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Chapter 22: The Wicked Waters

(Hiccup)

A soft wind combed through the tall, slender trees, the forest swinging, breathing, like the land's own lung, in and out, north and south. Looking straight up, the pines' tips danced, their needles brushing whispers against each other. The sky was clear behind them, a canvas of cold azure. It wasn't snowing anymore.

Looking down, the former carpet of autumn leaves had been utterly blanketed by white. Fresh snow covered every step, every nook, from the mountain's top, to the sand of their beach. A white winter, after a blood-red fall.

Fitting, Hiccup thought, observing the island that, like many others, he could not make his home.

He had spent most of the last few days dwelling purposelessly into the muffled forest, absorbing its lonely beauty, alone, bound with desolation. Around him, the island was silent, suspended; no waves echoing from the shore, no birds singing, no dragons. He could almost hear the trees speak, wood creaking mutedly. It helped him think, and mourn a little longer, which seemed like the proper thing to do, before leaving this place as well. He needed to rid himself of the strange emptiness that had set in the pit of his stomach.

Even after the first couple of days, Hiccup still found himself struggling against the occasional pang of grief for Dreyri and Khnut, and for Bolt, Twitch, Sharpshot, and Frigga too, and even for her eggs. Hiccup had been eager to see the two baby Terrors hatch. He had enjoyed wondering what color they would turn out to be.

Now, he wished he had never found out; they had been green, and a rare, beautiful purple, underneath all the blood, of course. He could not allow himself to forget, however, lest he made the same mistake again. He was unable to forget anyway, the images would sneak up on him at random, when he ate, when he flew, when he dreamed. And when the images came, guilt and sorrow followed close behind.

Every night, before sleep, Hiccup would feel his chest tighten with those dreadful memories, no matter how hard he snuggled against the Night Fury's warm chest. Some of the nights, his stomach would cramp, and he'd get up to lose his meal. He would then frown at the result on the ground, and blame himself for the waste of precious food. Most of his supplies were still on the Berserker's ship, as he had only retrieved his basket.

He no longer cried, however, as he hiked into the forest; he was tired of crying. Besides, mourning for his friends was not the sole purpose of his solitary walks. He was also trying to divorce his hopes from the blissful image of a life on that island. It wasn't easy. Nearly two months before, in September, when he had just finished building his hut, Hiccup had been certain that he had found his true home, that his journey had reached its destination.

Alas, he needed to leave again now. He had told Toothless so as well, but he had yet to make his final preparations. He was stalling.

Leaving this island was not like leaving the others, not even like leaving Berk. He was not planning to leave a mere island this time, but the whole Archipelago. It felt like exiting the known world. Few were the Vikings who would ever contemplate the idea, and even fewer those who were said to have gone through with it. As it happened, he was going to become one of them.

But what if, as a dragon rider, he was not destined to ever find a home?

That was the question that most of all made Hiccup wander alone into the forest for those last few days, bracing himself against the cold, with his only pelt around his shoulders, his breath steaming in the winter air. He needed to accept that possibility, and, slowly, as the days of mourning passed, he decided to embrace it. The change of scenery almost began to appeal to him, eventually overcoming his hesitation.

It's not like I have a better choice, right?

Maybe he was meant to perpetually travel the world, discovering new places. Places that all the people he knew had likely never seen, and would likely never see. Even his father. He could experience lands, fate would never bring any Viking to in their lifetime, but which he could see in their stead, and flying at that. Lands that only the heroes of great stories and myths were supposed to visit. Perhaps it would even help him forget about his recent misfortunes, and the less recent ones as well. He was going to leave everything and everyone behind, except for his only friend.

To travel so much and so far was not a common thing to most folk, even Viking chiefs and their heirs. Travelers, and especially their ability to tell unheard stories, were thus always held in great regard. Even traders had similar reputations, like the famed Johann. It made Hiccup feel somewhat special, in a good way this time.

Maybe it was not so bad to become a traveler, a wanderer, even though the prospect of a home and family still lingered in his heart, now repressed. After all, the life of a wanderer was as exciting as it was frightening. The exciting part was what eventually convinced him, after a week of stalling and mourning, to pack up his things, and tell Toothless, who had been waiting patiently all those days, that the time had come to leave the Archipelago.

The dragon looked very pleased with the decision. They had not flown much lately.

Hiccup took one last bath in the broiling spring by that crevice in the mountainside. The heat reinvigorated him, yet, in part, it also saddened him. Would he ever be able to have a hot bath again? Outcasts were not supposed to afford such luxuries. Were vagabonds? Hiccup surely hoped so.

The sun had yet to reach its noon height, when Hiccup finished securing his basket on the saddle. It was lighter than before, but perhaps it was better this way. The basket did not look like it could endure many more leagues in the sky whilst full. Hiccup was still thankful he could count his most treasured belongings inside of it.

Unfortunately, one precious thing that he had failed to retrieve from the Berserkers was Toothless' birthday present, the carved plank of charred wood. He would have been unable to travel with it, he knew, but he still disliked the idea of it being in the hands of those Vikings. There was nothing he could do about it now.

It was midday, when they finally left the island. Hiccup did not look back once, fearing he might change his mind.

He told Toothless to fly towards the next island, trusting his draconic instincts. He did not care what island it was going to be; any kind of island was merely a stepping stone for them.

Of course, Hiccup did not want to run the risk of land-hunting his way across the Wicked Waters. He was hoping to find one of the southernmost villages, where he could ask for some directions. This far south, Vikings were bound to possess at least some knowledge of how to reach that foreign land.

The weather remained clear during their flight, the sun softening the winter's chill, allowing the two travelers to easily spot a cluster of tiny islets where to rest for the afternoon. After Toothless caught some fish, Hiccup chose to land on the largest islet, near its center, where the land was higher, though rockier. He wanted to have a clear view of the horizon.

"Tired yet?" Hiccup asked when he dismounted. He was joking, of course; they had flown for much longer spans in the past.

Toothless replied with an insulted squint of his eyes, and opened his maw, letting go of Hiccup's share of fish. Two haddocks flopped wetly on the ground.

"Just asking," Hiccup said defensively. "Who knows how long we'll have to fly before we find the next village."

The dragon huffed. "I can fly for as long as you can steer my tail. More importantly, how long do you plan to stay when we find the next village?"

