New year, new fic! Welcome back to the sequel to Growing Flame. Please wipe any dirt off your feet before venturing inside.

I'm afraid my muse has been rather inconsistent lately. My passion for writing has bled away, and when it decides to show up it favors PnF fiction or an original work that is in the very beginning stages. I don't know how much longer my HTTYD motivation will keep running... Nevertheless, I will finish this and one more long fic, which wraps up all three movies and creates an ending I'm satisfied with.

I'm crossing my fingers that a week away from internet with nothing but Raging Inferno and the third fic will inspire me to finish checking all twenty-one chapters of this and get a good start on writing the next one.

I'm so sorry, but I won't write if I'm not enjoying it.

"Are you sure?" you ask, letting a fraction of the turmoil inside you bleed into your voice. "He's still so young."

You're sitting in the Great Hall, the only non-elder at the large wooden table. It's an honour, and a testament to your skill at manoeuvring. You've been clumsy, but the last five years have taught you a lot. You know how to act—you've always been good at that—and you've honed it. You learned how swiftly careless words can bring down a mountain on your head. You've learned how to deal efficiently with said mountain, shifting it back onto your enemies. Right now, it doesn't take much skill to know what the Chief's awkwardly phrased question is leading into.

"I'm not getting any younger," he declares to the entire table. "My son is twenty winters old! Many young folk on other islands are already married by that age."

You glance at the local blacksmith, Gobber, for help. If anyone's going to influence the Chief, it's him. Someday, maybe you'll be the same for Hiccup. But not yet, and until you can solidify your position, transfer of the Chiefdom would be disastrous.

You've been past the Archipelago, and you've seen the mainland. You've seen the countries as big as ten Berks laid end to end, and you've seen the terrible clash as they collide. The mainland is a war-torn place. Someday, that's going to reach Berk.

Maybe not yet, maybe not for another ten years. The fog has protected you for this long, it can do so a bit longer. But one day, it will be breached.

And on that day, Berk will fall.

You protest again, since Gobber ignored you. "He's already incredibly busy, sir."

"With what? Ever since he came back from Dragon's Edge," the Chief pauses, and looks around with a twinkle in his eye "…and defeated the dragon hunters—"

Loud cheers from everywhere around the table drown him out, and he patiently waits. When twenty seconds pass and the noise shows no sign of decreasing—the Vikings have probably forgotten why they're cheering by now, but what they lack in purpose they made up for with determination—he slams his heavy war hammer on the ground.

The resulting boom sends dust spiralling outwards in a desperate attempt to escape, and silence follows swiftly in its wake. You've long since finished your enthusiastic but brief whoop. You're focused on the Chief, after all. You're proving that you're not like the idiot fighters who surround you. You can be clear headed in excitement.

Everything you do is for the idiot fighters and their descendants.

It's an interesting hate-love relationship. At the beginning, you were fully committed to preserving Berk, in all its wild 'glory'—but now you're not so sure. And you hate how uncertain you are, how your mind screams treason but your heart knows it's the only way forward. The people of Berk are loud, clumsy and uncultured. They party and belch and fight their way through life, rude and barbaric. If you put a single Berkian on the mainland, he'd insult someone within five minutes, laugh it off instead of apologising humbly, and be ostracised instantly. The odds of a death sentence within the first three years are astonishingly high.

You hoped that the changes the dragons brought would extend to the people. Instead, it seems like the scaly beasts have only exacerbated the coarse air that surrounds the island like a death sentence.

You've seriously considered starting over with a handful of the most reasonable people. The Chief, his heir, maybe the blacksmith. You still haven't decided what to do with the riders. Fishlegs is intelligent but lacks wisdom. Snotlout and the twins are young, with potential for training, but distasteful. Same with Gustav. Hiccup's girlfriend is a definite, of course. She has the clearest head anyone on the island can hope to have without being branded as a witch or traitor and shipped off the island. You suppose you'd have to include a few more girls if the new tribe—the word leaves a bitter aftertaste in your brain—is to survive for more than a few generations, but there are potential ways around it. It would be easy to grab a few from the mainland without arousing suspicion, especially from places like brothels or as slaves. No one else needs to know their origins, and they'd look up to you as their saviour. It has the potential to be a win-win situation.

