Author's Camping Note: Did not get eaten by a bear.
I wanted to say again to everyone reading and reviewing that I really have appreciated your comments and attention. This has been fun and uplifting, which is a big deal for me.
Onwards.
Chapter Eleven: All Your Fault
Stalwart the Stout – one of Berk's most legendary heroes, immortalized in everlasting stone and leading the parade of statues within the Great Hall. The sculptor had carefully captured his bristly beard, his powerful shoulders, even his scarred scalp, and done it so successfully that many Vikings believed that it wasn't a statue at all but Stalwart's petrified body on display. It was said that he was the one that led the first Vikings to Berk, the first to train the beleaguered Berkians into dragon slayers, the first to get his likeness carved into the rock when he fell defending Berk against the umpteenth raid.
The torch-fed shadows covered Stalwart's stone-blind eyes in darkness, but Stoic could feel them following him as he led Stonefist around the Great Hall, the Gunnarr chief inspecting the suitability of the hall for the summit. Stoic sometimes imagined what the great hero would think of his beloved Berk now, what he'd think of Stoic and his decision to befriend the very enemy Stalwart died fighting. He had faith that Stalwart would have wanted his people to live in peace and prosperity and not continue with a pointless war, but faith wasn't truth. For all Stoic knew, Stalwart would have held up Stonefist as the ideal Berkian, not Stoic.
The inspection was a formality – Stonefist had visited Berk many years ago and had been impressed by the magnificence of the Hall. But Stonefist couldn't show any concession or weakness at this stage of the summit; he had to verify the meeting arrangements himself, not trust the words of underlings and opposition. He did leave his men outside, the two chiefs currently the sole occupants of the Hall.
"I'm surprised you don't have your own statue," commented Stonefist as they walked around another Berkian hero. "After all, you are the chief who ended the Dragon War."
Stoic laughed the thought away. "I presided over the end of the Dragon War. My son deserves the statue, but he doesn't want one."
"Hmm," said Stonefist. "Too bad. You wouldn't even need much rock." The Gunnarr chief almost laughed at his own joke when he caught the dirty look from Stoic and stifled it. "I meant that it's always good to honor your heroes."
"He is honored, Stonefist," said Stoic. "Just as we honor those who fell defending our village."
"I never questioned that you didn't," said Stonefist. "I know that you haven't forgotten all things Viking."
"We've forgotten none of it," Stoic adamantly defended. "We stand with our brothers across the sea, as always."
"Do you?" Stonefist calmly asserted.
"You dare ask that?" shot back Stoic, stopping in his tracks. "We were not the ones to begin hostilities. Your ships have been harassing ours."
"I can't be held responsible for the actions of all my people, Stoic," said Stonefist, halting in front of Stoic, "but if my warriors did feel the need to threaten yours, they were well within their rights."
"How do you figure that?"
"Take a good look at your village through our eyes, Stoic. For three centuries, we tolerated your people's lack of participation in our raids and conquests. For three centuries, we turned an eye when you began to incorporate your women into the warrior ranks. We knew you had reasons – the dread dragon race that continuously assaulted your people as well as ours. Your efforts saved us the trouble of dealing with them, and we thanked you for it. But we cannot turn our eyes away any longer, Stoic."
"I'm confused, Stonefist," said Stoic. "Is this about our dragons, or is this about Berk?"
"It concerns both," said Stonefist. "You've let Berk change too much, Stoic. You've let your son's influence override your judgment."
"My son has nothing to do with this!" growled Stoic, his temper beginning to simmer. "Say what you will of me, Stonefist, but if I hear you utter another word about my son, you'll be leaving Berk with less of you than when you arrived!"
The air between the two chiefs grew dangerously tense as they stared at one another, Stonefist flexing his fingers as if deciding how to best use them on Stoic. But then he broke the tension by chuckling and saying, "Good to see that you still get mad for the right reasons. Perhaps there's hope for you yet. Come, I require a drink or ten."
