled his whip from his side and flicked it with a snap across the ground. "You dumb ox, I will tan the hide-"

But something moved inside Snotlout. It may have been the escape of the prisoner, or Vilega giving him hope in the past few months - he easily snatched the whip from his hand and tossed it. Speechless, the guard went to draw his next weapon but was grabbed by the face and shoved. The man went sprawling in the dust, and for the first time in awhile, Snotlout watched a flash of fear cross the guard's face. It was as if he was not looking upon a weary and mute slave any longer, but seeing Snotlout for the first time - one of the fierce warriors of the Viking people, skilled in battle and towering over every man in the yard. From the corner of his eye he could see the other armed men falter at this sudden shift as well. He remembered Vilega's words, 'They'll take me for an easy-tempered yak heifer… but just when they drop their guard, out comes the bull!'

"Carlisle will not be happy with this, and he's left specific instructions," the man declared but his voice wavered as Snotlout stood over him. The rest of the guard cautiously approached, and still he continued with a nervous lick of his lips, "I heard you screamed like a girl last time. That they made you use your mouth. How would you like that again, barbarian?"

Snotlout's skin crawled at these words and his face flushed, fists trembling. But he said nothing, and let the guards grab hold of him without resistance. Take me to him, he thought, take me to Carlisle. I won't miss this time.

He did not see Master Carlisle that night.

"You're a lucky one," a guard growled as he was pushed into his cell. "It will be a different story when the Master returns."

He dropped to his knees, vision swimming. They had knocked his head around quite a bit this time. Snotlout waited until he could hear the footsteps of the guard retreating, and then with a groan let himself fall forward. He was only in his small clothes and blood glistened in the poor torch light.

Collapsed in his cell, face flat against the cold stone, Snotlout choked out a rasping laugh.

His back was mutilated beyond belief. As if to compensate for Carlisle's lack of presence and permission to continue with the worst of the torture, they had released fury on the rest on his body as well. The sensitive backs of his thighs and glutes were torn into, and tender flesh on the underside of his arms flayed. Bones were broken from the beating. And still, he felt relief. They didn't win. They had not claimed him...

He had been beaten senseless in the guards chambers, unable to fight or shield himself with his bound hands. Under the constant assault of fists and boots, he had hollow dread in his stomach of what was to come.

"We'll give you something to cry about," a man hissed, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling his head back to expose his throat. "All we're waiting on is the word."

Another pointed a dagger at his bobbing adam's apple. "If we could have it our way, you would have been dead long ago, savage. I'll enjoy tonight."

When he was shoved back to the floor, a man delivered a swift kick to his ribs with an eager look about him. "Why do we need the word? We'll do it now, Carlisle won't mind if we play a bit."

"Just put a knife into his gut now! Kill the Viking!"

The men were hungry for punishment. Thankfully, the commanding guard barked orders, insistent on waiting for their Master. Snotlout was black and blue by now, sweat dripping from his hair. A horrid aching in his face indicated a broken cheekbone and his ribs throbbed in similar fashion. And still there was no word from Carlisle. Snotlout was exhausted, his whole body sore from tensing under the incoming blows that had lasted near an hour. It was easy for the men to lift him to his feet and bind him to one of the wooden beams of the room - just as they have done before. Snotlout was on the verge on being sick now, eyes screwed shut and heaving breaths through clenched teeth. It was relief to feel the familiar tongue of the whip flick over his spine.

Snotlout had fallen immediately into unconsciousness from the pulsing pain.

Hours passed. He looked to be a dead man, sprawled across the filthy floor of his cell. Unsettling dreams flitted through his fever sleep...

His mother and father standing in the door of the Jorgenson house smiling at him.

Young Hiccup Haddock in the forge, looking up from his grindstone with apprehension.

Hookfang's dilated pupils as he felt Snotlout's hand for the first time.

Muffled shouting was slowly breaking through the haze of his dreams, the memories of Berk dissipating to the reality of the slave's cells. He woke to a man violently shaking him by the shoulders. "On your feet! Get up, get up now!"

The Viking's eyes fluttered and the room lurched when he was pulled upright, but his legs gave out. The slashes across his legs hissed and trickled blood as he tried put weight on his feet. Somewhere in the distance there was a boom, and dust rattled from the ceiling. "NOW! Get moving!"

Snotlout felt as if he was underwater. His senses reeled and body protested. How was he being taken back to work? Even after the worst of his lashings, he was usually left to rot and starve in his cell for a few days until some small bit of strength returned and allowed him to work. He was barely able to stand on his feet, his knees buckling with every other step, and his movements were drunk as someone shoved him throughout the hallways. Stones rumbled overheard. It finally occurred to him: this was no average guard dragging him along so urgently. It was Flemming and his friend.

"MOVE!" he yelled, "Move, you stupid Viking! Quickly!"

And it was not morning.

He was pushed out into the open night air and fell forward. Shouting was all around, and fires flicked about them. The half-completed warship in the yard was engulfed in flame, its wood hissing and popping. Embers danced in the air, swirling about them like a light snow. Flemming grabbed him by the hair: he was still in his small clothes and had nothing else to grab. The two men were frantic and clutched their sword hilts, looking to the skies. A chaotic tension clung to the night about them.

Snotlout struggled to find footing… he was so weak. He could hear them yelling to each other frantically, arguing. The two of them attempted to drag him, and his wounds stung in the dusty ground as his blurry mind tried to make sense of what was happening. They must be trying to kidnap him - just as they had planned weeks ago at the mines, when they thought no one could hear. Then there was a loud thumping sound followed by a deafening and garbled roar. He dreamily looked to the sky. Meatlug?

There, hovering above the fortress, was a Gronckle.

She had a pattern similar to that of Fishleg's dragon with purple hue, and rage was lit in her narrowed eyes. When an arrow whizzed close by, the dragon about-faced with unexpected agility and fired a lava blast. Snotlout could hear a short scream and the ground rumbled under the heavy blow. Still he felt Flemming and the other man trying to pull him away, but his eyes stayed locked on the Gronckle.

He watched as the boulder-class dragon seemed to catch a scent, and she lifted her snout to snort in lungfuls of air. The giant head turned towards the three of them just across the shipyard and he saw something pass over the dragon's features: vengeance? She propelled herself towards them with a great snarl, wings humming, and the two men dropped him with an alarmed shout. He heard the ring of swords being drawn. They were actually going to try to fight back. By this time the shipyard had emptied as everyone ran for their lives, and it was the three men alone.

The Gronckle landed and took a single bound forward. Flemming's friend was head butted and was sent soaring, screaming as he flew through the air. Still the dragon roared, and Snotlout could only watch with wide eyes as she stomped and kicked the man with her powerful legs, his body being tossed about like a rag doll. He had stopped screaming and she dipped her head down, frantically sniffing at the broken form. This was not typical behavior of the species at all - Fishlegs always described these dragons as being incredibly docile and skittish. So why was she acting like this?

The Gronckle barked in pain when an arrow sunk into her front leg.

Snotlout slowly got to his feet, his lacerations oozing blood. Flemming, who had pulled a crossbow from the ground near him, was frantically loading another arrow and cursing loudly. He paid no attention to the Viking rising behind him, solely focused on the enraged Gronckle before him. The dragon bellowed and began charging as the crossbow was lowered towards her head.

She skidded to a halt when Flemming hit the ground.

Snotlout stood over the unconscious guard, having struck him on the head with bound fists. It was enough to knock the man out. The Viking was panting from exertion, looking the dragon straight in the eye as he slumped to his knees once more. She was huffing the air aggressively, pawing at the ground as if to charge, and she bared teeth when Snotlout shifted forward. Yet she did not attack. Attempting to keep his movements slow and predictable, he reached towards Flemming and quietly rubbed his binds against the guard's sword to free his hands. The Gronckle widened her eyes and roared when he pulled a rock-like dragon egg from the man's tunic. She urgently began to limp over.

Snotlout placed the egg on the ground and rolled it.

It came to a stop in front of the Gronckle, and she sniffed at it while suspiciously looking over the Viking. Almost instantly, the mad rage in her yellow eyes was replaced with a familiar softness. Even Snotlout, despite all of his pain and exhaustion, felt a weak smile. He watched as she gently opened her jaws and put the egg within the safety of her mouth. Something similar to a coo came from the dragon as she looked into the darkened morning sky and spread her small wings, ready to return to her nest.

There was a pause as the dragon seemed to remember something. Snotlout gulped when she turned her big head towards him and cautiously began to inch her way over, sniffing. She was curious.

Snotlout raised a shaking hand, just as Hiccup would.

Palm faced outward, he averted his eyes and felt hot breath huffing at his fingertips. When warm scales were placed into his palm, he dared to look up and was met with the Gronckle looking on him fondly. He could almost hear the words in the dragon's croon: thank you.

She dropped her head to the broken binds on the ground and sniffed, and then to where blood dripped down his back and snorted, pawing at the dirt anxiously. She seemed to understand his hurt, and then she looked at her own injury with a grumble. Snotlout took a deep breath and grasped the shaft of the arrow. "Sorry, girl."

He plucked the arrow from her bumpy hide and flung it far from them. The Gronckle yelped and jumped, licking the wound. But she once again gave him an appreciative and soft look. Snotlout felt a strange warmth as the two different species looked on each other in some sort of understanding, and he became aware of men shouting behind him as the chaos subsided. Panic rose within him.

"You've got to help me, please," he croaked, and even the Gronckle perked her ear flaps at the voices, pupils narrowing to slits.

It was as if she immediately understood what needed to be done. The dragon nudged him with her snout, encouraging him to stand. When he fell forward she caught the Viking and shifted, distributing his weight. He draped over the Gronckle's back and she spread her small wings, wiggling her body as if to test how this new passenger felt. Then, her wings thrummed to life stirring the dust about them, and he was lifted into the sky. The Gronckle turned in a circle as she hovered in the air, bellowing a loud and threatening roar to any who had ventured into the night to witness their departure.

And they flew off.

Snotlout felt the rushing exhilaration of flight and wind in his hair as he looked down at the fortress and burning shipyard grow smaller and smaller. It was when he could no longer see the place of his captivity he suddenly found himself laughing, yet tears ran down his face.

The Gronckle beneath him rumbled in confusion, and he found himself wrapping his arms around the dragon's neck and hugging tightly despite the shooting and stinging pains in his body, sobbing and laughing all at once like a madman. The dragon felt her rider's sounds subside as his broken body finally caught up to his senses, and this was how he fell into a sleep. She rolled the egg in her mouth in reassurance and saw the sun beginning to rise in the east. Her nest was hundreds of leagues from where her stolen egg was taken, and it would be a long journey with this man encumbering her, but still she pushed on with a determined roar.

A/N. That was quite a long one... Vilega is my own creation. Thanks again for reading!