Chapter Eight.

Snotlout sat astride Juniper, looking up at old, crumbling pillars that sat in a glade.

Yes, this seemed to fit the description… dilapidated ruins, end of the trail. He hopped off of his horse and tied the reins to a tree limb sitting a bit out of sight. The Viking made sure to take a look back and see that Juniper was somewhat hidden - he did not want any bandits to come running out from the ruin and try to take his horse. What once might have been a large fortress or stone cathedral was now reduced to worn rock pillars and crumbled down walls, dead winter plants taking over. He was aware of the smell of a smoking fire and voices murmuring as he stepped through a deteriorated archway topped with snow, pulling on his helmet. Take out the lead bandit, bring proof, get your gold, he repeated in his head. Simple enough.

The ruins opened up, and he stepped into the snowy clearing. He looked down on where three men sat around a fire. "You there!"

Years of stealthy hunting taught him much - they had not even heard him approaching, and immediately jumped to their feet and drew weapons as they were caught off guard. Snotlout wrinkled his nose at the litter that they had thrown about this supposedly sacred place. Bandits... they were always dirty, drunk, and angry. And usually had a hard time taking 'no' for an answer. "It's time for you to clear out," he said loudly so they could hear. "Priest's orders. This place doesn't belong to you so, go on, get out of here."

He waved a hand as if he were shooing away a pack of stray dogs.

"And who the hell are you?" the largest of the three boomed.

"The person who's getting paid to make sure you leave."

"Ha! So a sellsword then," the man responded with an ugly cackle, and he lowered his axe. "I see now. So, you've got yourself a pretty piece of armor and big sword, good for you. Why don't you turn around and tell your boss-man that this place is ours now. Go along and play pretend somewhere else."

Just as he had thought, saying 'no' was never easy for these people. He drew Wolfsbane and pointed it at the loud-mouthed bandit. "So, I take it you're the one in charge?"

The man puffed out his chest and took a long swig of a bottle. "Aye, you got that right. Run along, now. Or, come on down and we'll teach you a lesson. I wouldn't mind owning a new shiny sword and set of armor!"

The other two chuckled at this. "You know, you two can go ahead and leave now if you want," he said flatly and started walking down the path leading to their clearing. "The bounty I have is for him."

They stood their ground, but as he approached he could see their escalating nervousness at his size and lack of fear.

When he first began the life of sellsword, Snotlout would feel a shred of guilt challenging the men that he was to 'take care' of - this was not a fair fight at all. These three were truly oblivious to the fact they were challenging a Viking, a race taught the way of battle since birth, just as the dozens and dozens of others before them. But as he approached and they went into defensive positions, the thought would quickly leave his mind - he saw in their eyes the same kind of cruelty that every guard that had inflicted harm on him at the beach years ago.

He was always carefully selective when taking a job - insisting on only going after the truly corrupt. It was this new life of his that lead him to truly understand just the lengths of depravity that men were capable of… the Priest that had skeptically hired him had explained just what kind of atrocities these people had committed before moving on to his sacred grounds, and Snotlout bared his teeth. So, if they wanted a fight, let them. "Last chance."

The warning went unheeded, and one bandit ran forward with a shouting battle cry, raising his sword above his head as if to strike down. The Viking had time to roll his eyes at this blunder of a move as the man closed the distance between them, and he stepped to the side easily. A steel-covered elbow smashed in the man's nose, and he instantly dropped.

The other two moved together, and Snotlout held Wolfsbane across his torso, ready. An axe was parried, and a sword went in to jab at his stomach. He swung Wolfsbane, casting the incoming blades aside and the men stumbled. Another axe swing towards his neck and he stepped out of reach, shifting Wolfsbane to his left hand and drawing his dagger with the right in one fluid motion. There was a window as the two men struggled to coordinate their attacks, and he crouched, plunging the dagger into the foot of the smallest man. There was an agonized shout and cursing, Snotlout taking a long step away to put both hands back to his greatsword.

The dagger pierced the man's boot entirely, and he was hollering and cursing as he unsuccessfully tried to pull his stuck foot from the earth. The bandit leader roared and rushed Snotlout, swinging his weapon like a mad man and spitting. The Viking stood his ground, waiting for the opening. That opening came, and with one side-step and a diagonal stroke of Wolfsbane, the bandit's axe fell to the ground, dismembered hand holding the handle tightly. The entire altercation only took a moment.