"Not long. As soon as I make sure we have the direction right, I'll come back. The hardest part will be finding someone who will talk to me, without becoming suspicious, possibly not one of the locals. I'm hoping for some trader. Can't be too hard."

"You realize Spitelout might have already been there before us. Right?"

"I know," Hiccup sighed, "but, unless he is planning to spend the whole winter away from Berk, he has probably gone home already. I doubt we'll come across him."

"He might have left someone to wait for you though," Toothless pointed out, whilst helping his rider gather firewood. "He could have also told the 'locals' about the 'banty'."

"'Bounty'," Hiccup corrected, "and I don't think a Berkian would fit in with these southerners for a whole winter. In any case, I'll be careful."

Toothless nodded. He seemed reassured, though Hiccup knew his friend was holding back his apprehension. Shifting some broken twigs under one arm, Hiccup used his free hand to softly pat the dragon's snout.

"Don't worry. I'll have my bow with me. This time, if someone does chase me, I'll shoot." He smiled.

Toothless raised one scaly eyebrow. "Good," he said approvingly, before trotting forward, sniffing his way around a corner in the steep mountainside, in search of more wood to harvest for the fire.

Hiccup followed him, trying not to slip on the irregular ground, which was mostly made of moss-covered stone and loose pebbles. The whole island was uneven, marked by dangerous cliffs that reached all the way to the shore, speckled only by the occasional patch of grass and thorny shrub. The vegetation was sparse, more so near the highest point, where they had landed. Caves were plentiful though.

It was before the entrance to one such cave that Hiccup found Toothless, frozen on his steps. The Night Fury was staring at something.

"What's wrong?" Hiccup asked.

Toothless did not reply. Following the dragon's intense look, Hiccup found what had drawn his friend's attention. Just outside the large cave's mouth, concealed by old moss, and by the shadow of the cliff above, lay two large, winged skeletons, one at the other's side.

Hiccup nearly jumped back, thinking them alive for an instant. He had recalled the risky encounter with the other moss-covered dragon on Old Balheim, and his muscles had prepared to spring. These two dragons, however, had clearly been dead for a long time, their skulls' wide eye-sockets staring emptily. Hiccup began studying the old remains, and a sudden knot formed in his chest. Or perhaps it was the knot in his friend's chest he felt; he wasn't sure.

"Are those… Night Furies?" Hiccup murmured, looking back at his friend. He did not need an answer. Although they seemed slightly larger than Toothless, their shapes were unmistakable.

"Bud? Are you alright?"

When Toothless looked at him, his features softened. "Yes," he said with a purposeful mien of calm, "Night Furies can die too."

"I know, but… you said you've never met another Night Fury. Seeing two, like… this. Are you sure you are alright?"

"It is a bit strange," Toothless conceded. "But it does not bother me," he added quickly, then turned away, and went on to break more wood from the couple of saplings ahead.

He wasn't lying, at least about not being bothered by their deaths, Hiccup could tell, but there was clearly something Toothless was not saying. Something had happened there, and while his friend was busy breaking branches for the fire, Hiccup took a closer look at the two moss-covered skeletons.

One of the Night Furies had been most likely killed by a fallen rock from the cliff above, the dragon's side and ribs crushed under the impact of the heavy boulder.

Baldur's luck, Hiccup thought sadly, taking a few steps back from the cave's entrance. The uneven cliff above could still be brittle. Then, Hiccup looked at the second Night Fury. Its skeleton seemed quite intact; the fallen boulder had killed only one of the two dragons. Why had the other died?

Before he could relay the conundrum to his friend, Hiccup remembered an old conversation with his friend.

'We don't have families,' Toothless had once said. 'We always fly alone.'

Had Toothless lied? It seemed unlikely. But if it was true that Night Furies were solitary dragons, then what were the odds of finding two of them dead right next to each other? It made little sense. According to what Toothless had said, mating was supposed to be the only time when two Night Furies were together. But what were the odds? And again, how had the second dragon died?

When Toothless returned with a mouthful of broken branches and twigs, Hiccup was ready to spill all those questions. Yet, as soon as he saw the somber cast in the dragon's large eyes, he found he could not voice the words.

"Can we light the fire somewhere else?" Toothless asked.

Hiccup agreed without protest, as if tasting the unease in the dragon's request. After one last glance towards the two old skeletons, Hiccup set up camp back at their landing spot, where he had left his fish. While they could no longer see the remains of the two Night Furies, their presence seemed to linger in both their minds.

Something was wrong with what they had witnessed, Hiccup could feel it, but he could also feel his friend's deep unease on the matter, and the latter sensation was the stronger one, so he decided not to pry, forcing his curiosity to sit quietly at the back of his mind. One day he was going to ask about it.

As he chewed on his bland meal, serving himself hot slabs of haddock, with his knife in place of a spoon, Hiccup became abruptly aware of the silence that had fallen between them. He had not said a word, all for fear of leading the conversation in a direction Toothless was pointedly trying to avoid.

He stopped chewing, ready to break that silence. However, when he saw Toothless raise an uncharacteristically reserved, sideways glance, Hiccup went on chewing, and tried to find interest first in the burning wood, then in the rocky landscape, then towards the horizon, whilst he finished eating one of his two haddocks.

Although his bony buttocks could have used a bit more rest from the saddle, Hiccup rose as soon as he was done eating, dusting himself off. He cleaned his knife, first on a piece of burning wood, then on his woolen breeches, and he finally thrust the blade back into its sheath by the rope he used as a belt.

"Let's go. Night falls quick this time of year," he said, sure that Toothless was even more eager to leave this place than he was.

Apart from setting and resetting their direction, the two of them did not speak. They both scanned the horizon, flying attentively, until their shadow upon the sea's surface had reached far enough east, to their left, that Hiccup could no longer see it. The sun was truly setting fast.

Before Hiccup could voice the suggestion to rest for the night on the next rock in their path, whatever the size, Toothless crooned softly.

"Found something?" Hiccup asked.

"Yes, there," the dragon replied, picking up speed and banking smoothly to the right.

Hiccup noticed a hazy silhouette in the distance, an island. "Is there a village?"

"I can smell humans," Toothless said. Then, betraying some worry, he added: "Lots of them."

Sucking in a breath of trepidation, Hiccup prepared for what was hopefully going to be his last visit to a Viking village for a long time. He shuddered, though it was partly from the cold.