"ENOUGH!" Stoick finally roars, red in the face and spraying spittle across the table. You hastily reprise your list. Maybe he's too set in his old ways…

"He has too much free time on his hands," he announces, dragging your attention back to the immediate problem. "Dragon racing and exploring are all very well, but what about his tribe, eh? What about US?!" He pounds his chest and there's an answering cheer, thankfully kept brief this time.

Your breath catches as a new thought spirals up through your mind. What if Hiccup and his Night Fury find the mainland? He might survive—he's certainly not a normal Viking—but what happens when he comes back and shares the news? When others decide to explore?

You shudder, imagining the Thorston twins trying to converse with the upright people on the mainland. They would start a war in a day.

It's decided. Hiccup must become Chief, and soon. His searches have been growing wider and wider, and your dragon can't keep up with his Night Fury. You were lucky to get a tracker dragon; they're in high demand.

"I think it's a great idea!" you yell, throwing yourself out of your chair. "Let the Dragon Conqueror lead us into a new era, with the guidance of our Chief, Stoick the Vast!"

The sudden change of heart would be suspicious to anyone remotely skilled at politics, but you don't need to worry about that here. You've phrased it perfectly. Stoick swells with pride and excitement, and the village elders are encouraged by the mention of Hiccup's incredible title. You worked hard to establish it across the Archipelago, and it's paid off many times.

"IT'S DECIDED!" the Chief roars.

More jubilant cries echo round the Great Hall, not as loud as the announcement to the entire village will be, but certainly loud enough to make you cringe inwardly. This time, Stoick doesn't quiet them.

He beckons you and Gobber with a finger and slips away, remarkably stealthily for a man of his size. Your heart jumps in your chest. You're in his inner circle! He's trusting you!

You scurry after him, trying not to look too eager.

"Yes, Chief?" you ask innocently, as soon as all three of you are in the small private room at the back of the Great Hall.

He turns around, looking down at you, and you hastily pull the excited flush back from your cheeks.

"Thank you,' he says sincerely, sitting back heavily onto a simple wooden bench. You and Gobber stay standing, as a sign of respect. "I feel better knowing you're onboard, if somewhat…" he searches for the word, circling a hand. "Reluctantly. Both of you."

Gobber hadn't said anything during the meeting, why would the Chief—

He met with him in private, didn't he? You curse inwardly, frustration replacing your elation. It's impossible to monitor everyone every moment of the day, but it means you miss so much that might be important! If you'd been able to hear Gobber's opinions, it would make this conversation much easier.

"Being Chief isn't always… easy," he admits, and not for the first time you see what everyone else seems to be missing. He's old. And tired. There's grey in his beard and wrinkles around his eyes. His back is bowing, and he's developed a slight limp. No, he won't be coming with you if you ever leave. You can leave him on the ruins of Berk to live out his life where he grew up, a lonely shadow creeping through the forests. A bedtime story to scare children, perhaps.

Hiccup is the future, and he's the one you need to focus on.

"Will you help him?" Stoick asks, green eyes boring into yours. You resist the urge to swallow nervously. He's the one person who has experience at politics, rudimentary and crude as the Archipelago's might be, and you can't shake the belief instilled into every Viking at birth—the Chief knows all. When he stares at you like this, you can imagine he's teasing through your thoughts, combing out all your betrayals and manipulations.

Johann, Krogan, the Grimborne brothers—they're all your mistakes, played too early or too late, when fortune was against you every step of the way. It rankles, to know how they died. One by one. Pointlessly.

The only thing they did was give Hiccup a false sense of confidence. You're trying to play on that even now, and the five rolled up letters in the pockets of your black cloak—hidden back at your house, you're not stupid enough to carry it around with you—suddenly fill every part of your mind.

"Uh, yes?" It comes out like a question, and you curse yourself mentally. "I mean, yes. Yes, I'll help him."

"Good," the large man sighs. "He'll need you."

You fight to keep your lips from twitching. Oh, Hiccup will need you alright. You'll make sure of that.

uUuUu

A tiny Terrible Terror, battered and exhausted, slumps on your arm. You're standing high over Berk, on the same platform Hiccup watched from as the ships sailed off to the nest, so many years ago.

