Broken

Chapter 20: Trial and Error

She woke with a dull ache in her stomach and a slightly sharper pain behind her eyes. Her mouth tasted like damp wool, an unwanted reminder of her desperation the night before. She needed no reminders of her past behavior or her future dilemmas. Unfortunately the present, though quiet and dark and peaceful enough, was no fit shelter from her anxious thoughts and memories.

The tiny window that faced the west let in just enough of the morning's breaking light that she could see most of her small room and its contents. She glanced at the floor, easily locating the object she expected. Glaring balefully at the clay pitcher carefully set by the door, she told herself she would never again use ale to help her get to sleep.

What annoyed her far more than the expected results of using drink to still her mind was the overwhelming need she'd had for it. The thoughts that had chased each other through her mind had driven her where even the worst battle never had: into hiding. And, as she'd feared, the effect had not lasted beyond her fitful hours of sleep. As soon as she'd opened her eyes to the sound of some far off dragon giving voice to the morning sun, the same thoughts had resumed their ceaseless march through her head.

Dragons are people.

For an instant, she wanted to curse Hiccup. Yet even that felt as false and fruitless as all the justifications she'd given herself the previous evening. The mantra she'd unconsciously taken up shielded her no better against him than it did against the dragons. Telling herself that she'd had no way to know the truth did no more to lay the blame on Hiccup than it did to excuse her past actions. 'I didn't know,' was nothing more than a coward's way to defend what went before. She had to face a future that contained challenges she feared she might fail. And Astrid hated failure above all.

Well, almost all. Waking up from a sleep brought on by deliberately drinking too much ale was currently at the top of the list.

The pitcher was empty. It had done its job. Now the sun was up and she had her own job to attend. But it was a job she had no idea how to do. Learning to use a bow instead of an axe had been hard but manageable. Learning to live with dragons instead of killing them had been interesting and difficult in ways she'd never suspected but still she had found a way to succeed. This new change, however, was making a mockery of too many of the important things she believed about herself and her world.

The dragon in the distance sounded off again, making her realize she was stalling. It was time to move, time to act. Her stomach gave voice to its separate concerns, almost as if answering the Zippleback that was challenging the dawn. Reflexively she fell back to her morning routines, using the comfort of those normal behaviors to ease both her mind and her body. It might last only until she stepped outside, but by then she would be closer to being prepared for whatever the day brought her.

She exchanged her thin linen sleeping shift for her usual wool and leather garments. She pushed aside the old blanket that separated her small room under the stairs from the rest of the main room. The hearth had only a small cook fire going, the steaming porridge of her parent's breakfast filling the air with its tempting aroma. A bit of honey and a handful of the sweet red berries that could be found inland had been added and took her mind off things she couldn't solve. Hunger, at least, she could handle.

Her mother was sitting outside. The first rays of easterly light were giving her skin and hair a glow that did much to ease what years of hard living had done to her. She turned and gave her daughter a smile full of warmth and affection. The thin scar on her upper lip twisted the expression just slightly but years of familiarity with the sight dispelled the effect to Astrid's eyes.

Neither her father nor her dragon was in sight. Hallfrid Hofferson had said he would be taking his turn out on one of the fishing boats so she wasn't surprised by his absence. She had been surprised, and distressed, by his request that she send Folkvardr out to follow the fleet and imitate the efforts of Jaspin's Bitequick so they might have a larger catch. Coming on the heels of Hiccup's revelation about the true nature of dragons as it did, she found herself unable to form a meaningful answer. She had shrugged uncomfortably and turned her face away to hide the confusion and unhappiness she felt she must be showing. "I'll see what I can do," was all she'd been able to promise.

She didn't know where her Nadder was but it was likely he was lounging in the sturdy wooden lean-to her family had built behind the house. While certainly not a lazy dragon, Folkvardr would often rest as late into the morning as his rider would let him. Unless hunger drove him out to go hunting, of course.

Astrid finished her porridge while her mother worked on a dyed woolen cloak trimmed with rabbit fur. It was to be a gift to Spitelout from Halla. They talked a bit, exchanging village gossip and discussing family plans. The idea of locating other Viking tribes and beginning trade had gotten her father to encourage her mother to consider the idea of using her skills at making clothes to earn a better living. To her dismay that reminded her of Ruffnut's warning about the consequences of meeting other clans. Between the effects of the ale, the Thorston girl's news and Hiccup's surprise, her morning porridge failed to calm her stomach.

She excused herself, wiped out the bowl and put it away. It was time; delaying further would accomplish nothing. Her legs felt wooden as she moved down the steps and around to the back of the house. She almost hoped Folkvardr wouldn't be there in his stall. Even a few more hours might help her prepare for what she had to do.

There was no disguising that folly, though. She'd never run from a fight and she wouldn't start now. Granted that this would not be any form of combat, it still promised to be as difficult as if the large reptile she sought would attack her on sight. She leaned a hand against the side of the house for one last moment, gathering her courage. It needed to be done and she'd waited too long as it was. It was best to get it over with, whatever the results.

He was there, his legs and wings folded and his belly pressed to the ground. His head was tipped forward and the end of his snout nearly met the packed earth. He roused at the sound of her scuffing footsteps. The gleaming eyes opened and the head rose upward quickly, birdlike.

Folkvardr greeted her with his usual display of stretching and fluttering of cramped wings. He chittered and chortled at her amicably, nudging her shoulder once. Astrid rubbed her hands along the fleshy jowls, scratching here and there. She avoided the large open nostrils and the wide set eyes; the dragon was sensitive about being touched in those areas. She caressed the wide tip of his snout up to the great curving horn that arched over the top of his head and smiled at him.