Every time evening caught them flying against the winter winds, even the Night Fury's warmth was not enough to keep Hiccup from shivering. This evening, after flying for so long, he could barely feel his fingers. His knees and thighs were numb, and the sole certainty that he still had a nose resided in the constant sniffling of his nostrils; only his lips were burning, alternately parched and cracked by the wind, and then inflamed by his own tongue.

By the time they closed in on the island, the sun had set completely, though Hiccup could still see the village, bathed by cooling twilight. A swarm of tiny firelights, hearths, candles, oil-lamps, were starting to bead on the steep hillside, from the thick cluster of wooden buildings at the top, all the way down to the natural crescent-shaped harbor by the shore.

It was the most crowded harbor Hiccup had ever seen. More than fifty ships and longboats were moored at the docks, so tightly crammed, that they bounced on each other as the gentle waves of evening washed against the rocky coast.

The sea, warmed by a whole day of sunshine, was already starting to steam with the abrupt chill of nightfall. Slowly, thick mist began to cradle the many wooden hulls, and rise up the lower streets of the village. The sea-mist parted where a few ships were still moving, reaching the docks for the night, their sails displaying crests Hiccup had either seen only very recently, or that he was seeing today for the first time.

His attention was caught by a ship flaunting the latter kind of sails. On its stern, big, carved runes spelled the words 'Aegir's Blessing'. There were also two more ships of similar size already docked in the harbor, with their sails rolled up. These three ships were the biggest Hiccup had ever seen, towering easily over every other longboat. They were even bigger than Johan's so-called Mare of Misery, which was already so large, it had room for actual sleeping chambers below the main deck, and even more room for storage underneath, deep within its hull.

Two of those larger ships also looked newer than Johan's. They probably belonged to prominent traders, chiefs, or jarls. Maybe these were the kinds of ships used for travelling across the Wicked Waters. So it was probably all true, the mainland was real, and it could not be very far. Perhaps some of Johan's tales weren't made up after all.

The sudden realization made Hiccup's jaw slack with wonder. He had to close his mouth quickly though, as the wind of their flight filled his throat with air, and made his cheeks puff out. They began to look for a good landing spot.

After nine months of exile, both rider and dragon had learnt the procedure well. They found a small clearing in the woods, a scrubby forest barely thickened by low ferns and shrubs. As Toothless sniffed around for traces of human movement, Hiccup made his way to the village, strung bow across his back, right atop his old, sleeveless fur jerkin. Underneath it, he was wearing all three of his shirts, with his least tattered one on top.

He left his pelt behind, however. As cold as it was, he would have been far too conspicuous with the heavy sleeping-pelt crudely bound around his shoulders with nothing but rope. It might have caused suspicion about him being an outcast, and Hiccup wanted nothing less. Apart from his newer boots, perhaps, Hiccup knew he already looked wild enough as it was, yet he wasn't feeling as self-conscious about it as he had expected; or maybe he was, but living in isolation for so long had made the embarrassment feel smaller, distant.

Led by fading twilight, Hiccup walked about half a league uphill, before emerging from the forest. He then walked half that distance again, still uphill, crossing small, irregular patches of farmland that, as Hiccup saw it, could not feed more than a hundred people. Perhaps there were more fields in more fertile parts of the island. It was not unlikely here. In a place where dragon raids were not a threat, villagers did not need to live all in one place.

Finally, Hiccup entered the village, passing through one of the gates in the wooden walls, which were typical of the southern settlements, as he had already observed in Balheim and Thargran.

He walked carefully towards the harbor, the streets narrowing, and tilting steeply downhill. In some places, the path had to zigzag its way downwards. It could not compare with the manmade path to Berk's own piers, but it was still a rather steep walk.

Once halfway down the hill, before the descent became even sharper, Hiccup turned right, entering a wider street, which captured his attention. The street developed alongside the edge of a low cliff, like a long balcony, allowing it to have a broad view of the darkening sea on its left side, as night-mist crept unhurriedly over the docks, making the ship-masts seemingly sprout out of nowhere. The street's inland side was instead trailed by wooden buildings, most of which would have all been taller than the average northern structure, if it wasn't for the shallower, thatched rooftops. A few buildings were still twice as tall though, and larger too, much to Hiccup's wonder.

What was even more surprising was the number of lanterns illuminating this street. It wasn't long before Hiccup understood the reason. Despite the late hour, this part of the village was extremely crowded.

But why were there so many people around at this hour? It didn't look like any village-festivity, and besides, the winter solstice celebrations were still a couple of weeks away. What were all these people doing, moving merrily in and out of buildings after sundown? Men of all ages, and a few women too, some clad in simple wool and leathers, others dressed in expensive cloths beneath heavy fur-lined cloaks.

A woman even wore something Hiccup recognized as silk, a very rare fabric in the north, even for a chief's son. Hiccup had never owned anything made of silk himself, but his mother had. It had been a gift from Stoick, ordered special to trader Johann.

The memory of Valka's silk dress was faint now, as Hiccup had not seen it again after her death. He mostly remembered how his mother never wore it, for fear of damaging it. She mostly stared at it with wonder, and caressed the material, sometimes allowing Hiccup to feel it too, before telling him one of her stories, using that foreign cloth for inspiration.

When Valka had died, Hiccup had looked for that silk dress, but to no avail. He had later found out how his father had burned it, perhaps with the hope it would reach his wife in Valhalla, so she could finally wear it at Odin's feast. Hiccup had cried again that day, hating his father for what he had done, but he knew now, years later, he would have probably done the same.

When the odd, silk-clad woman disappeared within the crowd, along with what appeared to be a small entourage of armed guardsmen, Hiccup pushed away the thoughts of his mother, and moved forward.

As the multitude of people sauntered up and down and across the large street, most of them seemingly unaware of each other, or simply unacquainted with each other, Hiccup began to catch sounds that were closely reminiscent of those which filled any typical great hall during a feast. Cheers, wooden mugs, clay plates, drunken shouts, crude attempts at song, mixed with the occasionally decent voice.

It was not a great hall that produced those sounds, however, but a tavern. Not a simple alehouse, like the ones they had on Berk. This was an actual tavern, like those trader Johann spoke of. Places where people could drink ales and meads of more kinds than a man had fingers and toes. Places where travellers could pay for private rooms, with higher luxuries than any Viking abode. And this wasn't the only such place on that street. Walking along, Hiccup counted five more.

How many people sail here?! Hiccup wondered. Berk had only two alehouses, without counting the great hall's kitchens, all places which were owned by the chief, and were leased to loyal families who worked them. And all three establishments had always been enough to serve the whole village, and all of its admittedly rare visitors.

What sort of village is visited by five taverns worth of travelers!? And in winter at that!

Clearly, this was not a village like the others. It looked more like a hub for traders and travelers from all over the Archipelago, and perhaps even beyond. Many people here were probably not locals, but temporary visitors, which not only explained the absurd number of taverns, but their sizes too.

This place stood only as further confirmation to the suspicion Hiccup was developing ever since he had visited the first few southern islands. These southern villages, while still inhabited by Vikings, were much more well-connected, and, to some degree, even more prosperous than the northern ones. For some reason, Hiccup had always believed southerners to be somehow inferior to the mighty northmen (it was, in fact, what everyone who belonged to the Northern Alliance was convinced of), but perhaps it was not so true.

Sure, Berkians and Bog Burglars and Meatheads, and all the other northerners were certainly fiercer, scarier, and more formidable in comparison. Yet, it seemed that the regular dragon raids (not to mention the dangerous nest-hunts) had negated some of the growth and development of the northern islands.

Suddenly, a burly, mustached man, who was standing by the entrance of the closest tavern, a doorkeeper perhaps, addressing a group of finely-decorated sailors entering his establishment, bellowed loudly: "Welcome to the Silver Dragon!" Then, with a small hesitation and a small bow, as the patrons entered, he added: "Bevenàsse a Drago Argissàri!"

It took Hiccup a few moments to realize the man had repeated the cheerful sentiment in a different language. A chill crept over him. Would he need to learn that new language? Surely there had to be people who spoke his own tongue in the mainland. He hoped it was the case, but finally decided he had more pressing concerns.

With that in mind, Hiccup considered entering the Silver Dragon, but found he could not approach the entrance. There was no physical obstacle, but the burly doorkeeper did not look like the kind of man who allowed young, ragged-clothed boys inside. Appearances had never been a reason for discrimination on Berk, or in all the northern isles, but here, at least in some of these taverns, there seemed to be different rules.

Hiccup decided to look further, walking along the street until he found a more approachable tavern. Despite the massive size of the establishment, no stern-looking doorkeeper blocked his path this time.

Warmth washed over his face when he entered, his ears struck by a loud fusion of sounds, shouted conversations, punctuated by laughs, cackles, belches, and hiccuping patrons, a good number of whom were already drunk. A stringed instrument, of a kind Hiccup had never seen before, was producing shrill plucking noises, which were not altogether enough to cover the muffled sounds of sex coming intermittently from upstairs.

Hiccup looked up, towards the high, thatched ceiling, and saw the inner balcony above, which appeared to connect the many guest rooms of the inn, their doors barely reached by the light of the long rectangular fire pit at the center of the ground floor. On the same ground floor, additional candles drove off most shadows from the tables at the furthest corners of the room.

Even without its second floor, this place was as big as any normal great hall, except of course for Berk's unique great hall, which, while perhaps not as sophisticated in architecture, was certainly leaps and bounds more imposing. Berk's hall may not have had long inner balconies or guest chambers, but it was easily the highest columned hall in the whole Archipelago.

For reasons he could not quite explain, this realization revived Hiccup's forgotten pride as a Berkian. It was only momentary, but it was this unanticipated surge of pride that helped him fend off his hesitation, as he stepped further into the tavern, trying to avoid the parts of floor where the wood was either sticky or slippery with spilled ale.

As expected, his appearance was earning him some stares, but not as many as he had feared, nor as prolonged. The few heads that paid him any mind, quickly returned to their mugs, smoke-pipes, and bowls of…

Is that mutton stew?

Hiccup recognized the delightful scent, and his mouth began to water uncontrollably. How long had it been since he'd eaten stew? Or even mutton? For the past nine months, aside from roasting fish and occasional wild meats, he had only experimented with baking bread. Yet, when it came to actual cooking, he had never trusted himself enough to try, and risk ruining precious food.

Following his nose, Hiccup moved to the counter which stood before the open passage to the kitchens, at the other end of the tavern. He still had some coin, so perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to pay for a bowl of that stew. He checked his pouch: three silver coins and two of copper.

With some disappointment, Hiccup decided it was more prudent to save his silver for the chance to eventually buy access to a map of the mainland. This left him with only two coppers to spend, which, as he observed from the patron before him, was the price this tavern charged for a single mug of ale. Whether it was a fair price or not, Hiccup did not know, since this was his first time paying in a tavern, and for ale at that. Mutton stew would surely cost more.

He had to buy something, though. He couldn't just stand there. He needed to blend in, and ale was very appropriate, not to mention appealing. Hiccup had recently missed the taste of some grown-up drink, especially whilst mourning for his dragon friends. Gobber's supply of mead had been long gone by that time, and ale was probably a fair substitute. Hiccup had never thought it possible for him to ever really crave this sort of drinks, yet here he was.

But still, that stew…

He considered trading some of his arrows, but he only had a dozen left from his forty-arrow quiver, and a single arrow could provide him with much more than a mere bowl of food when hunting.

So, as he approached the counter, Hiccup pushed his two coppers across the dark, sticky wood, towards the tavern-maid, muttering: "Ale... please."

The fat, middle-aged woman leaned forward. She wasn't much taller than him, but she still scanned him from head to toe, as if he were some tiny insect.

"Ale?" The tavern-maid repeated doubtfully.

"I can pay," Hiccup said, nodding at his coins on the counter, his two fingers still holding down each copper. He had spoken a little louder, so he could be heard above the noise.

"Ya sure, boy?" She insisted. Her accent, Hiccup noticed, was a northern one. For an instant, he began wondering about her origins. The woman went on: "Ya look like ya could rather eat. My stew is only five coppers."

Hiccup shot a longing look through the open kitchen door, towards a large pot atop a fire. He had to unglue his eyes from it with an effort.

"Just ale," he said.

The tavern-maid gave him a narrow look. She eyed his bow, then his arrows, then his clothes. At first, she seemed confused, then disappointed, then irritated.