"Did you have a rough trip?" You slip the message from its leg and feed it one of the small fish you keep on your person for occasions such as these. Dragons are tiresome beasts, but they have good noses. It's nearly impossible for you to conceal yourself from them, and every day you spend with them as yourself, not the persona you've created, increases the risk. All it would take is one dragon seeing you in a compromising situation and your secret would be out.

All the more reason to hurry. You have a dragon too, but you're careful to keep yourself emotionally distanced. Still, you can't help but hesitate. What if this isn't necessary? What if Hiccup can do this without any of your prompting? He could be a good Chief, focused on his people, and leave you free to plan and prepare in the background. You could whisk control out from under his nose before he even realises, and he wouldn't be any the wiser. That would be easier, you think. It would hurt less. Both you and Hiccup.

That's the heart of your problem, you realise with cool disappointment. You've started to like the Heir of Berk, haven't you? He's charming and charismatic; even more so because he doesn't seem to realise it, and you've been a fool to underestimate that. His father and dragon are bothersome, but tolerable for now. No, the bigger obstacle, the one you're only just realising, is Hiccup himself. As he becomes Chief and gains more power, he'll start putting effort into his own projects. What he thinks is best for Berk.

You know it'll be something for dragons, not for humans. Berk is crowded enough as it is, with all the dragons that followed him home when he came back from the Edge. You've been trying to get him to send them away, but all he does is wave you off. It's enough to drive you absolutely batty! You threw your hands up in the air last time, storming off. He tried to call you back, but you ignored it. You'd hoped he would humour you, but the next day there were even more dragons.

You let a grim smile twitch at your lips. If the only way he'll learn is through experience, you're going to provide it. Oh, yes, you will. Those letters in your pocket are the first stage of your plan. Pretty soon, maybe even before the coronation, Hiccup will be so busy with your new ally that he forgets all about fully integrating dragons with humans. You know for a fact that dragons are still hated and despised on the mainland, and dodging a few of their terrifyingly advanced nets and cannons convinced you to always land a few miles from any villages. As a plus, it meant you had an excuse for being away from your annoyingly attentive dragon.

As soon as your plan starts rolling, you'll see how Hiccup deals. The few tantalising details you've squeezed out of your newest ally, Drago Bludvist, are extremely encouraging. A dragon larger than the Red Death that can control other dragons? The absolute perfect thing to destroy dragons' place on Berk. You only hope Hiccup will see that there's no safety in keeping dragons. Whatever happens, all they can do is destroy.

The ocean is cold and grey beneath you. You slide a deep breath between your lips and blow it out again, revelling in the cool mist it produces. Devastating Winter is close, which will make it all the more difficult for Hiccup to recover from what you're about to do.

You've modelled yourself on the ocean. Unfeeling and smooth on the surface, currents and sea dragons underneath. Your storms will be legendary someday, once you can openly lead. Only the fittest survive with you. You're proud to know that your family hasn't lost a member to the waves since Vikings sailed to Berk.

You pull your hood up as it starts to slip. That's the only thing that matters: the Vikings.

Hiccup's love of dragons endangers that, no matter how honourable his intentions are.

This goes further than personal dislike, you tell yourself. You won't be another Mildew.

You whistle sharply and a few Terrible Terrors arrive, jostling for space along your arms and shoulders. Suppressing a shudder like you have every day for the past five years, you pull out the small scrolls, and slowly attach one to each dragon. Three are identical, written in the neat runes of Hiccup's handwriting—or a passable imitation, at least—and addressed to the allies he's accumulated over the past few years. The Berserkers, the Wing Maidens, and the Defenders of the Wing.

The messages are warning notes, telling of a large source of new dragon hunters in the far east, which should send the enthusiastic dragon lovers running. The fourth Terror is given a message that summons such a force, the last dregs of Johann's considerable assets. They'll attack in tandem on the three islands, driving all dragon lovers to a 'safe island' you wrote about in the first letters. To protect the secret island's location, you've requested that they leave no trace behind them, and that they won't risk sending messenger dragons to Berk. The letters also promise that Hiccup is working on cutting off the dragon hunters at the root, so it might be a while before he can aid them. It's a careful plan, one you've been planning for months, and it's hard to force yourself to use it. It's stupid—what use is a plan if you don't implement it?—but you can't help doubting yourself. What have you missed? This is the first time you've tried to do something without an obvious person to blame if it's discovered. Johann and the other hunters are long gone, and why would Drago Bludvist bother with a small puny island covered in dragons?