The bandit emitted an ear-splitting scream as he fell to his knees, his remaining hand going to the blood-spurting stump Snotlout had left. The Viking calmly went to wipe blood from Wolfsbane as the two men blabbered - one still trying to pull his foot from the ground, the other shrieking and rolling on the ground missing a limb. The third was still knocked out cold to the world. "It could be worse," Snotlout called over his shoulder as he sheathed his weapon. He went to the fire and scooped up a handful of burning embers, his gauntlets impervious to the heat, looking at it thoughtfully before turning to the leader.

"And you're alive, so there's that. This Priest, he didn't want you dead, so maybe you can thank him when he arrives," at this he held the blabbering man firmly and crunched the embers into the open wound. Pained shrieks echoed in the forest. "Can't have you bleeding out before that happens."

The men unsuccessfully resisted as he dragged each one to a pillar and bound them, using their own rope. Even as Snotlout worked, he felt a sliver of cold pity - he remembered the helplessness of being restrained with no way out. But these three brought it upon themselves… and the Priest would be returning to the ruins with authorities either way - assuming they would take the matter seriously. If every guardsmen of the Hold cared to uphold the law, sellswords such as himself would not be able to make their living. He went to the axe sticking from the ground and lifted it, nose wrinkling at the hand that still firmly gripped the wooden handle. He said no other word as he left, mounting Juniper and riding off with his proof of another completed job.

He had gotten a decent pouch of gold for that assignment.

Though nowhere near being rich, the life of a sellsword was much more comfortable than what he was doing before - living off of hunting and looking for little bits of work in trade of a meager meal, or sleeping amongst stabled beasts to stay out of the worst winter storms.

He still lived as a traveler, but now he was able to afford things that eased the way of life - he now had a tent to his name, warm fur rolls to sleep in, and a small pot that he could hang over a fire for cooking. Though these items could not ease the heavy loneliness his isolated life brought him, he no longer had sinking dread of starvation or death to the elements. And yet, he still found himself camping almost every night. After spending so much time on the road, it almost felt odd to have the luxury of a bed rather than the familiarity of the hard Earth beneath him. It was only during the worst weather or when his pockets grew light he allowed himself the use of an inn.

It was in the taverns he would find buyers... the jobs were few, but they paid well, and oftentimes innkeepers held information on bounties that he could collect. He might as well have been a walking advertisement. People would take a look at him and immediately know what his profession was, just as Gunnar recognized the sellsword on the road years and years ago. He had been hired to take out bands of murderers and robbers, collect bounties of wanted criminals, and accompany people of status who could afford protection during their travels.

Ralof - no, Snotlout - was sitting at the bar of a tavern as he thought of this, quietly drinking a pint of mead. His left leg throbbed just above the knee - he had taken a dagger strike during one of his last jobs and it simply refused to heal correctly. It was at moments like this, out of the elements and able to think on things other than simply surviving, his mind would find ways to wander. He shifted his leg and winced at the shooting pain of his wound. He thought to how the old Snotlout on Berk would find his current lifestyle so rugged and manly. That was not quite the case now… it was just uncomfortable.

The Viking sighed to himself and took a long drink… it almost seemed like a lifetime had passed since then, and the person he was in those times seemed a stranger to him. Whether that was for the best, Snotlout could not tell. He seemed to be doing so well as of late pushing distant memories of Berk and dragons from his mind, but it seemed that this may be the sort of night where the only thing to make him forget was to drink the thoughts away - it would not be the first.

He was aware of the door opening and a cold blast of winter-air swept through the tavern, rustling his dark hair. He glanced over to see a frozen and shaking woman approach the barkeep and strike up a conversation before he turned his attention away. He had his chin in his right palm, absently looking on a plate of food he barely touched. How long has it been now? Snotlout often found himself forgetting or confusing exactly how many years it had been since he was in this land… everything seemed to just blend so easily together. He thought hard of the seasons as they had passed him. He idly took a finger and begin pushing little chicken bones around his plate, each bone signifying a year. It was when he had nine lined before him he sighed again. So he was now approaching thirty-summers in age.