"I'm not hungry," Hiccup lied, hoping he hadn't just offended her.

Though she looked about to grunt and shake her head, the woman, saying nothing more, dipped a clean mug into the open barrel to her side (though the word clean might have been a bit of an overstatement), and scraped its bottom against the rim of the barrel. She then slammed the full, dripping mug atop the two coppers, nearly flattening Hiccup's fingers in the process. He withdrew his hand quickly, leaving the coins.

When the tavern-maid shooed him away with a wave of the hand, Hiccup picked up the wooden mug in both hands, and stepped back, trying an appeasing smile. He was not going to buy anything else, and she knew it.

Turning around, Hiccup chose to sit at one of the empty tables by one corner of the tavern, further away from the untalented musician, who was now taking a break.

Hiccup eyed the crowd, and, after riffling through several voices, occasionally catching strange foreign words spoken in that southern language, his ears finally locked with the ongoing conversation at a nearby table. He drank, and listened to two boys, no more than a couple of years older than himself, talking about a woman in the tavern.

Hiccup looked for her, and found her sitting at one of the more crowded tables in the middle, eating and drinking with a company of men. None of them seemed intent on bothering her more than was necessary, which was not surprising, given her appearance.

She looked short but lean, with a cool intensity in her eyes, and a quiet mien of ferocity, despite her average build. Tattoos covered the shaved side of her head, while the other was adorned by many thin braids of blonde hair, their ends clinking with some beast's claws or teeth, which did not belong to a dragon, Hiccup could tell. Two short swords were sheathed in a cross behind her back; a very unusual position. Her clothes were also hard to ignore.

She wore a meticulous patchwork of hard brown leathers, plates of armor for her breasts, and what Hiccup knew was high-quality chainmail. In fact, it looked to be the tightest weave of mail Hiccup had ever seen, and, as a blacksmith's apprentice, he could appreciate the craftsmanship. He knew how chainmail was made, and he knew how hard it was to make, not to mention how boring. Hiccup had always hated bending each link, riveting them one by one, making sure each had the correct angle. Gobber (being one-handed) had a hard time with precision work like that, so he would always leave that job to Hiccup, and, to Hiccup, those were the only times when working in the forge was truly tedious.

"Quit staring," one of the boys told the other, casting a worried glance at his friend whilst drinking from his mug of ale.

"Why?" The other asked, bold nonchalance filling voice.

The first boy had started whispering, but Hiccup could still hear his reply: "'Cause look at her! She's probably one of the windblades!"

"What would a windblade be doing here in Nendur?" The second boy asked doubtfully. "What would a windblade even be doing in the Archipelago?! They all stay in Tarben."

"They travel of course. I told you, I saw one in Tinas last time!"

"Yeah, right. You keep telling everyone, and yet no one in the crew believes you. I wonder why that is."

"It's no lie." The first boy protested.

"Come on, Alvin. You've been to the mainland, what, twice? The captain's been there dozens of times, and he's seen a real windblade only once. What are the odds?"

They've been to the mainland?! Hiccup suddenly thought, sending his next sip of ale the wrong way. He tried not to cough too loudly.

After gulping down ale from his own mug, the second boy boldly added: "Besides, ever heard of a woman windblade? She just looks Viking to me."

Though he did not really know what the two boys meant by the word 'windblade', Hiccup agreed with the second boy. The woman looked very Viking, at least when it came to her features. Her apparel, however, was too unusual. The twin swords on her back in particular were something Hiccup had never seen before. But, then again, Hiccup had not been everywhere in the Archipelago.

Still, those two older boys had travelled to the mainland. Maybe he could ask them about it. He considered it, but the courage to stand up and join their table was nowhere to be found. Hiccup decided it was hiding at the bottom of his mug, so he drank some more, and listened.

"I think she's one of those Bog Burglar women or something," the second boy continued, without caring to lower his voice. He was staring at the maiden almost hungrily.

"Fjalar," Alvin hissed, "what if she sees you?!"

"That could be a good start," the boy named Fjalar drawled.

"A start?! If she's a windblade, she might just cut your head off," Alvin explained, looking away, pretending not to know the other boy, "but if she's a Bog-woman, she'll cut your head off too, 'xcept she'll bite off your balls first!"

Hiccup almost laughed at that, but caught himself. He knew how fierce the Bog Burglars' women-only tribe was, and, in part, they truly were known for being as ferocious with men as they were with dragons (in a good way, for some), but he also knew how reasonable they were too. Hiccup remembered that, of the many chiefs his father had to deal with, Big Boobied Bertha was probably the one Stoick the Vast had the most respect for.

"Don't be stupid," Fjalar said.

"You're the stupid one, looking at her like that," Alvin hissed. "You know Bog women only lay with other women besides."

"Oh, riiight..." Fjalar smirked. "Then you can have a go at her."

Hiccup heard the kick under the table. Then, the two boys were sniggering, and Hiccup found himself smiling too from his table.

Just like old times, he thought, gazing inside his mug. Me, sitting alone in the great hall, enjoying the others' jokes from two tables away.

Hiccup found he wasn't very fond of that memory of his past. Trying not to put much thought into it, he decided that the only way to dispel the memory was to get up, grab his mug, and join the two boys. The musical plucks from that strange instrument resumed as he sat at their table.

Past experiences made him expect the boys to go away as soon as his rear end had touched the bench, and, in part, they did seem disconcerted by his arrival, but they made no move to shun him. They were likely giving his company a chance, and Hiccup was not going to waste it.

"Bog Burglars don't lay with other women," Hiccup said, matter-of-factly. "It's said sometimes they do, but they often take men, though they rarely marry them. If they want to marry, they must leave the island. And if they want to keep their men close, but unmarried, they can, like one would a guest, or, some say, a slave. Few men chose to stay as slaves though."

The two boys stared at him, now utterly disconcerted. Deciding whether he was welcome or not, or whether they believed him or not, they studied him silently for a while.

Hiccup felt his back muscles tense. Had he said something wrong? He scanned their faces to see if he could read the answer. This allowed him to take a better look at the two boys.

Fjalar, the bolder one, was taller than the other, and, though less muscular, he was probably older as well. He had fiery red hair down to his jaw, and the first strands of a young, reddish beard roughened his chin. With blue eyes, he was handsome, and, considering his attitude, he was very much aware of it.