The vast amount of gold you sent him, almost a third of the wealth your traders and hunters accumulated since you started at the bottom with Johann, might have something to do with it. You've tried so hard to keep that a secret, but it's possible someone could trace it if they had to. Stupid mainland paperwork!

The last message, the fifth, is a carefully worded missive to Drago himself. It's a bold move—some might say risky—but you're putting pressure on him to finish his dragon army and move onto Berk. 'Dragon Thief' be damned!

You're employing him after all, and even though he's obviously trying to double cross you, it's laughably clumsy. You learned from Viggo himself, one of the most successful manipulators on the mainland. Luring him in with the promise of more dragons than he could count was easy enough, and then you spied on him and peered at his neatly organised documents enough times to be able to consider yourself almost his equal. And beyond that, there are the lessons from your grandfather and Johann's ideas—admittedly, almost never useful except in very specific circumstances.

You lean back and move your arms, prompting the Terrors to take off. Swallowing a sigh of relief, you glance sideways.

"Lord," a stranger says, bowing his head. Pride flicks up your sternum from your stomach at the word. You've brought one of your smartest lackeys into Berk, and with the milling crowds and the way he excels at acting, no one has suspected a thing.

Yesterday, the Chief ordered him to help set up the finish line for the final dragon race without batting an eyelid. You count that as a success.

He speaks freely, and you don't bother to check your surroundings for yourself. He wouldn't approach if anything was watching, and this is a very secluded area. There's a cave further back, and you start heading towards it.

"Report?" You keep your voice terse and unwelcoming. You might be friendly with him, but all that means is that you're more willing to offer him a second chance if he makes a mistake. So far, that hasn't been tested.

"The Berserkers finally moved out. Their island is being cleaned up as we speak."

You nod to yourself, slipping through the narrow opening. At some point, an earthquake had cracked the rocks like eggshells and broken into a smooth Whispering Death tunnel. From the outside, no one could tell it was anything but a shallow scrape. You have the Thorston twins to thank for finding this place, but they didn't realise what they'd said. After you blocked up the tunnel in both directions, they didn't even notice one of their escape routes had been cut off.

There's a faint noise, a scuffling, and you freeze.

When an unmistakably sheep-ish bleat rings out, you let your shoulders relax a little. "Good. And the others?"

He clears his throat. "Wingmaidens have fled, taking the young Razorwhips with them. We caught four wild adults who came to the island for refuge, and the rest have been scared away. The Defenders of the Wing are gone, leaving very little for us to hide. They're efficient."

"The Eruptodon?" you ask.

"Gone. They scooped out a shallow channel that diverts the lava into the sea."

You click your fingers. "Destroy it. Let the lava come."

He nods stoically, and you glance sideways. There's no barely hidden disgust like you'd seen on Johann's face, no irritation like Ryker, and no arrogance like Viggo. Krogan always wore a cloak when meeting you, like you are doing now, and you wonder if that was specifically to hide his expressions.

It didn't help him in the end, did it?

Your new right-hand man is almost mechanical in his obedience, and strangely that makes you even more suspicious than outright disdain would. What was hiding behind those dark grey eyes, framed in yellow-golden hair? What do his furrowed brows mean?

It makes you nervous, and you turn sharply. "Is that all?"

He nods and backs away, recognising the dismissal. You wait for him to slip away, then listen to his footsteps fade away, before you can finally relax. There's still more for you to do.

You slide your cloak back and sigh in relief as your hair is untrapped. It's always so heavy on your neck when wearing a hood, and it itches like crazy. Scratching the irritation away, you run your fingers through as much hair isn't trapped in a braid and emerge with one strand. You twist it between your fingers absentmindedly, creeping deeper into the cave. There's a stray sheep here, and you need to rescue it.