Yes, he thought, and motioned for the barkeep to bring him another tankard. It would definitely be one of those nights. He downed the rest of his mead and slid the empty tankard towards the barkeep when he became aware of the conversation that was taking place beside him.

Snotlout caught a few words and it was as though his heart skipped a beat. His expression remained passive despite the flip of his stomach.

No. He must have misheard.

The Viking turned his head to the woman standing before the bar. She repeated her sentence to the bartender: "I'm looking for the Isle of Berk, in the Cold Sea."

Snotlout immediately snapped his attention back to the plate before him, trying to hide his wide eyes. Again, he told himself - you must have heard wrong.

"No, never heard of a Berk, or any Isle for that matter," the innkeeper stated and his voice was curt and short.

He let his eyes wander over to where the woman pulled a map from her satchel and spread it over the bar, her fingers red from the cold. "Can you tell me where your inn is relative to this?"

The innkeeper only flicked a glance over it. "You're quite a ways from anything on here. This mountain top," he said and jabbed a thumb behind him to indicate it's direction, "You can see the peak from here on a clear day. What else do you want."

Snotlout felt his heart thudding. It was impossible. He had learned long ago that Vikings were practically as revered as the dragon with how elusive and obscure they were in these parts… vague references to the Cold Sea were all the people knew of his homeland. How could this woman possibly know what the Archipelago was, little alone Berk? He continued to stare forward, but was very aware of the conversation happening beside him. The woman was pulling things from her satchel, beginning to trade items with the haughty innkeeper. He tried to listen to their words through the sound of his own heart pounding.

When the two were done trading, the woman put her new items away and reached for a stool at the bar. "And what do you think you're doing," the innkeep snapped, "This bar is for paying customers only."

And he slammed a new tankard of mead in front of Snotlout as if to make a point. From the corner of his eye, the woman paused. "Can I not just warm myself for a moment?"

"No, you can't," the man sneered, "Witch."

It then became clear to Snotlout why this man was being so rude, especially after seeing the sorts of items she had traded - tinctures and little bottles of potions. While most people of this land were disagreeable and short with everyone, certain kinds of people were especially looked down upon. Women who decided to choose the path of healing were one of the few that received the worst of it. Astrid would have been absolutely livid, hearing how women were practically second-class citizens here. It was a land rather unfriendly to females to begin with, but those who choose the way of the healer were surrounded with superstition and tales of devilry - he had overheard a few of these whispered stories a small handful of times in his travels. And he thought it to be stupid.

His old tribe had a woman healer, Gothi, and she was revered. Perhaps it was because he was from the Archipelago, where Viking women were just as equal as any male, but even Snotlout of all people could recognize the hypocrisy. Though uncommon because of the stigma, if a man in these parts studied healing, it was no more than an inferior profession. However, if a woman was to do the same, they were shunned and assumed to be witches. It was almost an insult to Gothi. Sure, he and his friends had all sorts of wild speculation of her strange ways and second sight growing up, but the shamanic healer of Berk had cured him, his friends, and his family for decades. It was a highly respected title, quite unlike the treatment the person beside him was receiving.

"I see, then," the woman said coldly and began to leave.

Snotlout put a coin on the bar. "Another mead. For her."

The barkeep showed surprise, and then furrowed his brow. He could feel the woman looking hard at him, as well. There was a moment of silence. "Or wine, or beer, whichever you prefer," Snotlout added, still not looking up from his plate. The barkeep growled something under his breath and went to get a tankard.

"I know what men expect in return for a drink," the woman coolly said when the barkeep had his back turned, and there was an accusation in the statement.

Snotlout turned to fully look at her for the first time, his expression passive despite his thudding heart. He tried to choose his words carefully, something he was never very good at. "I don't expect anything… just for bartenders to let someone out of the cold for a bit."

She must have been close to his age. Her skin was fair though her nose was rosy from the cold, and she had pale green eyes set in a slim face with high cheekbones. Her hair was golden brown, pulled back and hanging behind her shoulders. She wore a long-sleeved dress of a mossy color with a leather corset, the long skirt and her boots muddy. It was no wonder she was cold, for she only had a shawl to hang over her shoulders for warmth.

He watched as she seemed to think hard on his words, the barkeep impatiently looking on them. She pulled the stool out. "Wine it is, then."

The two sat for a long time without speaking.