Stonefist headed for the door and Stoic followed, letting his temper ease down and praising Thor that he didn't ruin the summit before it even began. Stonefist's attitude and subtle insults had told him much. The dragons weren't the only facets of Berk that threatened Stonefist, and no amount of reassurances about Berk's solidarity with the Gunnarr would change that. Stonefist would not be easily swayed to maintain peace, not if he believed that a war would force the Berkians to adopt the Gunnarr way, to embrace dragon killing and village raiding again. Not unless he could be truly convinced that the price of peace was preferable to the cost of war.
Stoic had his work cut out for him.
Hiccup had never been through a Viking summit before, since the last one held in Berk occurred over three decades ago, but the experience was akin to your typical dragon raid – loud, chaotic, and exciting.
It was also like a dragon raid in that he was stuck in Gobber's smith shop, though this time around his banishment from the festivities was self-imposed.
"Heads up, lad," yelled Gobber as he tossed two more bent daggers Hiccup's way, landing on the growing pile of mauled weapons waiting to be mended. Then he went back to pounding madly away on his current task at the anvil, his forehead slick with moisture.
"At this rate, they'll be using sharpened sticks before sundown," he remarked. "Good thing sticks aren't in my job description."
Hiccup sweated near the forge, working the blower and heating up another pile of weapons as fast as he could, but clearly losing ground. He didn't gripe about it since it kept him out of the extra-manly contests going on throughout the village. For starters, right near the shop was a boisterous wrestling match between two half-naked Vikings, a game of throwing axes that kept punching holes in the side of a neighboring cottage, and a marathon arm-wrestling session full of strained biceps and creative insults.
Gunnarr versus Berkian Vikings – the theme of the day. The difference in attitudes was striking. Hiccup had watched the throwing axe game during one round where a reserved Gunnarr with an eye patch nailed the same bull's-eye five times in a row, all with small nods and cheers from his fellow Gunnarr. The Berkian contender, Loudbelch, could only do it three times, but the Berkians roared their support at every opportunity.
At present, the eye-patched Gunnarr lingered at the window next to Gobber, chatting it up with the blacksmith after having dropped off a pile of discarded weapons to add to their workload. Hiccup finally recognized him as the Viking that stayed Cragfist's temper two weeks ago – Gobber called him Headsnapper. Hiccup tried not to think about how the man must have gotten that name.
"Only mid-afternoon, and you're already running low on party favors," commented Headsnapper to Gobber, who was pounding an axe back into working shape. "The tales of Berk's departure from the warrior ways are true, I see."
"We may be rusty on the sharp end of things," replied Gobber. "But the ale won't be running out anytime soon."
"Thank the Gods for that," said Headsnapper. "The Chief is always in a better mood with a pint in hand." Despite his jovial mood, he continuously kept watch on the Night Fury guarding the side of the smithy. Toothless was resting on his haunches while he scanned the crowd for troublemakers. He did not like the Gunnarr at all, always giving them the evil eye and snarling if they got too close. Most dragons had been banned from the festivities – they made the Gunnarr nervous. Toothless refused to go, choosing guard duty at the smithy. No one argued.
Hiccup always felt at ease when Toothless was around, more so today. Cragfist had come to the shop to egg Hiccup into a humiliating contest of strength, the contemptuous smile on his face fading as soon as he realized Toothless was watching. He left after the dragon gave him an ominous glare. Cragfist's disdain toward Hiccup managed to make Snotlout's behavior appear almost cordial. One chief's son pitted against another chief's son – a competition that Hiccup had no intention of participating in.
With Gobber distracted by Headsnapper, no new weapons found their way to the mending pile and Hiccup dared to think he might catch up. He hoped that Astrid was having a good time – he hadn't seen her all morning, not since he sought refuge in the shop…
"Dragon Rider."
Hiccup yelped and dropped the broken sword in his hands, nearly chopping some toes off his good foot. He swiveled around to find the Seer standing at the rear exit, as cloaked and mysterious as usual. He hadn't heard anyone enter, though with the combative cacophony in the background that was hardly surprising. The fact that she had gotten past Toothless was surprising, though.