The corridor is dark but even underfoot. No rocks, no roots, nothing but a wide circular passage. Whispering Deaths are truly powerful dragons, and you're wary of them. You're wary of all dragons, in fact. Any one of them could kill you if you let them, and living with them is practically begging to be made into a meal.

Hiccup's fire prevention systems are exceedingly useful, you have to admit. Not everything he does is terrible. That's why you're prepared to let him live as your ignorant puppet, rather than smuggling your way into becoming second in line. Marrying Snotlout, as unpleasant as it sounds, would be an option. Then you'd only have to get rid of the oaf and his cousin before any children are produced.

The only time when you'd step up is if everything went horribly wrong. One of Viggo's main rules is to prepare for everything, especially when things look hopeless. That's when you can't afford to wing it.

There's a thumping up ahead that draws you out of your morbid thoughts. You know why your mind is dwelling on them right now—you've entered a point where you can't take it back, and you're trying to justify what you're doing when your instincts are screaming that it's treason.

It's not!

It's survival for Berk!

The thump comes again, and you stride forward confidently. When you know this cave as well as you know your favourite weapon, there's no need to fear bumping into things. That's why it's such a surprise when your legs catch on something and you go down, arms barely catching you before your chin hits the ground and makes you bite your tongue in two.

There's a startled sheep noise from behind you, and you sigh heavily.

"Come on, little guy." You assume it's small, the noises are absolutely minuscule.

Something woolly bumps your arm and you sit up, firmly twisting your fingers into the wool. You're not going to let it escape. "Let's get you back to Berk."

uUuUu

You wander through the streets with the sheep, holding a hand up in greeting.

"Is this yours?" you ask, holding the animal out at arm's length. No one responds.

A sharp whistle brings your well-trained dragon flapping down next to you, and you wince as you're forced to shove people aside to make room. They don't blame you; you can see it in their eyes, but putting a scaly lizard above your own kin and blood rankles.

"Hey," you say, voice dripping with false honey. "Where have you been all day?"

Your dragon chirps and bobs its head, nuzzling into your hand. You don't know why it's so fond of you.

You hold up the sheep. "Can you tell me who this belongs to?"

It takes a deep sniff, sharp teeth inches from your arm, and squawks in excitement. You barely, barely manage to dodge the tail that whips around and almost knocks you headfirst into a wall.

"Watch out!" you scold, longing to do far more. Before, you could have drawn the hefty weapon on your back and sliced its smug face off in one stroke. Before, you would have been a hero for doing so, one of the best warriors on the island. You would have been praised and idolised, and you would have pretended you didn't care about any of that.

You don't, you tell yourself as you leap into the saddle. It doesn't matter that your career was stolen by Hiccup's change. It doesn't matter that you'll never be as good a dragon rider as you would have been as a dragon killer. It doesn't matter that you're only Hiccup's little sidekick, it doesn't matter that you're shamed and belittled day after day without anyone realising what they're doing, it doesn't matter that you're nothing more than another person with a devil hanging on their shoulder.

You grit your teeth and lean forward as your dragon launches into the sky with a flurry of wingbeats, holding the sheep close to your chest. At least the saddle makes it more tolerable. You resolutely watch the sky as you fly through it, keeping your body light and loose. Just because you hate flying doesn't mean you have to act like it.

"Where are you taking me?" you ask casually, making conversation with your dragon like Hiccup does.

You get a squawk in return, almost like it understood you. You shake your head. It's a smart animal, it probably heard your voice and wanted to copy you.

Your question is answered soon enough anyway. The small hut on the side of Berk's tallest mountain is unmistakably Grumples, Mildew's cousin once removed. He moved into his father's cousin's house when the old man was kidnapped by the Outcasts. Now Mildew is a permanent fixture on another island, his house had been passed on as though he was dead, and Grumbles is finally getting around to re-starting the family cabbage business.

You sigh. Mildew was a useful scapegoat while he was on Berk, and a very helpful warning when you wanted to lose your temper. A prime example of what not to do.

Well, at least the cabbage fields are better tended at the least. You, for one, won't miss the awful stench that hung around for years. It's already mostly dissipated under Grumples' steady work and care.

