Broken

Chapter 23: Two Many

He didn't like swords. They were heavy and slow. They needed constant sharpening after practice. They needed regular cleaning or they would rust. And to carry one properly he had to wear a scabbard that pulled on his belt and pinched his hip and put him in a foul mood.

Lately everything put him in a foul mood.

He tried to use that against his opponent, focusing his unhappiness into an attack that should have left the other boy reeling and begging for mercy. It didn't work. Snotlout simply took a step back, lowered his shield and declared with a frown, "You're not even trying. Jaspin could beat you."

Tuffnut bristled at the insult. "Could not. I'm way bigger than him. And older." He took another swing, putting everything he had into it. It was one of his better aimed strikes, headed right for the other boy's neck. If they weren't using dulled practice swords, Snot would have been in trouble.

Unfortunately his practice partner didn't see it that way, nor did he act that way. He casually raised his shield and batted his deathstroke aside as if it were no more dangerous than a falling leaf. Worse, he came back at him with several cuts of his own. Each impact of Snotlout's weapon on the iron-rimmed disk he carried left his arm tingling and his ears ringing. He took several steps back to get away from the attack, looking for an opening. When he thought he saw one he lowered his shield and drew back for another killing blow.

The rounded point of Snot's sword was already at his throat. He froze. Gritting his teeth, he seethed for a moment before finally throwing down his weapon and declaring, "This is stupid! I HATE swords!"

"Of course you do," was the smug reply. "That's because you don't know how to use one."

Tuffnut wanted to hotly deny that statement but couldn't. It was miserably true and only added to his resentment. "I want my billhook back," he groused. The light ash shaft tipped at one end with a spear point and a wickedly sharp bladed hook on the other was a devastating weapon in the right hands, but only against dragons. They were quick and agile. The spear point was ideal for deep penetrating thrusts against a dragon's belly and chest. The bladed hook was designed to go after a dragon's wings. The outer edge could leave long ragged rents in the thin membrane, reducing its ability to fly. It could also be punched through the wing, twisted, and the inner edge of the hook used to sever the lighter wing bones. Eirik Thorston, his father, had been a master dragonslayer with a billhook. Or so he said.

"HA! Go ahead, get another one! I'll slice it in half like the others!"

Tuffnut glowered. While a billhook was an excellent weapon for attacking and killing dragons, it was a poor choice for combat against a sword. Snotlout had already snapped his in half twice and Gobber said he was tired of fixing it. Grudgingly, he'd laid his favorite weapon down and started learning to use a sword. But it wasn't going the way he wanted. Just like everything else. He gestured impatiently at the length of steel lying in the grass. "It's too heavy."

"No," Snotlout countered. "You're too weak."

"Am not!" With a growl that should have sounded more frightening considering how angry he was, Tuffnut slung his shield at his temporary training partner. It was deflected with the same ease as his last sword stroke, mostly because it had barely reached the other boy before it hit the ground. The thing weighed more than the sword did. He grimaced at the sudden awareness of how sore his shoulder was from having carried it all morning.

"Pfff." With a move obviously meant to show off his own strength, the burly young Viking rotated his left arm and sharply raised it to bring his own shield up to the height of his head. He then quickly jerked his arm down to slide it out of the leather straps. Free of its support, the shield fell straight down and landed on its rim with a muffled thunk. Snot grabbed the upper edge with his left hand while bringing his practice sword around in a lazy arc over his head to spear its tip into the soft ground directly in front of the shield. With the brightly painted wooden disk trapped between his knees and his sword, he now grabbed its upper rim with both hands and cocked one leg out jauntily, completely at ease with his weapons, the practice session and the whole of his life. "Look at you," he said conversationally, as if they were discussing a bowl of warm fish stew. "You're as much a toothpick as Hiccup ever was."

"HEY!" That was salt in several wounds and he stepped forward without thinking, intent only on removing the arrogant expression and condescending tone from Snotlout as violently as possible. