There was barley a whisper of wind to disturb the black smoke as it poured out of every opening in the Haddock household and pumped into the darkening sky. The sturdy timbers that had once seemed invincible now cracked and moaned as the fire ate through the support beams. The raging inferno turned night into day as the flickering glow bathed half the village in an eerie red light. It would not be long before the legacy of Stoick the Vast came crashing down, and the dragon-loving madness was brought to an end. The crowd around him hurled insults and abuse into the sky, cursing Stoick, his son and dragons everywhere. The full anger and frustration that came with years of constant raiding and death was aimed at the traitor's home before them.

Despite everything, a sad smile was all that he could muster as the last of the sun's rays disappeared below the horizon, leaving only the unnatural blaze to see by. There was a pain inside him, and emptiness that made all of his actions meaningless. He felt bad, he truly did. Stoick had been the greatest Chief in living memory, but he had gone senile. Insane to the point where he believed that dragons were his friends. Angarr had been given no choice. If they were to survive, Stoick and his offspring had to be purged. It was as if they were amputating a rotten limb, or felling a forest to prevent a fire from spreading. They would suffer, but they would be stronger because of it. The Tribe came above and before everything, even the chief. Sure, Angarr had brought him down by manipulating a band of weak-minded fools, but at least he had triumphed where dozens of others had failed. He had done his duty, and if anything, was lucky to escape with his life.

"It was for the best…" he found himself muttering, oblivious to the heat and ash. "The strong must survive, just like I always taught you… Astrid" He screwed up his eyes lest tears betray him to the mob. He could not afford weakness, not now.

"What in THOR'S NAME are you doing?"

A heavily built figure muscled his way through the crowd, shoving men and women to the ground as he went. Wide nostrils flared as he cleared a path with his shoulders and fist. Long thin horns stood above the rest of the tribe as forced his way into the centre of the gathering. He stood tense and ready, his face bright red and damp with the heat of the fire. Spitelout was almost as strong as his older brother, but a lot more willing to use his strength, especially when he was angry. Right now, he was seething, the anger was visible with his every breath and twitch. It was boiling over, and it was clear that it took all of his restraint not to lash out. To make matters worse, he was armed.

"What in Hel's name are you doing to the chief's house? He will execute you all on the spot for this treachery!"

Angarr rose to meet him. This was his battle, his responsibility. He pushed away his grief, bottling it up for another occasion. Now was not the time. He came face to face with the most short-tempered and dangerous man in the village. He found himself looking up a figure who stood perhaps two feet above him. Angarr's voice hardened with resolve, he knew what had to be done. Strength required unity, and with the chief's brother still in the picture, there would be no chance of that.

"Stoick is dead, Spitelout. The hunters will be dragging his body back now."

For a second, the larger man froze, as if his body had forgotten how to move. There was the briefest flash of shock and pain on his face, but his brows creased, and it quickly turned to rage. He said nothing, but his eyes said enough. Angarr met his gaze with defiance.

Spitelout lifted his war hammer with both hands, and took a large step backwards leaving him enough room to swing it to its full, destructive potential. It was a traditional design, the head chiselled out of hard stone and fixed to handle that would have seemed like a tree trunk to any other man, besides perhaps his late brother. It was a rare stone polished to a high sheen that was almost indistinguishable from iron. With such a weapon, it did not matter if the opponent was wearing armour, or scales, the force of a single blow would shatter bones like glass.

A loud crack marked the end of another beam in the house. As it echoed out across the sea, Angarr realised that the crowd had fallen deathly silent, the only voice to be heard was that of Spitelout. He spoke in a calm, low voice, but there was murder in his eyes. "You killed my brother? Your Chief. Your Lord and Protector. And then you have the audacity, to burn his home IN FULL VIEW OF THE GODS!"

He swept into the attack with the ease of a practiced and skilled fighter, bellowing a war cry as he brought the hammer down over his head. Angarr threw himself sideways into a roll. Anyone else would have been crushed, their skull shattered, but the Hofferson was not just any warrior.

"Stoick was mad, a danger to us all. He would have lead the tribe into oblivion. I have done what I had to do."

There was a smooth rasp as he unsheathed his short sword. The sword was simple and elegant. Lightweight with a razor thin edge and a sturdy point. The weapon was balanced perfectly between the solid length of steel and the bare bronze pommel. He had looted it many years earlier from an old Roman fort. Whoever had made it knew that the purpose of a weapon was to kill, and not to look good gathering dust on a wall.