"How are you this morning, you handsome fellow? Are you hungry?"

To her own ears the words she spoke sounded somewhat hollow and strained. She didn't know if her disquiet was showing on her face or if the Nadder even paid attention to such details. But she tried to reassure herself that this was still her dragon, her friend.

Her friend? That thought stilled her hands and she stared at the large beast before her. Folkvardr seemed unchanged to her eyes, regardless of what Hiccup had said. She couldn't help but think of him as an animal as he nosed her clothes gently, perhaps looking to see if she'd brought him a treat of dried mutton as she sometimes did. How could Folkvardr be a person when he acted much the same as a cat or a sheep? He was unfocussed, interested only in what sight and smell could tell him. Could there truly be deeper thoughts working their way through his large, domed skull?

Astrid found herself wondering if it was only the Night Fury that could give the impression of intelligence. That one was special, no doubt. None of the other, more common dragon species could match it in sheer cleverness or raw intuition. She had suspicions that Hiccup may have even influenced the black dragon's behavior in that regard.

But he'd been so insistent. He'd even challenged her, daring her to discover the truth for herself. And Astrid had never let a challenge like that go unanswered.

As she stared at the multicolored scales that ranged across Folkvardr's wide, round face, she realized she didn't want to answer that challenge. She really didn't want dragons to be people.

If her Nadder was a person, how could she face him knowing she'd tried so many times to gain glory and recognition by killing him? How could she talk to him when she regularly sat astride his shoulders and rode him like an animal? She couldn't reconcile the two views. How could she be around him at all, after all the things that had gone between them? Before the battle or after, she'd not treated him like a person at all, and if he was truly a person...

Guilt was not an emotion she was used to feeling. She didn't like it, despite caring for Folkvardr very much.

Astrid had stared at him so long his eyes had started to droop and his head to lower. He's not being fed or exercised so he's bored, she realized. He's like a cat, interested only in things that immediately stimulate him. The dragon was an animal and that was that. Hiccup was simply wrong.

And she would prove it.

With a sly smile crossing her face, she rubbed Folkvardr's scaly muzzle to bring him back to wakefulness. The eyes opened and he chirruped quietly. She cleared her throat.

"Folkvardr," she said slowly and distinctly, "can you understand what I'm saying to you?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't answer, according to Hiccup. Dragons didn't have the mouth or throat for it. But he did react. And that was just as bad.

Her dragon stopped moving and just stared at her. Nadders were birdlike in many respects and one of the strongest comparisons was their nearly constant motion. They almost never held still.

Several long moments of silence slid by and still he didn't move. It was eerie. She didn't know what to make of it. Was there something else that had caught his attention? She turned to look behind her, but they were alone. Turning back to him, she felt her stomach protest slightly. She had to press on, had to know.

"Can... can you understand me?" Her words were barely more than a whisper.

He turned his large head and brought one eye to bear on her face. That eye, framed below by jutting teeth and above by the curve of his forehorn, bore into hers. The slitted pupil moved only slightly as it studied her face.

Astrid felt the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rise in alarm at the sudden and unexpected change in her dragon's behavior. Her eyes went wide as the implication of what this meant became clear.

"Folk," she said softly, worried at what she had started with a single sentence.

He spoke. Not as a person, but as a dragon. The growling and chirping had an entirely different tone to it, one she'd not heard before. It went on for a time, the sounds as varied and complex as what would come out of the mouths of Vikings.

This was not her dragon. This was some new creature she'd never seen or heard, one she'd never imagined. Her stomach clenched hard and she felt faintly ill. A hundred thoughts crowded into her head, most of them starting with 'why'. One repeated itself several times: why did Hiccup always have to be right?

Astrid took a step back, needing distance between herself and this new... entity. She took a second step, her heel catching on the threshold of the shelter. She stumbled but years of training kept her from falling on her rump. Without thinking she folded her off leg under her and threw her arms out and down. She ended up in an awkward squat, off balance but able to thrust herself back up if she needed to. Her mental state as uncertain as her physical, she remained as she was. This time, Folkvardr took the initiative.

The Nadder took a single step forward, his body partly emerging from the simple lean-to. Then he sat down once more, his legs and wings folded. He fixed her with a single eye and began to 'speak' again. There were sounds she'd never heard him make; hisses and clicks and chuffing rumbles from deep within his large but narrow chest.

Eventually, after having apparently given voice to whatever was on his mind, he settled down and once again quietly studied her. He gave a few inquisitive chirps but otherwise was silent. Astrid watched him, turning over what Hiccup had said and comparing it to what Folkvardr had just done. It seemed to her that he did, indeed, understand her words. But with her inability to understand him, she was no closer to truly confirming him as a person. Now that she was faced with that distinct possibility, she knew she would have to get to the truth of it.

She took a deep breath, did her best to push aside her doubts and fears. There was only one meaningful path before her now, one important task that demanded her complete attention. She settled herself comfortably on the ground, trying to figure out how she could accomplish her new goal.

It was exhausting and frustrating and more than a little frightening at times. Sometimes he would make progress only to find more unexpected obstacles standing in his way. If he hadn't already told Stoick he could succeed, he probably would have given up by now. But Kettlecrack had a point to prove and he meant to prove it. He was certain he was right, certain he could show the whole village his idea would work. Yet he spent most days wondering if he'd ever figure out how.

He'd started out simple. A thick wooden pole stuck in the ground with a cross piece tied at shoulder height had been his training target, much like Mord used with his students. He didn't have any extra armor to clothe his training poles and the boiled leather vest he wore once belonged to his father. Unwilling to risk damaging it in practice, he'd simply draped the poles with his oldest clothes. That did little to give it the appearance of a Viking but it was the best he could manage.