"Okay, thanks for the heart attack," said Hiccup.
"Everything okay?" asked Gobber, who then saw the Seer in his store and added, "What's all this?"
"The Seer, apparently," Hiccup stated.
"We never did have that talk," stated the Seer, her idea of an explanation for showing up out of nowhere. "Perhaps we should while time remains plentiful."
"Uh… Can't really spare the time, not with all these weapons to…"
"You should go ahead, Hiccup," said Headsnapper. "When the Seer speaks to you, it's important to listen."
"Right," said Gobber, not sharing Headsnapper's certainty but willing to go along with it for the sake of diplomacy. "Take a breather. Just keep any dire prophecies to yourselves, will you?"
Rather than go outside and risk getting manhandled by careless contestants, Hiccup and the Seer found a small alcove in the back of the shop. He still felt uneasy about being alone with her, as she remained entirely creepy despite the things Astrid had told him about the cloaked woman. The fact that she could outfight Astrid and make it look easy didn't help.
"Are you a Viking, Dragon Rider?" the Seer asked.
"What kind a question is that?" said Hiccup, flabbergasted. "Or is this a height joke? I've heard them all, you know."
"I ask because you do not approach life as a Viking," she explained. "You can be born to certain people in a certain place, but that doesn't make you one of them."
Hiccup sighed as he understood what she was getting at. "Believe me, I've wrestled with that all my life."
"Yet your insecurity has not stopped you from taking action," the Seer stated. "You've risked much in your few years, Dragon Rider. Would you do it again if required?"
"And why would I do that again?" he asked, sensing the conversation was taking a dark turn.
The Seer turned her hooded head away from Hiccup and spoke in a quieter, more absent tone. "You have heard the legends about the Seer, yes? About her ability to divine the future or know secrets that none should know?"
"Yeah, I've heard the tales, but Astrid told me that your people are prone to exaggeration."
"Yes, but not about this," she said. "I see snippets of things yet to be, parts of a whole that we cannot perceive. My people say that Odin himself grants me these visions, but I have never felt any divine inspiration. The visions simply… come, and I see what they offer. They even come true sometimes, though other times they merely warn me of… possibilities. The women of my bloodline have had this gift for many centuries, and I am the last of the bloodline. I tell you this because I do understand what it is to not be a Viking, so that you might heed my message."
"I'm not going to like this, am I?" replied Hiccup, the anxiety growing thicker in his heart.
The Seer ignored Hiccup's comment and said, "I must return to my duties now, so listen well. You are the Dragon Rider, a title that you will forever wear, just as I will forever wear the title of the Seer. Few people wear titles, but when they do they can never escape them. Titles bear responsibilities – they bear consequences. You can choose to meet them or flee from them, but they are a part of who you are. You will be forced to make many choices soon, Dragon Rider… difficult choices. And a great deal will ride on what you decide. I hope you choose wisely."
She didn't give him a chance to respond as she about-faced and escaped from Hiccup's presence as deftly as she had entered it, leaving him in a state that was two parts bewilderment, three parts angst, and one part self-pity, all blended together with a dash of resignation.
Was I cursed as a child? he thought. Did Dad get on the bad side of Loki at some point and call down a curse on his first-born? Never normal, never a moment's rest, either searching for the weirdness of life or stumbling over it. Did I blow my chance at normality, or did I ever have a chance at all?
What was the Seer's deal, anyway? Show up, deliver a vague message about titles and choice, then leave. That's not helpful, and she should stop doing it. What was he supposed to do now, just stand around and wait for those difficult choices to arrive?
Yeah, that was what he was going to do. What else could he do, really?
The rest of the day went by without any difficult choices, though Hiccup largely stayed in the safety of Gobber's shop to limit the choices to the metallurgical ones. The festivities died down toward sunset, with the Berkians and the Gunnarr exchanging their axes and knives for flagons and mugs inside the Great Hall.
A battery of meaty aromas and a wall of clamoring chatter greeted Hiccup when he entered the Hall, the diminutive Viking having to bend and swerve around the overflowing patrons. Half the people were standing around and enjoying the liberal supply of drink and conversation, a good chunk of the Hall's space occupied by the arranged tables in the back, one set for each clan and configured so that both sides had to face one another. It was bad etiquette to give your back to your opposition. The space between the tables was a speaking area for those Vikings that wished to give public pronouncements.
Hiccup noticed a few civil discussions between Berkians and Gunnarr, but for the most part the two clans kept to their own company. Some dirty looks, some backhanded comments, even an occasional direct insult threatened the peace, but the earlier physical contests had worn down the audience to the point that cooler heads continued to prevail.
Astrid and the others waved a supportive hand at Hiccup from the Dragon Squad table, but Hiccup couldn't sit there tonight. He had a place next to his father and his commanders and he was obliged to use it. Putting on his best diplomat face, he plopped down next to his father and did his best not to look at Cragfist, who had opposite seating to him. Cragfist also avoided eye contact for some strange reason, considering that the uncivil Gunnarr never missed a chance to look down on Hiccup. Maybe he'd been ordered to be on his best behavior.
"Never liked summits myself," said Stoic, smiling at Hiccup as he sipped his ale. "Lots of yelling and posturing in public, lots of bartering and dealing in private. Everyone will get their chance tonight to speak their mind, but I'll be the one stuck in the war room for the next four days hammering out the actual treaty with Stonefist."
"What's your take on Stonefist?" asked Hiccup, risking the question in the open. It was hard to hear yourself think in the din of the Hall, much less overhear a conversation that wasn't inches away from you.
Stoic waggled his head uncertainly. "He's even unhappier with us than I imagined. He'll want a lot from us, probably more than we can give."
"Like what?"
"He'll want us to start acting like his brand of Viking again… you know, real Vikings," said Stoic, his contempt for the idea evident in his voice. "He might go as far as to force us to join his clan."
Hiccup cringed at the thought. "Black and red aren't really my colors."
"Don't worry, Hiccup, it won't come to that. I've been watching their reactions to our dragons. They don't like them, but they also fear them. Their ships didn't come armed with bola launchers, either, so their axe rattlin' might just be a bluff. But I'm sure they will be even more rattled after your squad gets through with them."
Hiccup hoped so as well, though his stomach continued to tremble whenever he thought of putting his squad to a real test in front of hundreds of judgmental Vikings.
The Seer sat next to Headsnapper a few seats down from Cragfist, not touching her own drink and keeping so still she might have been asleep under that cloak of hers. Stonefist sat opposite of Stoic and talked to his son, their conversation undoubtedly mirroring Hiccup and his dad's conversation except with some degrading remarks towards Berk thrown in.
Sanctuary, Astrid's table, Gobber's shop, an iceberg – Hiccup could spend all night listing the places he'd rather be, and the evening hadn't even begun. The feasting would commence soon, followed by speeches from the heads of the clans and maybe a poem or two from some of Berk's warrior-poets. As much as Hiccup enjoyed a good poem, he had better things to do than listen to another rendition of Gobber's "The Tale of Two Toothaches." Sure as there were worms in the dirt, Gobber would work it in somehow.
Stonefist didn't wait for the grub to arrive, however. He rose from his seat and raised both hands for attention. The Gunnarr quieted all at once, prompting the Berkian Vikings to eventually follow their lead. Hiccup noticed his dad's perplexed look – this wasn't part of the agenda.
"I greet all Vikings, Gunnarr and Berkian, to our summit," said Stonefist, eliciting cheers from the crowd, some polite and some genuine. "For too long have we stood apart from our brothers and sisters across the frozen seas. For too long have you stood alone against incredible odds. Now that the Gods have seen fit to end your long struggle, we seek to rekindle old friendships and old vows. Let tonight mark a new beginning between our clans."
The crowd cheered more enthusiastically that time, but Hiccup caught a grunt of disapproval from his dad. Hiccup could tell that Stonefist was pulling a fast one, trying to seize the high ground in negotiations by appearing to desire peace. Hiccup didn't buy it any more than his dad.
"Before we begin, however, there is one matter that must be addressed," stated Stonefist. "The Seer desires to speak, and I ask that you listen to what she has to say."
Stonefist returned to his seat as the Seer rose from hers and glided to the open spot between the tables. The atmosphere around her took on an ominous feel as the crowd awaited her speech, Hiccup growing especially apprehensive as he recalled the Seer's message/warning to him.
"I have already told my people what I am telling you now, people of Berk," began the Seer, her head slightly bowed and motionless, her voice strong and clear. "I have seen a great danger approaching in the guise of a young man. He would seem not a threat by appearance, but he has conspired with alien and diabolical forces to perform acts of powerful deviltry. Disaster surrounds him, follows him, and he will bring disaster to all our people if he is not stopped. He may already be approaching your island; he may already be here.
"You will know this man by his power, for the deviltry that corrupts him protects him from harm. You will know this man as the Outlander. For the safety of your people and the friendship of the Gunnarr, should you encounter the Outlander you must tell us of his location. I would advise you not to try to stop him yourselves – that is a task best suited to our warriors."
The Hall filled up with talkative grumbles as the echo of the Seer's voice faded. Most of the present company knew about the skele-dragons and other odd happenings of late. A few even remembered Hiccup's tale of his Mainland battle and wondered if the man in Hiccup's story was this Outlander. Some would eventually connect the incidents together while adding in the Seer's warning to create a narrative stew that suggested that the Outlander was behind the recent spate of deviltry.
Stoic merely frowned and kept his mouth sealed, assuming that this was one of Stonefist's attempts to keep the Berkians on edge just before the summit got serious. He wasn't about to accuse the Seer of fabricating stories though, not with his own bubbling insecurities about the amount of deviltry his son had been witnessing lately. By Odin's good eye, he would put down the Outlander with his own hands if the devil-spawn dared showed his face in Berk. But the timing of the warning remained rather suspicious.
His mind occupied, Stoic failed to notice how Hiccup had scrunched his face into his mug, desperately trying to drown his panic attack.
Right off the bat, Arc knew something was off about the island before him.
Had the sun been floating in the sky instead of half-tucked behind the oceanic horizon, the Isle of Frost might have burned out Arc's eyes with blinding glare. A solid covering of gloss on the open sea, it was the smallest of the islands in the area and was at best a fourth the size of Berk. But it maintained a constant level of snow and ice on its surface, defying the warmth of the summer season. It didn't float like an iceberg, but it was impossible to see any landmass poking out of the compacted snow. Its flat, featureless texture was broken up by sporadic hills and fissures in the bluish-white ice.
This was the place, though. Arc was dead certain of that. His flying companion, the little dragon skull that had acted as a bloodhound to its master's essence, had exhausted all other possibilities. Arc had learned the legend about the Isle of Frost from Latimar, how it was a land of perpetual cold that could freeze and encase your bones in ten feet of ice if you walked its surface for too long.
A foolish legend to be sure, but even Cervantes would find such a dead-land unpleasant, not unless there was a purpose behind it.
If this wasn't the place, if this was yet another fake-out on the part of Cervantes, Arc would have to give up the search. He had told Nestor he'd return by the end of the day, and he always came back when he said he would. Unreliability was not one of his faults.
He's here, thought Arc, the arctic landscape became more distinct as he closed the distance to the island. The dragon skull was zeroing in on something, its pace almost frantic. Perhaps it wished to see its master one last time before the end, or perhaps it had no intentions other than to be free of Arc's control. Even though he couldn't Shroud the skull and his presence was most likely already known, Arc kept his Shroud in place. It would help to distort and confuse Arc's presence until he was close enough to the necromancer to prevent any escape.
Arc dropped some altitude as he surveyed the island, checking for any signs of ambush. He figured Cervantes had another trap in store for him, another abomination hidden in the snow or under the sea. Cervantes couldn't have much left in his skele-army – all those monstrosities took time and care to put together. But Arc dared not underestimate the man.
The central part of the island had a dome-shaped quality to it, strangely free of any icy protrusions or gullies. It contrasted with the rugged randomness of the rest of the island, piquing Arc's interest. He'd give it a look after locating…
BLAM!
Curiosity gave way to pain and disorientation, Arc shielding his eyes from the black-fire explosion that had once been the dragon skull. Prior to its destruction, the little skull had twisted around to face Arc, flying backwards with its dark orbs suddenly glowing four, five, six times as intensely as normal. Then the darkness consumed the skull, incinerating it and sending a wave of dark heat into Arc's path.
His arms caught the worst of it, singeing his scales but doing little else. His vision blurred from the intense heat, but he retained his sight. Arc cursed his overconfidence. The dragon skull had contained a piece of Cervantes's essence, and thus it grew stronger as it got closer to its owner. Arc hadn't believed it could grow strong enough to break through his control and enact its self-destruction. One more surprise from the necromancer.
As his vision slowly cleared and the cries of frantic, determined voices reached his ears, as dark shapes emerged below him and whirling projectiles flew up at him, he quickly came to a different conclusion.
He never had real control of the skull. Cervantes had strung him along, right into another trap.
They emerged from hidden alcoves, their war machines cloaked in simple pearly sheets of cloth that blended with the ice. A dozen groups with a dozen machines, all dropping their covers and manning their weapons. He couldn't recognize them with his vision still blurry, but he assumed they were men of some mercenary nature, made promises of exorbitant wealth by Cervantes. It was not the first time Cervantes had employed such callous hearts. Those men not attached to a war machine team readied their bows and fired arrows. They missed, their feathered shafts disappearing into the white below, but only narrowly, far too narrowly for a having a Shrouded target to aim at.
Then he chanced a glance at his body and saw a smoky outline with a dark residue, almost entirely counteracting the Shroud and making him stand out like a black eye on a pretty face. The dragon skull had done its job all too well.
A whirling three-rock bola collided with his right rear leg, wrapping around it. More annoyance than hindrance, Arc ignored it and reciprocated with a lightning bolt. The war machine's central launcher cracked and fell apart, the three men manning it screaming and fleeing from the wreckage.
Two more bolas collided with him, tightening around his torso but failing to entangle any of his limbs. The added weight hurt his ability to maneuver, though, and he was forced to hover in mid-air as he fired off three more electrical blasts, reducing three more war machines into rubble but leaving the men alive and screaming. Shock and awe was his style – demoralizing your enemy worked better than killing them much of the time.
Then he felt pinpricks against his back, one of which found a gap in his scale protection and sunk in. He roared out his displeasure and firing off a weaker bolt at the half-dozen archers below him, the electrical current leaping from man to man, causing the men to jitter and dance involuntarily for a few seconds before they fell to the ground. Not a lethal dose of lightning, though - he still had control.
The next bola found his neck, constricting his throat and forcing him to rip it off before he lost consciousness. The distraction cost him dearly, as another volley of bolas found him and pinned part of his left wing to his body. With only one able wing, he plummeted towards the ground.
Half blind, barely able to move his tangled body, the skill of centuries of flight experience was all that prevented his fall from killing him. He glided his way into a controlled skid that dug a long furrow into the ice, Arc roaring as his body shook and shuddered from the landing. He felt the agonizing crack of solid rock to his head as he smashed through a war machine's ammo cart, his momentum finally arrested. As the world threatened to fade to black, Arc struggled to stay awake, to move, to do something other than just die. His vision clouded as the warriors surrounded him, fear preventing them from closing the distance and finishing him off. That would change the moment he went unconscious, though.
Then a ragged form walked into Arc's line of sight, shaking his head as if disappointed in Arc's performance and growing fuzzier by the second.