Behind them on the other side of the tavern, a bard plucked soft notes from a lute and the fireplace hissed and popped. The woman sipped her wine, the bite of cold leaving her face, and Snotlout quietly sat several seats over from her doing the same. The nine chicken bones he had laid out on the plate before him stared at him. Nine years. Nine years had passed since he arrived in this place, and here he was sitting next to some stranger that had uttered Berk's name. He felt like an anxious boy, not the stone-faced sellsword that life had molded him into. A part of him wanted to run to the other side of the bar and ask her everything that she knew, and another held him back, because that place was long in the past where it should be.

"Thank you."

He was so caught up in his thoughts of what to do he barely heard her. Snotlout looked up, and the woman was looking right at him. "What?"

"I said, thanks," she answered, raising her mug.

"Oh, right. It's nothing."

"It means something to me," Her eyes moved to the helmet laying in his lap and his suit of armor. "I take it you are a sword for hire?"

Snotlout nodded, and she stood and walked his way. She pulled a seat next to him, and he tried desperately to hide his nervousness. He felt a fool. "Then maybe you can help me, if you're a traveller," she said and pulled out the map, "And then I'll leave you alone."

He nudged his plate away to give her room, and she rolled the parchment out before them. The hand-drawn map depicted a coast and marked somewhere along the northern shoreline was a port. He did not recognize any of the land drawn out, and there were the usual scrawls of written word he was unable to read, but his eyes were immediately drawn to a corner of the map. His lips parted in recognition of the familiar runes of his alphabet: Isle of Berk. And an elaborate arrow pointed towards the top-right area of the map, into the ocean.

The room about Snotlout lurched. How?

Still, the girl went on, "Do you know how to reach any of this? I'm headed to the port."

He was going to be sick. It all came rushing back to him, everything he tried so hard to bury over time: Hookfang's death, being taken, being left alone to rot as a slave. They never came for him. He never realized just how well he had pushed it all down until it was staring him right in the face. The Viking cleared his throat and she did not seem to pick up on his shaking voice, "I, uh. No, I don't recognize it."

"Thanks anyway," she said and began rolling the parchment up. His heart was pounding as he saw the Norse words disappear from view and she stood to leave. Get it together, Snotlout, he was telling himself, and he realized that he hadn't referred to himself by his real name in ages.

"I can take you there."

It came out before he knew what he was saying. The woman turned back to him. "Did you not just say you don't know the way?"

He felt as if she was looking right through him. "Maybe you could use a guide?"

"I don't have the money to hire a sellsword."

"I… I plan to go to Berk, as well."

Snotlout was acting faster than he could comprehend his own words. Long-past memories bubbled to the surface of his consciousness. He never thought he would hear of his old home again, yet here he was, in a tavern with thoughts of his mother and father still in Berk, and it suddenly hit him hard, harder than any weapon strike he experienced in his new life. He was becoming more aware of a panicked desperation clawing at his insides - whether it was telling him to pursue this girl and her map or leave it alone, he could hardly tell.

Still, he swallowed and made his face unreadable despite his trembling hands and motioned to the barstool. "Would you have another drink with me? And we can talk about it?"

She was looking at him intensely, and Snotlout felt an amount of vulnerability he hadn't felt in ages. The bartender had stepped over and flicked his eyes between the two suspiciously - here he was, an outsider and a sellsword that looked nothing like their people, and a lone healer woman who most regarded as a witch. Snotlout wondered if they could detect just how significant this moment was for him. After what felt like ages, the girl nodded to the barkeep and another round was put in front of them. She sat down and watched as Snotlout took a long drink of his mead in an attempt to calm himself.

"Can I have your name, then?"

"It's Ralof Haddock," he answered. "You?"

"Adelaide Briarfell," she stared down the ogling bartender until he moved away from them, "And tell me, how exactly is it you know of Berk?"

Snotlout found the warmth of the drink spreading through his body, and the shaking was slowly subsiding. What was wrong with him? "I've heard stories of it."

"Really?" Adelaide said, with clear doubt in her voice. She thought that he was lying to her... and he was, to some extent.

Snotlout nodded. "I've heard of the dragons. I've wanted to see them, but… I never knew the way."

He waited for her response, unsure if he had convinced her. The bard in the corner was still playing his lute and singing quietly, and a few other patrons solemnly drank by themselves. Adelaide raised her eyebrows at him. "I've been trying to find my way there for weeks, and no one has heard of it. Except for you. I wonder why that is."