Once he had an appropriate target to work with he found an oak sapling and whittled it down into a serviceable practice sword. It didn't weigh the same as his steel weapon and the balance was horrible. He also had no scabbard in which to carry it. He ignored these problems, telling himself his need for it would be short lived.

Finally, not wanting any spectators gawking at his efforts, he took his wooden sword, his wooden opponent and its cast off clothes and set out for a small field inland. He called to his dragon to follow him.

Grimjaws watched with curiosity as he replanted his target in the soft ground of the grassy meadow. He had to dig deeper for the hole to support the wood but he managed it. Giving the wooden cross a hefty smack with his 'sword' hardly moved it. Draped as it was with an old woolen tunic and topped with a broken wooden bowl for a helmet, he supposed it might possibly be mistaken for a skinny, frozen Viking from a great distance.

Kettlecrack glanced behind him at his Nightmare. The dragon's attention was right where he wanted it; on him. He approached the beast, wooden sword down and trailing its tip in the dirt. Once he was standing before it, he slowly brought it up and held it before its muzzle. It lay across the open palms of his hands. He wanted no mistakes about his intentions for its use. The dragon gave it a perfunctory sniff, already familiar with it. He'd made sure of that, holding it before him every day before he mounted up for flying practice.

Once Grim had been shown the weapon and was paying attention to his owner, Kettlecrack turned and took a few quick strides toward his target. Halfway there, he broke in to a run, lifting the sword high and bellowing his fiercest war cry. He passed it on its left hand side and swung for all he was worth. His aim was true and he hit the target at the 'neck', just below the wooden helmet. The bowl went flying but he ignored it. He came back around, swinging for a devastating cut across the target's upper back. With both feet temporarily planted he was able to land a solid strike. He heard a sharp crack that made him wonder if he'd broken his sword already. But no, the sting in his hands and the ragged hole left where the wood had met and rent the aging wool told him it was the sound of a killing blow.

He laughed, thinking what he could do to the defenders of the first village he attacked even without his dragon. Fighting dragons was hard; they flew, they spat fire and they always outnumbered Vikings. But fighting other Vikings was what Kettlecrack was made for; fighting them, conquering them, perhaps even ruling them. He had what he needed to prove to Stoick the truth of his ideas. All he needed now was preparation. Grinning, he stepped back from the target and ran around to its right side, taking a running stab at its belly. The pointed tip of his sword slid into the weakened garment easily enough and the sideways motion as he ran past caused another gaping hole to appear. He hooted with pride and made a huge two handed downward cut to the nearest arm, smashing the cross pole so hard it dipped low on that side.

Again and again he ran in circles around his target, striking and yelling, stabbing and shouting until he was out of breath and needed to rest. He turned toward his dragon, panting and grinning. Once more he laid his wooden sword across his palms and slowly approached Grimjaws. The pale glowing eyes watched him carefully. He stopped before the pointed snout, still breathing heavily. The Nightmare glanced at the oak staff then back to him. He felt he'd made his point.

He stabbed the sword into the ground and went to the basket he'd hidden off to one side of the field. Reaching in, he pulled out a dead eel and walked back toward his dragon. He held it out in front of him to make certain Grim could tell what it was. It didn't take long for the beast to react.

The Nightmare raised itself up on its forelimbs when it realized what he was holding. He stopped then, waiting to see if it would take flight. When it didn't immediately fly away, he took a step toward it. It was both amazing and amusing to see a deadly predator like Grimjaws twitch backward at that simple movement. He felt himself grin as he took another step and his mount twitched once more, a low grunt coming from its throat. He held up the eel and shook it.

"Eel!" he shouted. "Eel!" The luminous eyes, pupils narrowed in alarm, shifted between the offending carcass and his face. He shook his fistful of slimy dragonbane once more and yelled as loud as he could. "Eeeel!" Grimjaws trembled slightly.

He turned and walked to his target. Making certain his dragon was watching, he slowly draped the dead eel around the target's 'neck' and backed away. The Nightmare looked from the target to him several times, obviously uncomfortable with this portion of their training. He pointed to the eel on the target and loudly identified it twice more.

Kettlecrack then demonstrated an apparent hatred for eels on poles draped in Vikings clothes. He ran at his target, swinging his wooden sword with as much ferocity as he had before. This time he concentrated all his blows around its 'neck', crushing the body of the dead eel and spattering himself and the ground with blood and crushed portions of the sea creature.

Once more he held his eel-smashing weapon before him and approached Grimjaws. He was most satisfied with the way the dragon's eyes widened as he got closer. When it crouched as if to take flight Kettlecrack stopped and stabbed its tip into the ground. He grabbed up a handful of grass and used it to scrape the worst of the eel slime off his skin. Slow steps brought him back before his mount, its eyes still wide and its posture showing its discomfort. He let the dragon sniff his hands before he rubbed the underside of its jaws. Once the beast was calm he repeated the whole spectacle, from first to last.

Grim seemed less worried the second time Kettlecrack went about showing his idea of how wooden targets and the eels they wore around their necks should be treated. He even allowed his rider to bring the blood stained wooden sword before him, lying across his open palms as before. He would not sniff at it, however. That wasn't important so he simply jammed its tip into the earth and gave his dragon a long, comforting scratch along his jaws.

The first step had worked so Kettlecrack moved on to the next. He set another eel across the target's shoulders but left it there. He moved to his dragon's side, pointed at the wool-clad poles and shouted, "Eel!"

Nothing happened. His not-so-Monstrous Nightmare simply looked at him.

He pointed again. "Go on, burn it! Eel!"

Grimjaws just huffed at him.

The only experience she could recall being as frustrating was learning to read.

She'd known the marks on the parchment stood for words and that those words could tell her things when there was no one else near to explain them to her. Runes were the voices of the dead, captured in ink and able to speak to those who could read the marks. But it took a long time for any of it to make sense to her. She'd despaired many times of learning the trick to hearing those voices. Her mother and father had tried to help, but their own skills were not that strong.

In the end it had been the challenge that had driven her to succeed. To stare at a line of intricate scratches knowing what she sought was just within reach would annoy and anger her. But it also drove her. No confusing pattern of lines would deny her. She kept at it for months, burning many candles through many dark nights.

As a result of her determination, Astrid Hofferson could read as well as anyone on the island. Except, perhaps, for Fishlegs or Hiccup.

As hard as that had been, it wasn't nearly as baffling or frustrating as trying to talk to a dragon.

Spring was well under way and most of the planting was done. The few daily chores she faced were finished and she'd told her mother she would be off playing 'catch clouds' with Folkvardr. She'd had to make some excuse; sitting in the dirt outside her Nadder's stall while trying to get him to respond to her words was a sure way to attract the wrong kind of attention. It felt deceitful but Astrid was still so torn about the whole affair she felt she'd rather taint her honor in this small way than be seen as having lost her mind.

That was how they'd wound up on one of the many bluffs that overlooked the ocean, enjoying a brisk sea breeze under a beautiful cloud speckled sky. As nice as their surroundings were Astrid was far from happy. Her efforts to talk to Folkvardr had largely failed. In his stall, before they'd left, she'd started by asking him questions. It was obvious she'd had his attention but his responses were largely meaningless to her. Some things she said he didn't respond to at all. Other things prompted him to chatter and squawk in his own 'language.' But little she did or said brought forth any proof that the Nadder could truly speak.

The only time she could honestly say they had communicated was when she realized they needed to continue their efforts elsewhere. She had rubbed his snout gently and asked, "How about we go flying for a bit?" Folkvardr had immediately stood up, stepped back into his stall and hooked his saddle on one of the teeth that jutted from his lower jaw. He brought it directly to her and dropped it into her waiting hands. He had never done that before and she once again felt a strange tingle along her arms and neck as she considered what it meant.

Since then she'd had no more meaningful response from him than she would from an infant.

"Do you ever feel frightened?"

One loud, sharp burst of screeching was followed by a strange groaning sound.

"Were you scared of the Red Death?"

No answer.

"Where do you like to be scratched most?"

Oddly, Folkvardr stepped back, raised one leg and clawed the air with the wickedly sharp talons of that foot. That was also a first for him so Astrid supposed she could count it as a small victory. She had no idea what it meant to him, though. She tried again.

"Can you speak to the gods?"

He thrashed his tail and bobbed his head once.

Sighing deeply, she leaned forward until her brow touched the tip of his snout. "Folkvardr," she moaned. "What am I doing wrong? Why can't I make this work?" She stroked his bulging jowls, scratching gently. "Am I asking the wrong kinds of questions?" She must have asked her dragon more questions this morning than she'd asked anyone else on the island in the past year. Maybe he didn't feel like talking to her.

That idea prompted a thought. It was a rather unhappy thought and Astrid was suddenly worried what might come of it. She pulled back from her Nadder's muzzle and drew her hands away.

"Folkvardr, do you hate me?"

She was grateful to get no reaction that time. Still, she recalled their time in the training arena, the brutal fights they'd had against each other. She had once smashed him across the head with a shield by swinging the axe in which it had been lodged. She'd also hurled that same axe at his head, though he'd blocked that attack easily. But there were other times when they'd damaged each other. She'd been grazed by tail spikes once, burned slightly on one leg another time. He'd gotten a nick on his leg from her and a shallow rent in one wing during a particularly desperate melee. Could it be her dragon remembered these things and had nothing to say to her?

But if he was unhappy with her, why did he act so well with her? Hunting with him was a real pleasure, flying with him an ecstasy. He'd never acted as if he held any kind of grudge against her. So why wouldn't he talk to her?

Once again she found herself comparing Folkvardr to Hiccup's dragon. Maybe Nadders simply weren't terribly smart as a species. They could be aggressive, protective, vain and a bit flighty, but no one could really call them smart. A new thought occurred to her then. Perhaps dragons were different from each other the same way Vikings were different from each other. Comparing Toothless to Folkvardr could be much like comparing Hiccup to Snotlout. The two boys were both Vikings from the same tribe, related by blood. To judge one by the other, though, would be foolish. Two people could hardly be more different.

If that were the case and her dragon was just an average intellect compared to a Night Fury, then how did one go about speaking to it and getting a useful response? Hiccup had certainly given her the impression it could be done. If he was right then the flaw had to be in her approach. She wasn't giving the Nadder the kind of stimulus he needed to respond to her.

So what would work better? Shorter sentences? Smaller words?

"Hungry?"

He actually seemed to perk up at that, but remained still and quiet.

"Happy?"

No response.

"Tired?"

He jabbered a bit in answer, but no more than that.

"Fly?"

At that instant, they heard the call of a dragon they both knew. It had just lifted from the beach where those few dragons that used the cold waters to clean themselves would go and was lazily soaring back toward the village. To Astrid's amazement, Folkvardr jumped up, chittering and screeching and flapping his wings. The Nadder sidled up to her and squatted down, a clear request for her to get on. When she paused, once more trying to solve the new puzzle her dragon had given her, the Nadder nudged her roughly with its horned snout. Taking the hint, she climbed upon his back. She had just enough time to grip the saddle's handholds before he energetically launched himself and took after the Night Fury and his rider.

His wooden sword failed him before he ever got to try using it for its true purpose.

In his imagination he'd pictured swooping down out of the sky on Grimjaws and striking fearsome blows with his sword against foes on the ground. He'd decided it was time to put his ideas into practice. He'd gotten onto the Nightmare's back without the dragon balking at the presence of his pretend weapon. He basked in the knowledge that the hardest part of training his dragon for combat was behind him. All he would need from then on was to build on what he had. Although he hadn't yet gotten the dragon to flame his eel-draped target as he'd wanted, Kettlecrack felt sure that once he got Grim to fly past it and he took a solid swing at it the idea would become plain to the creature.

He'd gotten into the air, arms braced hard against the thrust of lifting from the ground to prevent re-injuring his still healing nose and lips. He'd learned to focus his eyes on the back of the dragon's head until they were well off the ground. Once they were flying the gut-twisting fear wasn't so bad, but that first abrupt rise still sent his heart into a panicked shock.

Grimjaws had apparently wanted to go for a casual flight and headed out toward the ocean. Kettlecrack had taken the longer pair of horns in hand and aimed him back toward the target planted in his training field. The dragon had taken direction well enough. Once they were properly aimed and closing in on it, he leaned forward and lifted on the horns to point them toward the ground.

The first pass didn't work. His dragon cleared the target at such a height that he couldn't possibly reach it. He brought him around again and tried to get him to pass lower over the wooden dummy. That had worked, but it was still too high.

Several attempts later, he felt they would be close enough. Exalting in his first deadly strike from dragonback, he swung his wooden sword with all his strength.

Confusion followed, the all too familiar disconnect between what he'd been doing and where he found himself. That meant he had to find the pieces of his world, put them back together and study the picture they made. He hated that he was becoming accustomed to such moments.

He'd missed. Too high, too far to one side or the other; he couldn't tell. His sword had struck something, however; something too far into the arc of his swing. But he hadn't hit his target. He'd smashed his oak staff into the side of Grimjaws' head.

There'd been a dreadful sound, an angered shriek that shook him so badly the sky turned green and the ground became blue. But no, that had been Kettlecrack flying through the air as his dragon shook him off. He'd lost his grip on the saddle, lost his sword. He'd flailed, confused, unaware he was falling until he hit the thick grass. Then there was pain, that ever familiar reward for failure. His sword arm hit the ground, smacking his elbow painfully hard and pushing his own hand into his healing face. Either shock would have been bad enough. Both together took his breath away.

Now he finally realized he was staring at grass. It was bent and crushed beneath his cheek. He could see a small beetle moving only a hand's distance from his throbbing nose.

He rolled over, grateful nothing seemed broken from his newest mishap. He tried to sit up and a deep, penetrating ache from some hard impact burned in his neck. He rubbed it, absently realizing it was where Grimjaws' long, hard horn had slammed into him when the dragon knocked him off his back.

He'd hit his own dragon. He hadn't realized the path of his strike would carry his weapon right into the side of the Nightmare's scaly face. Where was the beast?

Looking around, he saw no sign of it.

That was the worst. Failing to connect with his target was nothing new. Falling off his dragon wasn't a novelty, either. Getting hurt while trying to prove a point was almost a monthly occurrence. But losing his dragon was unsustainable. It had taken too long, involved too much work. It had even taken all his money to buy the saddle. And now he had nothing.

Kettlecrack sat in the grass a while, feeling the familiar brew of pain and anger building in his heart. Was he forever destined to be denied his true calling? Would he never have a chance to lead his fellow villagers into battle, to stride into the halls of Valhalla? Perhaps he should build himself a boat and go raiding on his own. He'd probably get himself killed quickly that way, but then at least he'd be able to join battle against some worthy foes and die a glorious death. Surely if he fought hard enough, Odin would notice his efforts and grant him passage.

The idea was starting to take hold in his mind. As usual, however, there was a major stumbling block: he'd never built a boat before and would likely make a botch of the job. He didn't expect Valhalla was populated by many Vikings who'd drowned from incompetent carpentry. Maybe he could take one of the boats in the harbor. A small one, to be sure. Rorik was beached for repairs; perhaps he could manage to get that one into the surf and away before anyone noticed.

He stood, feeling a little dizzy and less than clear headed. He started back toward the village. He had to figure out how to move a ship like Rorik off the beach and into the water by himself. He recalled seeing the moon the night before, noting it was a bit over half full and waning. He had a little over a week before the new moon would let him work in full darkness.

Trudging toward the edge of the field, he stumbled over something. It was his wooden sword. He bent to pick it up. The tip had snapped off, but the rest of it was whole and undamaged. Not that it would do him any good now.

Kettlecrack looked to his right and spotted the target he'd set up. Useless. All his plans had been for nothing. Stoick was right; he couldn't depend on a dragon for battle. The anger welled up once more. The sorry sticks draped with his old damaged clothes mocked his foolish dreams. He clenched his oak weapon harder and gritted his teeth. That set off a fiery wave of pain through his nose and upper lip. And that just fed the anger.

He wasn't a berserker, but for a few moments he felt the all-consuming power take hold of his heart and fill it with fire. Rushing forward, he attacked the target mercilessly, not caring how much the unpadded wood hurt his hands. He slashed and hacked at the poles, wishing it were flesh and steel meeting on a battlefield. The loud crack of wood giving way didn't slow him down, nor did another quarter of his 'sword's length breaking off the end.

Finally the jagged end of the staff caught the old rope holding the cross piece and parted it. The target's 'arms' fell to the ground and he let himself stop moving, willing to consider it a small personal victory. When he turned once more to head home, he got a surprise.

Grimjaws stood before him.

For several moments he looked up at the not-so-Monstrous Nightmare, its red and yellow scales shining in the late afternoon sun. He honestly didn't know what he felt. Was he grateful the beast had returned? Angry it had failed him and destroyed his plans? Confused it had carelessly tossed him off and returned like a repentant child? Neither moved, each eyeing the other warily.

What does it matter, he thought. If he couldn't attack people on the ground and he couldn't get the dragon to fire targets of his choosing, what use was it? It might carry him to where he needed to go, but would it let him mount with steel weapons in hand? Unlikely after this afternoon's doomed exercise in dragon warfare.

A dragon was little more than a dangerous, oversized pet. It might have its uses, but if it couldn't serve as the weapon he needed it to be then he wouldn't have it.

His infamous temper was roused once more. A broken nose, a worthless saddle and a chance for Stoick to declare his ideas of what a true Viking should be as false: that was all the beast had brought him. Grimjaws had made a fool of him, eaten his food, lazed on his roof and contributed nothing he needed. He took a step toward it.

"Begone!"

It just looked at him.

"Worthless lizard!" He held up the shortened wooden sword and pointed it at the dragon. "Fishbreathed flapping fool!" The beast jerked its head back a bit. "Be glad I don't have true steel in my hand! Begone!" He took another step toward it.

Grimjaws watched him closely but did not seem inclined to leave. The fire was building in his belly. He wanted no more of this scaled distraction. It had kept him from getting any closer to his goals with tainted promises. He would be rid of it now, one way or another.

Waving his broken staff he marched toward the Nightmare. "Deceitful worm! Sheep eating coward! Go now before I show you what a true Viking can do!" The closer he got the further Grim reared. Before he got close enough to strike the beast had raised its head as far as it could, looking down on him from its full height. He swung the staff as thought it were a real sword, trying to get it to leave. A quiet growl started, low and stuttering.

"Leave me be! Get!" He swung again and the growl intensified. "Gutless craven! I'll not have you near me!" He thrust with the jagged point of his wooden sword, still not close enough to make contact. The undersized reptile bellowed and was suddenly wreathed in flames, the heat of them enveloping him. "Too late now," he howled.

Kettlecrack took a step closer, looking for that soft spot under the jaws his father had told him Nightmares had. Even a sturdy staff could do damage if it struck in just the right place. He would teach this dragon a lesson it would never forget.

It didn't go the way he wanted, of course. The dragon took a step toward him, closing nearly all the distance between them. The long jaws opened, effectively defending the vulnerable spot he'd wanted. A furious shriek assaulted him the same time the penetrating heat from its bodily flames did. He caught a whiff of burning hair as his triple braided beard began to smolder. Any closer and he would burn or be eaten. He was unarmored, unarmed and entirely at the disadvantage. He had only his rage and a large broken stick. Even now, with his temper high and blood in his eyes, he had to acknowledge it for a foolish attack.

With no way to spend his fury on his intended victim and a desperate need to inflict damage to something, Kettlecrack spun, drew back and hurled his practice sword at the remains of his target pole. For once his aim was true. Wood met wood with a solid thunk. He had only an instant to feel some small measure of gratification when a sticky little blob of dragon fire flew over his shoulder and landed on the two pieces of oak. They were incinerated instantly.

He turned around once more, trembling with rage. "OH, NOW YOU GET IT!" He pointed a shaking finger at the beast. "WAIT AND SEE!"

He stalked off to the side of the field and ripped open the basket he'd brought. Plunging his hand within, he grasped one of the eels. They were beginning to smell rather ripe now, but he paid no attention. He whirled and made his way back to the dragon whose bodily fire had gone out. He didn't care. He drew his arm back and flung the ropy, stinking sea creature at his undersized tormentor. "Eeeel," he screeched.

Less than halfway to its target the carcass vanished in flames. The burning, sulfurous mess hit the ground, crackling and spitting and stinking of burnt meat.

Like the dragon's vanished cloak of flames, the heat of his rage was gone in an instant.

Kettlecrack looked up at Grimjaws. There was wariness and perhaps some rebuke in those shimmering eyes, but no other reaction.

He walked to the basket and grabbed the last two eels. He made his way back to the Nightmare. He held them up wordlessly. The dragon watched. He slung the first to the ground short distance away. "Eel!" Fire slammed into the black and yellow creature, obliterating it.

He looked up again at the dragon. There was no joy in his heart, no satisfaction in his mind. His grip tightened on the last eel in his hand. Slime dripped from his knuckles. He drew in a deep breath, let it go slowly.

"All right," he said quietly. "One more chance." He moved to the edge of the field, drew back his arm and let fly. He could hardly miss the huge pine. "KILL!"

The tree died in an explosive rush of bright burning flames, sending acrid smoke billowing high into the salty air.

She said it again, unaware she was repeating herself.

"I can't believe it."

Hiccup touched her shoulder, an expression of concern and mild amusement on his lightly freckled face.

"Are you OK?"

Astrid tried again to put the experience into words and again she failed. It had turned out to be so simple and yet so horribly complicated. The larger part of her world had been exposed as a lie.

No, not a lie. A lie needed the truth to work. Her world hadn't been a lie. It had been ignorance. They'd never known the truth. And the look on Folkvardr's familiar face said something she couldn't comprehend. She thought she'd seen it before, but now she knew the ignorance of that, too.

Her Nadder sat still, his narrow chest pressed to the ground and his nearest eye turned exclusively to her. There was love in that eye. It was in his whole body, in truth; in his nearness, his stillness, his full attention to her. The tiny fluttery sounds that came from that powerful throat washed against her ears, soothing her in the strangest way. Occasionally he would reach out with the tip of his broad muzzle and lightly touch her brow, her cheek.