The other boy, Alvin, was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and plainer-looking. Without any hints of a beard whatsoever, he was a bit closer to Hiccup's age. Perhaps that was why he was first to break the silence:

"What happens if a Bog-woman has a son, and she doesn't want to leave the island? What happens to the son?"

Relief flooded Hiccup's chest. He replied enthusiastically: "Sons usually go with their fathers back to the father's village. It's not unusual for a family to have a half Bog Burglar son. But, as you might expect, not many wives are happy about it."

"How would you know this?" The boy named Fjalar finally asked. He did not seem truly interested; rather, he looked distrustful.

"I've been to the Bog Burglars' island." Hiccup replied, then, reminding himself to be cautious of what he revealed about his origins, he added: "once... when I was very little."

"You've been to the far north?" The sarcasm was plain in Fjalar's voice. "Have you killed a dragon too now?"

"I... no," Hiccup admitted openly, ignoring the not-so-veiled scorn in the other boy's voice, "but I've seen many."

Fjalar snorted at that, but Alvin picked up the conversation with newfound excitement: "What kinds of dragons?" He asked. "I've seen five Terrible Terrors, two Gronckles, two Spiketails, and, once, when we were sailing east of Kattegat, I also saw a Skrill during a storm! No lie!"

Fjalar scoffed again. Picking up his mug to drink, he said: "'Course you have. Next thing you'll tell us: you've danced with Freya at your cousin's wedding."

Alvin shot his friend a quick scowl, but his attention was with Hiccup, who was all but beaming back at him.

"Those are some awesome dragons," he said, smiling, "but I think, where I'm from, the Spiketails, we actually call them Deadly Nadders. We still call Terrible Terrors and Gronckles the same. As for the Skrill, I've never seen one myself, but I've seen an even rarer dragon, though I think your friend here may not believe me, so I won't tell you which one." Hiccup grinned timidly, hoping he hadn't overstepped. He wasn't entirely sure anymore; the ale inside his empty stomach was beginning to act upon his senses.

Fjalar took it upon himself to change the subject: "Tell me…" he paused mid-question, waiting for a name, betraying his first honest bout of curiosity for the newcomer.

"Oh, my name is Erland, son of Baldur," Hiccup said. He had prepared for this, and had chosen a name that, he believed, fit him better than Thormund. He had always liked Thormund, but he knew it just wasn't truly suited to him.

"Tell me, Erland, son of Baldur, what ship are you on?" There was a strange emphasis in the way Fjalar said 'son of Baldur', but Hiccup could not begin to imagine why.

"I don't have a ship." Hiccup replied.

"You are not from this place, that much is clear. So, unless you are the best swimmer in the Archipelago, you must be on someone's ship."

"I'm really not a bad swimmer," Hiccup said, shrugging jokingly at the other boys. Apparently, a slightly inebriated Hiccup was not above a little bragging. "But still, the ship that got me here has gone north," he lied. "I'm actually looking to go south. You guys know how to get to the mainland by any chance?"

At last. He had asked the question he had come all this way for. Instead of giving him a helpful response, however, his two sources of information looked at each other, then stared at him perplexedly for an uncomfortable while. Finally, Fjalar grinned with renewed confidence, thinking Hiccup's had been a mere jest, an exhibition of boldness, which could not go un-mocked.

"Well, you could swim there, I suppose. It's only about… what, three hundred leagues from here, with storms all winter and no harbor to be seen? If you start tonight, you can be there just in time for Ragnarok." He laughed heartily at his own wit. Alvin joined him with a chuckle, but, unlike Fjalar, his dark eyes seemed to believe Hiccup had been serious.

"Here you two are!" The sudden voice made Hiccup almost jump. Turning around, he saw a strong, auburn-haired man, with bushy sideburns for a beard, and a horizontal scar across his broken nose. "Hope you had your fun," he said, "the others have gone to sleep. We're sailing before first light."

"What?" Alvin complained unhappily. "But we just got here, captain."

"Aye, and we're leaving. Word is there's storms brewing worse than usual, and last thing I want is to be stuck here for a week."

"I don't mind," Alvin insisted, "I like this place. Don't you like this place, Fjalar?"

"Wouldn't mind staying a few more nights myself, captain." Fjalar agreed.

"You only say that 'cause you're not the ones paying for a spot in the docks," the captain retorted. "Every night moored in Nendur is a harder day of work anywhere else. So, we're high-tailing from this place as soon as twilight lets us see our way out this dump of a harbor."

"But I haven't had my fun yet," Alvin went on, whining theatrically. "Fjalar was just about to have his balls bitten off by that woman there. Can't miss that, captain."

The captain raised an eyebrow. "What woman?" He cocked his head at Fjalar, then followed Alvin's discreet finger to the table by the fire pit.

Fjalar scoffed derisively. "Alvin says she's a windblade."

"Hmm… that she might be," the captain said in a low voice, surprising all three of the boys, though Hiccup had still no idea what a 'windblade' was. "Better steer away from that lot. The way I see it, she'll eat you like a dragon that one, and I'm still short on crew, so I can't afford to have you killed. Go for some tavern-wench instead, or ask Alvin for a 'favor' like usual." The last part, the man said mockingly, grinning, before sitting at their table and signaling for a serving girl.

"Wha-?" Alvin squealed. "I don't do no 'favors'!" He turned to Hiccup hastily, his face flushed. "Don't listen to our captain, Erland. He's just joking. I don't do those things with other men."

Hiccup held back a grin, enjoying every moment of being, for once, just a spectator to the taunts of the table.

The captain finally turned to Hiccup: "And who might you be?"

"I'm H-Erland," Hiccup replied, his real name almost escaping from his lips. The ale had officially reached his tongue.

The man did not seem to notice the slip-up. "What's with the bow on this barren island, Erland? There's better hunting 'most anywhere else in Midgard."

Hiccup touched the bow, which he had not removed from his back. "Just like to have it ready," he explained.

"Wise," the captain said, "but if you don't plan to use it, like, say, in this tavern, you better keep it unstrung and someplace dry. It's bad for wood and string. If stave or string snap while you shoot, you could lose an eye."

"Oh…" Hiccup murmured, feeling the string across his chest. "I'll... keep that in mind." It seemed fine to him, yet a chill ran through his back. Had he really been risking an eye? Was it so bad to keep the bow strung all the time? And dry? How could one keep anything dry in the Archipelago?