Snotlout tried to keep his gaze steady and confident. "I hear a lot of things when I travel. I thought if you were going, you could use company. And I could use directions."

"Like I said, I don't have anything to give you. I can't hire you."

"I'm not asking for gold. I didn't even know where to start looking and if you go alone… it's dangerous."

"I don't even know you," she responded, "You can be dangerous."

The Viking just nodded at that, swallowing.

Of course she was skeptical of the offer. It certainly was not easy to trust another in these parts, and he realized how this must have looked to her. Here he was, a complete stranger offering her a safe passage to some little known, almost mythical area. How she even knew about it, he had no idea, but she had every reason to be careful. So there it is, then, he thought to himself. It seems you really weren't meant to go back.

"I understand."

There was a silence between them. Snotlout turned away, knowing his offer was rejected. He thought to his mother and father in Berk. He probably would never see them again. While it was a reality he had accepted long ago, it hurt in his chest still after all this time, and he mentally berated himself for having a rare glimmer of hope. He put another coin on the bar to cover her last drink and stood, ignoring the pain in his wounded leg. He did not meet Adelaide's eyes as he intended to go back to his room, feeling her evaluative gaze on the back of his head. Snotlout then thought of something.

"When you came in, were you planning on camping tonight?" he asked, turning back to her. Even through the closed shutters of the inn the howling wind could be heard.

Adelaide looked to the barkeep, who was now staring her down with folded arms, ready to send her on her way. With a wry and bitter laugh, she stood and began pulling her thin shawl about her shoulders. "Looks like I don't have a choice."

Snotlout was a bit drunk at this point, and he knew he would regret his decision considering how cold it was outside, but he shook his head. "No, don't do that."

And for the first time since he had spoken to her, the distrustful look on her face was replaced with genuine surprise as he stepped forward, holding out the key to his room. "It's yours."

"Now, wait a minute-" the innkeeper started, who had been watching intently.

"I paid for it, didn't I?" Snotlout snapped, and the man abruptly shut his mouth. "And I still plan to keep my horse in the stable under the costs, I'll have it gone by morning."

Adelaide held the key in the palm of her hand, unsure, as she studied him. He felt as if she could read every defeated feeling he was experiencing, and he no longer cared as he turned to go. "Good luck on the road, Adelaide."

Snotlout woke in the same manner he usually did: cold, stiff, and solemn.

He had set his small camp away from the village near a bubbling and half-frozen stream in the forest. The sky was grey in the pale morning light and he lifted his face to watch the fat snowflakes swirl, flecks of ice kissing at his face. The sharp cold was numbing and his breath sent out billows of steam like dragon smoke, and it was the kind of winter day where the silence stretched impenetrably through the wilderness. Snotlout stood like this for a long time. This is your life now, he told himself, thinking of last night's event. And it's time you accept that. You should have long ago.

He pulled his shirt off, the streaking scars across his back stark white against his pale skin. Many more additions had been added in his new career - shallow blade slices where his armor failed him along his forearms and chest. He splashed freezing stream water on himself and dunked his long hair in the water, the sensation like stinging pins, but he did not shiver. As always, he took down the small tent and rolled his furs up, stomping out what little remained of his smoking fire. The routine was especially monotonous today, and it felt as though an icy hand held at his heart.

Snotlout pulled his shirt back on along with mail and began the tedious task of suiting himself in armor. By now it had lost much of its shine and he blended in with the bleak winter forest, adorned in steely gray with dark hair and pale blue eyes. Wolfsbane, as always, rested comfortingly at his back, and with a heavy sigh he gathered his things and trudged through the snow with crunching footsteps. He would move on to the next town to look for work, considering last night's events brought some unwelcome attention to himself. Houses appeared before him as he strode into town. A few early-risers milled about in the street starting their day, and Snotlout kept his eyes to the ground as he passed through.

As he approached the stables of last night's tavern, he looked up and paused. Someone was standing in Juniper's stall near the horse's head. "Hey!"

He found himself looking upon the woman from last night as the figure turned to face him. Adelaide had her hand on Juniper's cheek, petting the horse as if they were old friends. The corners of her lips turned up into something close to a smile. "Does your offer still stand?"