Once she and her dragon had come to accept each other after the battle, she'd been proud of the affection the Nadder would show her. She'd felt it to be equal to the treatment the Night Fury gave his rider; an attitude of respect and devotion that was uncanny and worthy of a Viking's friendship. But she hadn't realized, couldn't have possibly known there was a wall between them. It was a wall that separated two minds while only one of those minds had known the other existed. What she'd called love in her Nadder had, in fact, been dedicated patience. Now she saw the love in truth, without walls, without ignorance. Her dragon's patience was finally being rewarded.

Toothless, decked out in his new flying rig, was still speaking to Folkvardr. In one paw was a simple metal rod with a blunted hook. The Fury spoke, the Nadder answered, and the black dragon scratched strange symbols in loose dirt before him. Hiccup cast a glance at the glyphs, so used to reading them now that he could do it when they appeared upside down to him.

"He says his favorite is actually squid. They're hard to get, but he finds them now and then."

"Squid," she said softly. "It would be something I can't get for him."

The dragons chattered to each other a moment, then both looked at her.

"I can't believe it."

Hiccup chuckled quietly.

"Does it bother you when Thorgot or the other little kids hang onto your tail?"

Toothless grumbled, Folkvardr squawked, lines were drawn and Hiccup said, "I worry about hurts... hurting them."

"I just can't-"

"-believe it," the junior Haddock finished with her. To her immense annoyance he burst out laughing.

"You think it's funny? This is hard!" She raised a fist to punch his arm but refrained when he shook his head and held up his hands to fend her off.

"I know. Believe me, I know." His smile faded only slightly. "And I don't think it's funny. I think it's wonderful. I'm very happy."

"Why," she groused. "Because I'm having so much trouble?"

The smile left his lips but not his eyes. "No," he said quietly. "Because now I'm not the only one that really understands."

Something about that statement made her pause. Once, not so long ago, she would have hotly denied having anything in common with Hiccup the Useless. But now, with dragons sharing their lives, she no longer had a problem having many things in common with him. To be the only other person on Berk who knew the hidden truth about their reptilian companions felt strange yet comforting. And more than a little worrisome. Only they knew, the two of them. She'd never been part of a real, meaningful secret before, not until he had begun affecting her life. The results of the last secret becoming known had not been good, not at first. She'd feared for both Hiccup and her tribe; him outcast and most of the adults gone off to fight something that she knew would kill them all.

How had he kept his secrets so long? Would he have kept them forever if she hadn't found out? Did he intend to keep this one?

"How did you do it" she asked with a wave of her hand toward the black dragon. "With Toothless?"

He stared at her a moment. "Do what?"

She turned her head, embarrassed to have asked something based on what she'd been thinking, as though she'd expected him to know her thoughts. It was a silly thing to do. She noticed both dragons were watching them.

"How did you..." Suddenly she didn't know what she wanted to ask. How had he managed to fight against instinct, against tradition and common sense? Had he expected to succeed? Had he believed he knew what he was doing or had it all been luck? Unable to frame any meaningful question, she simply pointed to Toothless and said, "You know."

He looked at the Night Fury. His thoughtful expression was matched by his tone. "You mean how did I deal with the surprise of finding out he was a person? That he's as smart as I am?" He frowned, his brows drawing down as he dropped his gaze to the grass beneath him.

'As smart as I am.' That phrase set off something else in her and for a moment she had to concentrate on Hiccup's face and not look at the dragons. It was as good a question as any of hers, but she found herself uncertain she wanted to hear the answer. She replied softly, "Yeah."

His eyes closed, his frown deepened; but only for a moment. Hiccup lifted his head and gazed at Toothless, his expression clearing but still somber. His voice was tinged with regret.

"Poorly. It hurt a lot."

"Hurt?"

"Astrid," he whispered fiercely, as though he were afraid to let the intensity of his statement get away from him, "think about what I did to him. To his tail. To his whole life!"

Now she could see the real depth of Hiccup's problem. It was like mistaking a friend for a foe on the battlefield and dealing a terrible blow without knowing the truth of things until later. And when she thought of it in those terms, she realized all of Berk had been doing that for generations. She could only respond with, "Oh" in a small voice.

"Suddenly I'm facing someone I maimed out of ignorance." He turned his eyes back to the ground, his right hand pulling tufts of new grass out by the stems. "Someone who became my friend, who helped us end the war." He threw down the green shoots and looked once more at his dragon. "And saved my life into the bargain." He sighed. "I felt horrible."

Astrid found herself wondering what she would have felt if she had injured Folkvardr more seriously during their fights. How would she have dealt with that? She looked up at the Fury. "So... does he know?"

Hiccup suddenly looked disappointed and she realized what she'd said.

"Of course he knows."

"Yeah," she agreed, subdued. "This is gonna be hard, changing how I think about them. I keep forgetting."

It took several moments of silence for her to realize he was staring at her.

"What?"

"Astrid, if you have trouble, how do you think the rest of the village will feel? How-" He broke off, his eyes full of misery. "How can I possibly explain all this to my dad?"

Considering her own first reaction to his declaration, she could see his point. And yet there was an insistent voice in her that said if they could end a generations-long war against dragons, then surely the people of Berk could come to understand and accept their true nature. Eventually.

Maybe.

The more she thought about it, the less positive she felt. She recalled Hiccup mentioning that hardly anyone in the village rode dragons. Even now, with the Red Death no longer driving them to raid Berk, dragons were only tolerated. Few embraced them as she did, as the rest of their dragon training class did.

How could they convince the others? What might sway them to consider the possibility that Folkvardr could speak and that Toothless could translate? When she thought of some of the things she'd heard said during her life, the raw hatred and desire for revenge against the winged tormentors of the tribe, she wondered that there weren't random attacks against the dragons that claimed the village as their home. How could they possibly change such minds?

She looked at Hiccup, for a moment feeling as despondent as he sounded. Then it came to her. She thought it through for a few moments. It felt right. She tried to work it through, to look at it from another's point of view. It still felt right. Odin preserve them, it had to be right.

They didn't need to convince the village.

"Hiccup, do you remember what you told us about the battle?"

He gave a confused grunt. "What are you talking about?"

"You told us one night about how Stoick rescued Toothless from drowning." It had been the middle of the winter just passed, a blizzard had been hammering them for two days and much of the island's population had taken shelter in the great hall for warmth and food. Everyone from their dragon training class had wound up sharing their stories of that day on Red Death Island, telling their separate tales as the winds howled outside.

Hiccup nodded slightly. "Yes, but what does that-"

"Do you know why he did that?"

His mouth opened, and then slowly closed. It seemed the question surprised both of them.

"Do you know how hard that had to be for him," she pressed. "Can you imagine what that cost him?"

"Cost?" Hiccup was quite skilled at making a single word carry a barrelful of skepticism.

"Yes," she insisted. "Cost. He had to ignore everything he thought he knew about dragons and do something that went against all reason. And do it quick, or Toothless would drown. He put himself at risk, put everything he knew aside and trusted you to do something he couldn't."

Hiccup stared at her, the light slowly dawning in his deep green eyes.

"And what did you do?" She pointed to the Night Fury. "You and Toothless saved everyone there." The rightness of it crystallized in her mind as she spoke. If it hadn't been so serious, she might have laughed at her own blindness. "That's what Stoick's trust in you gave the rest of us. And all he had to do was step aside and stop being the leader he'd always been so you could do what you had to."

The boy was dumbstruck. She almost felt bad for him, but she wanted to complete her thought, to see it through and give them both the answer they needed.

"Can't you trust him to listen to you now? When the whole village knows you're the person to listen to when it comes to dragons? It's only fair, really."

There were several minutes of silence after that, broken only by the wind and the growly conversation of two dragons. Was Toothless translating for her Nadder? The desire to know burned brightly for a moment, stoking that familiar fire that drove her to improve herself.

Hiccup said nothing more on the subject. He just pulled absently at the grass beneath him and looked thoughtful. Astrid's chain of thought eventually led her to another question.

"So, if he knows what you did, how come he's your friend?"

The boy turned solemn eyes to her, the corners of his mouth turning downward slightly. An edge of pain crept into his voice. "He forgave me." His gaze drifted once more to the Fury. "I asked him to forgive me, and he did."

Vikings weren't big on forgiveness. Bloody knuckles and bruises usually made do in place of such words. But hearing it from Hiccup made her feel that she also needed to make some kind of amends to Folkvardr.

She looked at her own dragon. A person, she reminded herself. A Viking in scales.

That image failed utterly. And that was what made it so hard. Before today there had been only people who were Vikings and Vikings were the only people. All else were animals or dragons, the oversized reptiles being nothing more than animals so dangerous they were considered implacable foes.

Now she had been shown the truth, that Vikings were one kind of people and dragons another kind. Where once there had been one, now there were two. And one of those other people was her friend, despite...

She had asked, but not been answered. Now she needed that answer.

"Do you think Folkvardr knows that I... that we were trying... in the arena..." She found it difficult to say the words. She glanced at Hiccup, the unhappiness making her expression a match for his. Thankfully, he easily grasped her meaning.

"That we were trying to kill him?"

Memories of the battles in the arena flooded her mind again; the thrill of conflict and the determination to see the enemy beaten. It all looked so wrong now, in light of the truth. It stole the words from her and left her silent.

"I don't see how he couldn't."

Astrid brooded silently on that. The incompatible feelings of what they had believed then and what she'd seen now warred within her. Anger, frustration and guilt tugged at her with equal strength. Eventually she slammed her hand down flat on the grass. "We didn't know!" She looked at him, knowing the dismay was obvious in her eyes. "We couldn't know!"

Hiccup nodded. "I think they know that, too."

A quiet sound from Toothless, a soft warble that ended with a muted chirp, claimed the boy's attention. There were new symbols in the dirt between them. Hiccup read them with a slightly puzzled frown.

"I... I think Toothless is saying he's going to teach Folkvardr to answer simple questions by moving his head for yes or no. Um, your dragon doesn't know a lot of our words but he's going to try to teach him."

"You think?"

The young Haddock actually became somewhat defensive at that. "It's not precise. Like you said, it's hard. And besides, we've only just started, really. We're still learning." He looked back at the two dragons. "I'm guessing your Nadder will have to learn the hard way, the same as we did. Try, fail, try again."

Astrid looked over her shoulder at their village. "I'm thinking we all will."

(c)Wirewolf 2012

"How to train your dragon" and all attendant characters are copyright

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

AN: I need to apologize to the folks who have been following this story. I'm truly sorry it took so long to get this posted. I tried very hard for several weeks to get my plot in good working order and failed. After wasting so much time for little gain, I also came to realize I claimed the previous chapter to be the end of the second act erroneously. Looking at what I know is to come, I see now that I have a ways to go before the third and final act begins.

The good news is that means there must be several more chapters written before this story concludes. It also means I will have to grope my way through it, chapter by chapter. The next one is almost entirely laid out and ready for work so it won't take as long, perhaps 3-4 weeks. After that, all bets are off.

Thank you for your time and attention. I'll do my best to avoid disappointment (yours and mine.)