"So, Erland," the man cleared his throat, "first time on Nendur?"

Hiccup nodded.

"Where are you headed?" The man was clearly disregarding the possibility that one could stay on this island for long.

"He says his ship has left him here," Fjalar interjected, betraying some unexpected concern, no longer thinking it a jest. "Says he wants to go to the mainland."

The captain raised a serious eyebrow at that. "To Erfar? No ship goes south this time of year, son. 'Specially now. Not to know of this…" He cleared some of the disapproval from his throat.

"But, I saw one of those huge ships," Hiccup protested, "'Aegir's Blessing' I think it was named, just docking here this evening. It was sailing from the south."

The captain seemed taken aback. "You can read?" The other boys joined in with his look of surprise. "Where are you from, boy?"

Hiccup replied as vaguely as he could: "Some northern… rock." He said it firmly enough to show he was unwilling to disclose any more.

The man smiled warmly, though his eyes were clearly unsatisfied with the answer. He did not press on, however, as one of the younger tavern-maids finally arrived at their table.

"Four cups of that smoky stuff I sold your inn-keep this morning," the captain told her, and she left with a tired nod.

Four? For me too? I don't have coin for any other drinks! Hiccup thought, and told so to the other man.

"Don't worry, lad," the captain said jovially. "You can't be paying when you are selling."

"Selling...?"

"Aye. Your services as sailor. How 'bout joining my crew, eh? I'm in dire need of help on my ship. Deckhands, look-outs… Men who can both read and like to travel are in short supply."

Hiccup was caught unawares by the unexpected offer. He did not know what to say. He did not know whether to consider such an offer. He couldn't even tell what he was feeling. Honored? Flattered? One thing was sure in his mind: he deserved neither of those things.

"I…" he muttered, but no other words came out.

"We only sail where dragons don't," the captain continued, "and, when the weather is fair, we even cross the Wicked Waters to trade for special goods, so you'll get to see the mainland about once a year." He paused as the small clay cups arrived; a clear, yellowish liquid filled them for only two thirds.

Picking up a cup, the man went on: "The pay is not too bad." Alvin made a funny, uncertain face at that, before grabbing another of the little cups. "And, when we dock, you can spend your spare time and coin in all the taverns south of Balheim, like these two louts." He flicked Alvin's ear hard with a thick finger.

As Alvin complained about the pain, the captain raised his cup, and gestured for Hiccup to do the same.

Shouting "Skol!" Fjalar and Alvin drank theirs in one gulp. Hiccup looked down at his cup, his emotions plainer on his face than he would have liked.

"This is one of the things I trade," the captain said proudly, gulping it down as well, then making a satisfied noise. "Comes right from Breakneck Bog. The Erfari love it. Some like it even better than their wines."

Wines? Hiccup was unfamiliar with the term, but his mind drifted quickly back to the man's offer.

"Come on, man! Drink!" Alvin urged. Then, leaning towards Fjalar, he whispered: "If he doesn't drink it, I call dibs."

Curious, Hiccup lifted the cup to his lips, and drank it all, as he'd seen the others do. Before he knew it, he was coughing, much to the boys' amusement. His eyes teared up. Whatever it was, it was the strongest drink Hiccup had ever sent down his throat.

It tasted nothing like ale, or even mead, though it looked more like the latter. The aftertaste was smoke and peat, and it creeped up his sinuses, as if he'd breathed upon a flaming hearth. A few moments later, it had the taste of dragon-raids, of wet wood, and earth, and pungent pine-sap, of smoked salmon, of salty seas during a storm. It reminded him of Berk. It reminded him of the forge. It reminded him too much of home. His eyes brimmed with tears.

"It's... not for me," Hiccup said harshly, coughing again and washing off the taste with his final mouthful of ale. "Sorry."

The captain sighed. "Still wanna try the southern sweet wines, don't you?" He shook his head affably. "Look, I'll tell you how to sail to Tinas, but just know that you won't find a single ship that goes there sooner than spring. You'll have to wait here a long time. Find someone who'll take you in till then."

Hiccup looked up eagerly, nodded, coughed again, and listened.

Apparently, for a ship, the whole trip required taking a long but necessary detour. Reaching the mainland involved first going east, to an island named Kattegat, the last of the Viking islands, then south, making stops on 'the Steps', two uninhabited islands spaced out in the eastern side of the Wicked Waters. Those 'Steps' could make the difference between life and death, if a storm caught up with the ship, and a storm usually did. (They weren't called the Wicked Waters for nothing after all.) For some reason, however, during winter, though the sea didn't always freeze as it did in the north, the storms were thrice as bad, and even the Steps were of no help.

Finally, Hiccup was told that, after reaching the shores of the mainland, most ships sailed back west, towards Tinas, the mainland's major northern city, where most of the trading took place.

Despite the ale-induced dizziness, Hiccup absorbed the whole explanation, though the only part that truly interested him was when the captain said: "Tinas is actually straight south from here, give or take a few leagues, but no captain sails that way, not in any season, unless he wants his ship to get crushed by the sea giants."

Hiccup nodded, failing to hide his excitement at the information. He did not care about the man's warnings; he had a dragon, he was much faster than a ship, and he wanted to leave the Viking Archipelago as soon as possible. He was relieved to find that the directions were ultimately so simple.

Straight south, give or take a few leagues. Doesn't get much easier than that.

"You're not really planning to swim there, are you?" Alvin asked, not quite sure if it was a joke anymore.

"Nah," Hiccup replied, smiling at Alvin, and even at Fjalar. He wished he could have been friends with the two boys, who had accepted him at their table, a ragged stranger. "Seems I can't swim that far after all. I guess I'll have to fly there. Like a dragon." Hiccup made sure it sounded like a drunken joke. It was easy, he knew he was grinning like an idiot at this point.

Both boys and captain sniggered at his boldness; a boldness which even Fjalar acknowledged with a warm grin of his own.

Thanking the captain for the drink, Hiccup slid away from the bench, and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"If you change your mind," the man said, before Hiccup could turn his back to them, "my name is Audun, my ship is called the Grey Goose. We are setting sail at first light."