He looked around. His back was to the burning house and the crowd surrounded them on three sides. They had left a circle in which to fight. They wanted to watch, but none dared stray within the reach of that vicious hammer.

"He was still your Chief, and My BROTHER!"

With a cry of strength and rage, the hammer swung again, faster than before. Angarr managed to knock it off course with a tap from his sword. A quick dodge in the opposite direction and the deadly blow swung harmlessly by.

Spitelout roared a challenge, and swung the blunt tool horizontally at Angarr's head. He ducked under the attack, feeling the air rush over his head, whipping at his short hair. The swing had thrown Spitelout off balance, and Angarr leapt up to attack.

A thick fist connected with his face as roze, a heavy impact that caught Angarr completely off guard. There was a sickening crunch as teeth shattered under the force of the hit. He fell backwards, his nose a broken red mess. Spitelout was quicker than he looked, and Angarr was spitting blood because of it.

For a second the world was black, but his eyes opened to see the hammer flash in the light of the fire as it swung for his head. With a burst of desperate energy, he moved to block the attack, throwing his sword into the path of the strike. A jolt of pain ran through the nerves in his arm as the sword met the hammer. He was showered with fragments of metal as the sword shattered, bending and ripping apart under the stress

Angarr screamed and cradled his forearm, fearing that the force of the blow had broken bones inside his body. As he writhed on the floor an enormous hand grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him to his feet. He looked up again only to see Spitelout's fist slam into his gut. Angarr doubled over in pain. His arm was on fire and he was coughing blood. He could hardly breath through his ruined nose. Spitelout gripped the smaller man by the throat, and lifted him up to his eye level. His voice was pure venom.

"Now, you will suffer for what you have done. What you have done to my family, I will do to yours. I promise you, Angarr Hofferson, they will suffer…"

Spitelout threw the man down in front of the burning ruin, and lifted his hammer for the final, fatal strike. Angarr could not draw his eyes away from the man who would end his life. For a moment, time seemed to stop, and he felt nothing. No pain, no anger. He imagined Odin pulling his spirit from his body, he imagined seeing his daughter again. He closed his eyes, and waited for the inevitable.

They snapped back open as his hands closed around a sturdy handle protruding from his belt. Barely had Angarr registered what the object was when another support beam collapsed in the house, sending a jet of smoke and embers into Spitelout's exposed face, temporarily blinding him. The big man cried out in pain and frustration as he dropped the hammer with a clatter. It gave Angarr the briefest of openings.

As he climbed to his feet, he slipped the engraved dagger out of his belt and cut a deep gash in Spitelout's calf muscle. His opponent's blood spurted all over his hands, making the blade slippery in his grip, but Angarr held it firm and ready.

Half blind and reeling from his injury, Spitelout swung wildly with his fists, looking to beat someone to death with his bare hands. It was child's play to avoid his attack. Angarr darted to one side, and plunged the dagger into Spitelout's back, sinking it deep into the flesh.

All of Spitelout's breath left him as he groped, open mouthed, for the blade in his back. He twisted and stretched, but could not reach it. With his once great strength failing him, he looked up into the sky and tried to call out to the Gods, but his lungs were empty. Angarr yanked the dagger out of his back and gave his defeated opponent a gentle push. Silently, the brother of Chief Stoick the Vast slumped and fell. His body crashed into a load bearing pillar as it went, and the rest of the structure collapsed in on itself, a tower of flame shooting up into the sky. There were no screams. With one fell swoop, the Haddock household had become a funeral pyre.

The audience was stunned. They had just witnessed two of the best warriors in the village fight to the death. It had happened so fast, most had not yet realised the importance of what had just happened. With Stoick, Spitelout, Gobber and Hiccup gone, there was no better candidate for leadership than Angarr himself.

He was on the verge of collapsing from his injuries when one brave soul cried out from somewhere in the crowd.

"Hail, Chief Angarr of Berk!"

The people of Berk looked at each other in amazement, exchanging hurried whispers and comments. There was a pause, and then as one, the crowd picked up on the idea and accepted the decision unanimously.