In fact, he's working on them now. A shovel in one hand, he's digging through the ground to prepare it for the first freezes of Devastating winter. You touch your dragon's neck and it banks down, leaving your stomach far behind. He sees you first and raises a hand in a friendly wave.

"Hey!"

You wave back, smiling. "Hey, Grumples."

He's about the same age as your parents, tall and strong. Brown hair would reach his shoulders if he didn't keep it tied back in a bun, and his beard is only somewhat longer than the Chief's brother's. He's fought dragons and has the scars to prove it. When his eyes flicker to your dragon, you make a quick gesture and it flies away obediently.

"How's it going?" Grumples begins with the general starter to small talk.

You lift the sheep higher. "Is this guy yours? Found him up in the mountains, stuck in a cave."

"I told you not to wander off!"

He rushes forward and snatches the sheep from your arms, in such a rush that his uncut fingernails leave scratches along your skin. You shake your head slightly. He must have inherited Mildew's strange attachment to sheep. At least it didn't take him three wives to get that far.

"What's his name?"

You pick up a spare shovel lying on the side and stab the blade into the earth, then lift the shovel and drop the dirt back into the place it came from.

"Moany." Grumples works his fingers through the thick woolly coat to scratch the sheep's back. "Who's a bad boy? Who wandered off and got lost? Eh?"

Moany bleats, shaking little legs until Grumples puts him down and reluctantly picks up the shovel again. You work together in companionable silence, turning soil and slowly moving up and down the field.

When he speaks again, it takes you by surprise.

"You're different from the dragon lovers, you know."

You freeze inwardly and lean on your shovel for support. Keeping your voice steady and even is the hardest thing you've ever done. "Oh?"

He nods. "None of the other fancy people would stop and help a man doing honest work. They'd try to get their dragon to help, and all it would do is stomp soil down and dig far too deep." He sighs, running an appreciative eye over you. For once, you're not mad, because you can tell he's noting the mud streak on your cheek and the lean muscles in your arms, not your soft hair or smooth skin.

You feel like a person around him.

"Thanks," you mutter, turning away to hide the flush in your cheeks.

Grumples shrugs, snorts, and turns back to his own furrow of loosened soil. "Everyone can see that you're not utterly dependent on your reptile. You stand on your own two feet, and the dragon stands behind you."

He grunts, fighting with a particularly stubborn root. "That Hiccup lad has a lot of ideas. Some good, some bad. You'll keep him straight, won't you?"

You nod, smiling brightly. "Of course I will."

"Good." He stumbles backward as the root finally gives, then tosses it over his shoulder to the pile of stuff to be burned and used as fertiliser.

The shovel bucks in your hands and you almost drop it, tightening your grip instantly. You tap the shovel against whatever it hit, listening to the sound. Careful probing reveals a solid object as large as your calf in every direction. You move the blade of the shovel and scrape away the soil.

Just a rock.

"Hey, can you help?"

Grumples comes over like you summoned him straight from the depths of the earth, and you instinctively take a step backwards.

"Sorry." He peered into the small hole you dug, tapping the rock for himself. "How did Mildew miss that?"

"He probably planted and dug around it," you sigh. It's at the very bottom of the thin layer you'd been overturning, and he might not even have noticed.

"Well, we can't leave it there."

The words sting your mouth, but you're not stupid. This will be a thousand times easier with more strength than you have. "Shall I call my dragon?"

The brief flash of disappointment in Grumples' face is enough for you to start stammering half baked explanations.

"I know it'll trample the field, but this could go deep down. Right into the bedrock."

He looks at you like you're daft, and you blink as innocently as possible. You messed up. You messed up with someone who might actually share your views.

"How would it get a grip?"

You could slap yourself. The best thing to do in this situation would be to not be in it in the first place. The second best option is to apologise, so that's what you do.

Letting him see the embarrassed flush in your cheeks, you dart your eyes away. "You're right, I didn't think of that. Sorry."

"Eh, it's fine. At least you didn't call the beast in first," he waves it off, and a rush of relief surges up from your toes.

This is something you need more practice with, expressing a watered down version of your views to someone who shares them, while maintaining your dragon loving exterior. This is a good start. A very good start.

The cover image will be up by next week.

~JustAnotherRandomPoster