"I was hoping for more of an epic ending, Arc," said Cervantes. "If you hadn't given away your barrier-field, I think we would have gotten it. Still, I got the results I wanted, and… who knows? I still need you alive for now – we still might get the ending we so righteously deserve after three centuries."
Arc only heard the first half of Cervantes's gloating spiel before the fuzziness turned to blackness.
There and back – no one would know he was gone.
Participation in the summit's commencement feast had dropped off after several hours of roast mutton and grandstanding speeches boasting of Gunnarr greatness or Berkian steadfastness. Many Vikings had nodded off or slinked away during the speeches, but there were plenty of hearty souls left who were determined to leave no keg behind. As the chief's son, Hiccup had been a prisoner to the proceedings and was only now escaping the stuffy Hall once the speeches were over and the after-speech revelry had begun with his father challenging Stonefist to an arm wrestling match.
No moon out tonight, which was perfect. A thick veil of clouds hid most of the stars, which was even better. Who needed to Shroud when you could completely disappear into the darkness?
Hiccup quickly made his way back home and spotted the faint outline of Toothless anxiously pacing behind their house, awaiting Hiccup's return. The protective dragon had not liked being forced to stay home during the commencement. Toothless's protective attitude was good for reminding the Gunnarr of Berk's dragon power, but bad for civility during feasts.
Relieved by his departure from the Hall and distracted by other concerns, Hiccup absolutely failed to hear the footfalls rapidly closing in behind him. On the other hand, he was quite aware of getting jumped on, bowled over, and then forced to the ground, two arms locked around his own and two legs wrapped around his hips. With a modest yelp of alarm, he rolled on his back with his attacker underneath him, unable to do more than futilely writhe in her grip.
Yes, her grip. He already knew who it was – the wrappings on his assaulter's arms were a big clue.
"You are not going!" Astrid declared, tightening her arms to make the point.
"Do you read minds or something?" said Hiccup, not bothering to deny his plans.
"Hiccup, I heard the same thing you did." She looked around to make sure they were still alone and shifted her voice to a whisper. "You can't go warn Nestor."
"Astrid, the Seer just declared him Public Enemy Number One," Hiccup whispered back. "He needs to be warned."
"Nestor's probably gone already."
"You don't know that."
"No, I don't," she admitted, "but think about it. What if the Seer knows more than she's letting on? What if you running off to warn Nestor leads her to him? Then not only does the Gunnarr get their hands on him, but you'll get tarred with associating with him. That'll ruin relations between the Gunnarr and us… might even start the war we're trying to prevent."
Hiccup had to admit that her points were valid, infuriatingly valid in fact. "Okay, I get it, Astrid. I having trouble breathing here, so can we pretend we're reasonable people and discuss this without the chokehold?"
Her grip slackened off and Hiccup was free to return to his feet, Astrid doing so as well. Toothless now stood a few feet away, having run up to see what the trouble was. He gave the two of them a confused stare, unsure of exactly what was going on or how he might intervene.
"It's okay, pal," reassured Hiccup. "We're just discussing things." Then he gave Astrid an irritated glare. "Some reason why you couldn't just use words? Do you really not trust me that much?"
"Me not trust you?" shot back Astrid. "I've given you so much rope that you could throw yourself off Raven Point and still not hang yourself before you hit bottom. Meanwhile, you were about to take off and jeopardize everything we've worked for."
"He's my friend, Astrid," said Hiccup.
"Hiccup, you're clear of it. We're clear of it. The whole village is clear of it. Why are you determined to get back into it?"
"Astrid, we're not clear of it," declared Hiccup. "Your friend, the Seer, made sure of that."
"I don't know what that's about," Astrid weakly defended. "If you haven't noticed, she keeps a lot of things to herself."
"Do you agree with her?" asked Hiccup, hoping for an answer in the negative. "Do you think Nestor is a danger to us?"
"No, I don't," said Astrid, not even hesitating. "I trust him more than I trust her. I don't believe he's a danger to Berk… but…"
"He's a danger to me," finished Hiccup. "Astrid, we can't keep going round and round and round about this."
"Then let it be, Hiccup," she replied, her voice growing more intense. "By the Gods, why do you need to push your luck? Why can't you ever be happy with what you have?"
"Astrid, it's who I am," he said. "There's an amazing and terrifying world out there, but I'm not afraid of it. The more I learn about it, the more I realize how much more there is to learn. Every time I think I see the big picture, the picture suddenly gets bigger. Everyone tells me not to stick my nose in things, to not be curious, to keep my head down. But if I'd listened to that advice in the past, we'd still be killing dragons. I thought you knew that about me… I thought that's what you liked about me."
Astrid couldn't answer right away, choosing to look off toward the village center instead. Hiccup didn't intend to have it out like this, to be so blunt when Astrid had been so reluctant to share her feelings up until now, but the dragon in the room couldn't be ignored any longer. Could proud Astrid handle a real heart-to-heart? He was going to find out shortly, because they were overdue for one.
Toothless must have sensed that this was a personal, private discussion, for he gave Hiccup a supportive glance and sauntered back to his yard. Hiccup thanked his friend for that – he doubted Astrid would open up with witnesses present.
She kept staring off, avoiding his gaze as if she might burn under it. Hiccup knew patience and he had given her plenty, he was still willing to do so, but the longer she refused to answer the less eager he was to hear her answer. Maybe she really didn't…
"I'm scared, Hiccup," she finally said. "I'm scared… and it's all your fault."
"Naturally," he replied sourly, rolling his eyes even though she couldn't see him do it. "What I'd do this time?"
"You made me care."
His irritation fell away at once. Not the answer he was expecting.
"I didn't used to," she continued, still refusing to look at Hiccup as she talked. "Before you came along, all I wanted was glory and recognition. I'd do it all for Berk, of course, but that was just an excuse. I wanted my own statue in the Great Hall. I wanted to be the one with a hundred dead dragons to her name. That was all that mattered to me, and I was certain I'd do it. I didn't have to brag about it – I knew I was supposed to be the next champion of Berk. It was going to kill me, that was a given, but I accepted that. I mean, why do you think I got so angry with you when you started doing better than me at dragon training? It was my destiny you were intruding on.
"And then you showed me Toothless, and you showed me, as you put it, the bigger picture. You showed me that the enemy didn't have to be the enemy and that there were better ways to live… and you showed me you." She turned to him at last and there were such a conflict of emotion on her face that it almost overwhelmed Hiccup as well, her eyes struggling to remain strong while the faintest of tears began welling up underneath them.
"You get beaten down a hundred time in a row, yet you never stop trying," she said. "You finish one crazy project and then you ask what's next. You're the worst warrior I've ever seen, but you'll risk everything for a friend. Hiccup, I like who you are. I care about you, more than I thought I could care about anyone, but you don't make it easy sometimes. So I'm scared, Hiccup… and I don't like being scared."
Hiccup came up to her and took her hands in his, wearing a warm, sincere smile. "You're not alone on this one, Astrid. I'm scared, too. I never thought someone like you could ever like someone like me, and I keep expecting you to wake up one day and realize the huge mistake you've made in being my friend. You're a warrior at heart, and I worry that someday you'll rush off into battle and never come back. I don't want to lose you either, Astrid."
"I just… I just want things to be safer," said Astrid, managing a little smile of her own. "I'm not ready for us to… move forward, not until our lives are calmer. That's why you can't go warn Nestor. That's why we need to focus on what we have in front of us, Hiccup."
That's what he wanted to hear – moving forward. Yay, yay, yay. He almost kissed her just then, he felt pretty sure she wouldn't have minded at all, but the level of her insecurity made him wait. Have it be something to anticipate after the Gunnarr had returned to their homes and Berk was safe once more. It would make all the secrets and anxiety and long days of training and near-fatal moments worth it.
"Well, it just so happens that I agree with you," said Hiccup. "When the Gunnarr are gone, we can… move forward."
Astrid nodded her approval, her smile widening as she caught his meaning. "It's only four days. We can handle four days."