"Chief Angarr!" another cried, followed by a resounding cheer that could be heard across the island. The new Chief found himself carried back into the village by the mass of excited Vikings, all eager to flock to their newest leader. Angarr was still in a daze from the fight, and was totally unprepared for sudden rush of support.

Although ever since Stoick had been run out of the Village, leadership had always been in the back of his mind. It was typical for the one who deposed the last chief through a show of strength to automatically become the next. He found himself smiling, more from relief then from happiness. He pushed away the guilt and pain, and let himself get swept along with the wave of emotions. That and the crowd, at least.

Doors were shut and bolted throughout the village as Angarr returned to the Great Hall. Those who had been loyal to Stoick and his family peered nervously out of their windows, shying away as the mob marched past. They feared for the future, for their families, for their tribe. If Angarr really was the new Chief, he would be looking to cement his power, and quickly. Berk was changing, and only time could tell if they would survive the long night.

A solitary gull turned lazy circles in the sky, directly above the tiny, single-masted vessel. It flew high, wheeling and swooping in an irregular pattern, Hiccup noticed. Sometimes it would pass in front of the sun, the shadow flicking over the ship for a fraction of a second before he lost sight of it in the intense glare. It was a dull grey, on the underside at least. It was almost white, but it would never be as clean and vibrant as to blend into the clouds that it idly skirted. There was not a breath of wind to hinder its flight, and it remained silent as it floated through the sky, oblivious to the plight of lesser beings below it.

Hiccup sighed, as he pondered every detail of the seagull for what must have been the tenth time. He longed to be moving, but the sail hung limp, save for the occasional ripple brought on from the gentle rocking of the waves. They had made good progress since their hurried departure from Berk, taking advantage of a stiff northerly breeze to push them south and east. However, their good fortune died just as they lost sight of the islands they had called home for their entire lives. They were stranded, with only that damn bird for company. He couldn't help but feel that the gull was taunting him from its unreachable perch in the sky. He longed to hear it call or scream, anything to convince him that it was not silently laughing.

Its official, Hiccup thought, I've gone insane, and now there are voices in my head. Again.

He lay at the helm of the ship, nestled in the nook where the two sides met. There wasn't much room in the streamlined tip; the ship was built for speed after all. He would have sat right at the front, but that honour belonged to the dragon that he was currently lying on top of. She had somehow curled into the space that was barely big enough for Hiccup's meagre frame. But she was sleeping and breathing fine, so he wasn't too worried. Dragons tended to be more durable than most. His left hand never left Astrid's head, and had been gently stroking her scales for so long that he was now doing it subconsciously. The wound in her claw had reopened during their escape, and had to begin the healing process all over again. That said, it was markedly smaller that it had been a day earlier. Dragons, it seemed, healed at a remarkable rate, but there was no surprise there.

There wasn't a tribe in the known world that didn't have some legend about dragons' blood containing magical powers. Sometimes, the great warrior would drink it and gain superhuman strength. Sometimes it would enter through a bite wound, and the injury would disappear in a matter of seconds. There was one story in particular that had intrigued Hiccup from the moment he had heard it, more so since the events of the last few weeks. Axel the Enraged, it was said, was one of the original settlers of Berk, who came from lands unknown with Hiccup the First to try and build his new life with his new family. That family was killed on the first ever dragon raid, burned in their home by a black Monstrous Nightmare. His wife, and four children, two pairs of twins, all gone. Axel, in a fit of rage and sorrow, sailed off alone into the sunset, vowing to slaughter every dragon he found and drink their blood as revenge. He returned years later on the night of a terrible raid, with a helmet made of dragon bone. Legend said that he could breathe fire, and was in turn completely immune to flames himself. It was said that the villager drove him away due to his unnatural abilities, and was never seen again.

Hiccup laughed silently. The parallels between legend and reality were uncanny, although he was confident that the stories never mentioned Axel being able to fly. He looked down at the dormant scaled beast on which he lay. Stories would be written about the two of them, he was sure. The girl who became a Dragon, the Dragon that became a legend. The dragon who had a small and not at all noteworthy companion that helped her to fly. It seemed to write itself.