Hiccup smiled gratefully, but did not reply. As soon as he turned to leave, his smile faded. Suddenly, part of him wanted to weep. Had he not been who he was, had his life been different, he would have loved to sail on the Grey Goose. It pained him to refuse a friendly invitation, when he knew very well what being starved of friendship meant.

But I have Toothless now. A life at sea is not my destiny.

Leaving the tavern with a mug of ale and a cup of that smoky drink inside an empty belly was unsteady business. Hiccup stumbled a few times on his way outside, hearing laughter, which he somehow knew was directed at him, though he could not make himself care. That was part of the beauty of drinking, he realized.

Going back to the forest, Hiccup forgot to consider the possibility of Spitelout coming here to lay him a trap. Fortunately, despite the darkness, or perhaps because of it, Hiccup returned to Toothless safely.


They had been flying straight south since late morning. It was nearly sundown now, and, so far, apart from the increasing pains of sitting on a saddle for so long, it had all gone well. Until that moment.

Thunder began to rumble to the west, remaining at a safe distance from their path, though the harsh rain and winds did not.

Cold droplets began to spray violently with the wind, washing Hiccup and Toothless from every direction. Gusts so strong, it was hard work for the Night Fury not to be pushed backwards. Whenever that happened, they had to change direction. Sometimes, the winds would help them fly forward even faster, but it was still a constant struggle.

And that was just the beginning.

Before long, Odin, or maybe Thor, or most likely Aegir, jötunn of the oceans, saw it fit for the sea to mate with the sky. A thin, coiled rope of water rose, and was drawn to the clouds. Then, there were more, dancing together, getting larger, sucking seawater into the heavens. The couple of small tornadoes Hiccup had witnessed in the past, just off the coasts of Berk, were nothing like the ones sprouting around him now. Fortunately, they were easy enough to avoid, but frightening to behold nonetheless.

The massive clouds above churned fast around those twisted columns of water, up and down, like inverted waves, mimicking the swollen sea below. Wherever the clouds broke, red beams of sunset light stabbed through, and shone like lightning, only to be suffocated again by more clouds and rain.

The storm Hiccup had been warned about had finally made its appearance, and it was turning out to be as terrible as he'd been told. What was worse, there were no islands, islets, or even rocks to wait it out. He had been promised a journey with no rest, and no rest was what he was finding.

It looked to be an endless flight, surely the longest he and Toothless had ever attempted, and by far the most dangerous. It easily explained the alleged lack of dragons in the mainland.

Can ships even make this distance? Maybe I should have listened to that captain.

It was too late now. The image of them ultimately plunging into the sea and drowning began to cross Hiccup's mind, just like the thought of throwing up. The violent movements of the wind were shoving dragon and rider both in every direction, and Hiccup's stomach, though strong, was reaching its limit.

Yet, he held on, curled almost into a ball, his foot always maneuvering the stirrup, constantly thinking if it was too soon to start shivering.

I can't afford to be cold yet. Not yet.

To think he had worn all his remaining clothes, with the large pelt tied tightly around him as the outermost layer, in a way that provided him with a makeshift hood as well. He had added the still-strung bow across his back, the pressure of which helped keep the pelt from flapping in the wind.

He had also been provident enough to store his most fragile belongings in a way that the rain couldn't reach them easily. His journal was tucked close to his chest, under his tunics. His coin-pouch and knife were tied to the same rope that kept both of his breeches from falling. The remaining dried meat was stored at the bottom of the basket, where it was driest, alongside Gobber's grooming kit, lest the delicate metal tools got ruined by rust.

His remaining stuff was also in the basket: his quiver, his hatchet, his waterskins, the spare tailfin, all stored on top of the dried meat and grooming kit. This was why, when a strong tearing noise told Hiccup that the basket behind him was breaking, he knew exactly what objects were falling into the sea.

He yelled, reaching back to keep his remaining belongings from spilling out as well. Yet, from the corner of his eye, he saw that most of his stuff was already gone; most importantly, the dragon's spare tailfin.

Toothless turned back and dove to save what he could, but the storm had already taken all but the dried meat and grooming kit, both held down on the remnants of the basket by Hiccup's outstretched hand. The meat was no longer going to last.

Hiccup took them, and stored both bundles under one of his tunics, near his journal, freeing what remained of the basket, and allowing it to be taken by the wind.

As if to add insult to injury, a wicker strand of the broken basket, somehow whiplashed by the wind, caught on the stave of Hiccup's bow, the string of which finally snapped at the sudden tug.

Before he could tell what was happening, Hiccup saw his bow leave him as well. He tried to grab it, jerking back and nearly falling off the dragon in the process, but he did not reach the bow in time, and it too was eaten by the waves.

He did not yell this time. It was no use warning Toothless anymore. Diving into this kind of stormy sea to search for it was not an option, unless he wanted to drown or freeze to death. The latter was bound to happen anyway, Hiccup thought, if they did not reach land soon. The cold penetrating his limbs became his most pressing concern, making losing most of his belongings feel much less important, except perhaps for one more detail.

When he had looked back to see his bow leave him, Hiccup thought he had noticed something that, with his luck, was going to be a more pressing concern still. Due to the violent winds and constant adjustments of direction, a small tear had started to form on the leather of the dragon's prosthetic tailfin.

Hiccup thought it had been an impression, since the downpour made it near impossible for him to see further than his hand could reach. He pretended he had not seen anything for a while, knowing there was nothing to be done in any case. He just tried to will the storm away, hoping they were close, imagining the mainland spreading wide, just behind that thick curtain of rain.

When he looked back again, he saw it had not been a mere impression. The tear in the tailfin was still there. Actually, it had grown, and, slowly, after each turn, after each harsh maneuver, it advanced.

Across the whole horizon, in place of that hopeful curtain, now Hiccup could see only a wall.


AN: The southern language will be a highly bastardized mixture of Latin, Greek, and other european languages, with the occasional Norse word thrown in. I'm choosing this mixture to maintain the perceived "southerness" of the mainland's common tongue when compared to actual Norse, which is what Hiccup supposedly speaks.

Whenever the narration will take the POV of a southerner who doesn't speak any Norse, the speech they'll understand will be in English, and the Norse conversations will be written in actual Norse, or whatever I manage to translate, since I don't speak Norse. If you do speak Norse, feel free to correct my mistakes.

I'll use all the narrative means I can to avoid writing dialogue in different languages, but sometimes portraying the language gap might require it.