Of course, Hiccup would always be living in the shadow of his father's legend, although he doubted how much that legend meant anymore, given their hasty departure from a village that now seemingly hated them. Stoick himself was manning the wheel, staring aimlessly at the horizon. From the way he partially slumped over the wooden spokes and the glazed look in his eyes, Hiccup could swear that he was in some kind of trance, or at least unconscious. Hiccup laughed again. Of course his father could sleep with his eyes open. He could do literally anything, as he had so often been reminded by his own incompetence.

The wheel was particularly interesting. Theirs was the only boat on the island that he knew of with such a device. It allowed one man to control the rudder from wherever it was mounted. Hiccup would be lying if he said that he had nothing to do with its design, but people always seemed to forget about that. Ingenious as it was, it was not the most comfortable bed, but his Father didn't seem to mind.

They had been up the entire night, running from certain death at the hands of their neighbours, an activity that was nothing if not tiring. Gobber was asleep in the small cabin behind the wheel, apparently not yet fully comfortable with sleeping next to a full sized Night Fury. There was so little room on the tiny deck, he would be practically lying on top of her, like Hiccup but much, much heavier.

Nobody had said anything since they had hurriedly set sail the night before. His Father had simply manned his post with typical determination and pushed off into the open water. Gobber too had remained silent, before he took to bed in the cabin. Astrid had curled up and was unconscious moments after stepping on board, but Hiccup did not begrudge her that, given the injury. By dawn he was the only one still awake, apart from his father's waking doze. His body had adapted to staying awake at night from his time with Astrid, but for once he wished he could sleep. The boredom, angst, worry and anticipation was making him sick.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything to break the maddening silence. The gull beat him to it, a shrill call, long and unbroken. Despite the distance, it seemed as loud as if it had been sat on his shoulder. He was certain now, the bird was toying with him, and he had lost his mind as well. The beating Sun, the lack of movement, the crushing boredom. It was finally getting to be too much.

Hiccup stood up quickly, but with blood rushing away from his head and the uneven deck underfoot, he fell straight back down. Astrid didn't move when the scrawny child collapsed on top of her. She barely would have noticed had she been awake. There was no reaction from Stoick either. He didn't even blink.

Hiccup struggled to his feet again, slowly this time. He was determined to beat the crushing boredom that was driving him insane. Tightly gripping the hand rail, he clambered over Astrid's tail and shuffled to the back of the boat.

"I'm going to try some fishing dad. Dad?"

Stoick grunted and closed his eyes. He kept his position at the wheel, but sagged visibly, as if he had just been reminded of a terrible event that was burned into his memory. If anything, Stoick looked heart-broken. Abandoned by his tribe, driven away and set adrift. For once Hiccup could actually relate to his father, although he still felt that he had more in common with a dragon. He squeezed past, gently as he could.

"Ok then, I guess I'll just…"

Hiccup opened a small bench that doubled up as a chest. It was just outside the cabin, and Gobber was so loud from this distance that Hiccup swore that the ship was vibrating. Eventually, he found what he was looking for. A sturdy old rod and some rope fibres to act as tackle. There was a worn basket with some old smoked fish in it. It wasn't much but he could use it as bait.

Hiccup made his way back to the front and leaned on the railing. He set up the makeshift rod and gently dangled it off the edge of the boat. They weren't moving, and since he only had a short length of rope, he would have to play the waiting game. Fishing was one of the few Viking-acceptable activities that Hiccup had ever shown promise in. The knack for using the right type of bait in the right location at the right time had always come naturally to him. It was something that required wits as much as it required strength, and he had exactly one half of the requirements. Still, it was better than anything else.

Hiccup's 'wits' didn't seem to matter, however, as two hours in, not a single fish had taken the bait. Sometimes, they swam up to the surface, only to brush past the bait and slip merrily away. They were so close, it was infuriating. Eventually, even the fish became tedious, and Hiccup found his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. He did not fight it, instead, welcoming his release from boredom and insanity. Still gripping the rod, he drifted away into a fitful sleep.

"No… No… don't… Not the kraken"

He awoke with a start as a gust of air blew directly into his air. He let out a not at all girlish scream as he opened his eyes mere inches from the face of a Night Fury. He relaxed after a few seconds, when he realised that he was no longer dreaming.

"Oh… Good morning Astrid"

She snorted with amusement, gesturing to the sky. It was well past midday, and the sun was beginning to sink on the horizon.

"Good afternoon? Evening? Look I'm trying my best here so why don't you…"

She silenced him with a long lick across his face, and sat back on her haunches with a stupid grin. He couldn't help but smile back, and launched into a bear hug.

"I'm so glad you're ok."

Astrid warbled a response, the meaning clear. Her tail began to thump on the deck, a loud drumming that travelled the length of the boat and back again. Somewhere in the cabin they heard Gobber complaining.

"Who ….. the name of Odin's ….. bearded sister's….. What time do ya call this?"

They both fell about laughing, but Gobber did not come out of his cabin. Stoick was awake, but he was checking the rudder at the back of the boat, behind the cabin. He acted like Astrid didn't exist. Not that they minded. As far as Hiccup and Astrid were concerned, it was just the two of them, together.

The deck rocked to one side as Astrid leant out to see the rod and the bait, her tongue hanging out of her mouth. Apparently, she was more excited about it than Hiccup was.

"Yeah, I tried to do some fishing. It didn't go very well, not a single bite. Personally, I think it's the bait, there's no way a fish could outsmart… Hey, wait, what are you doing?"

Astrid started to breathe huge gulps of air, pushing her huge chest out as she did. Suddenly, mouth began to glow blue, and a thin whine could be heard building up. With a sound that resembled something between a sneeze and an explosion, a small blue bolt hit the water, and a large bubble of steam erupted at the surface. Seconds later, countless stunned fish floated gently to the surface. Her head darted into the water, rolling the deck even more. Hiccup struggled to keep his balance. She emerged with a mouthful of fish, and started chewing them in bliss. Hiccup had just about recovered by the time she swallowed the seventh fish.

"Well that was interesting, when did you learn to do that?

Astrid gave a dragon shrug and said something in her singing dragon language.

"It just felt… right?" Hiccup asked.

She paused, and then nodded, happy that he had understood. They were getting better and better at communicating, even with the language barrier. There was something between them. Words couldn't express the odd sense of companionship that they had. They had a subconscious understanding, with mutual thoughts and feelings. The words didn't matter so much anymore; the meaning was always clear. He scratched her under the chin and she groaned in delight, quickly rolling over for a belly rub. As she did so, the deck tilted to the other side, once again knocking Hiccup off his feet.

"You should be more careful! I'm delicate you know."

She rolled her eyes and coughed, as if to say 'I'm not going to do this myself'.

"Fine, if you insist."

A sudden gust of wind tugged on the sail, and the ship lurched forward with a sudden jolt. Hiccup was thrown to the floor again, this time on top of Astrid.

"OH COME ON!"

Stoick emerged from behind the cabin, showing the first signs of life in hours. Gobber was pulling on his trousers as he came out of the cabin, also interested by their sudden change in fortune. There were several more gusts that eventually merged into a strong breeze. They began to pick up speed as the sails filled to bursting.

"HA" Stoick roared, she's moving again, and the wind is with us too!"

There was nothing that supress the simple joy of a Viking and his boat, and Stoick was beaming as he took the wheel once more. The feeling was infectious. After so long baking in the open ocean, it was refreshing to finally feel the wind again. Even Gobber, groggy as he was, cracked a smile as they began to surge across the waves. He quickly stopped when he remembered why they were there, or indeed, why he was sharing the deck with a Night Fury. Stoick spun the wheel and adjusted their course south. The boat soared across the water, not through it. There was little resistance from the thin and shallow hull. They were practically flying. Each wave was like a thermal, it carried them up and along, propelling them to record speed. Stoick had hand crafted the boat, taking great care to make it as swift and as nibble as possible, but never in all his life had he travelled so fast

"It's almost a gale, at this rate we'll be there by dawn tomorrow!"

"Dad, where are we going?" Hiccup shouted over the flap of the rigging and swell of the waves. His father strained at the wheel to stay on course, fighting against the elements and harnessing the power of the wind. He grunted an answer.

"We're going to see an old friend. Jarl Raynir owes me a favour or two, and I think we'll be more welcome on the mainland then on the neighbouring Isles, especially with that damn Dragon of yours."

Astrid looked unimpressed, but she said nothing. Instead, she turned and leant out across the bow of the ship, revelling in the wind and spray. She closed her eyes, feeling Hiccup next to her doing just the same. She was off the island, she no longer slept in fear, and at that that very moment, at the head of the ship with Hiccup at her side, she felt free.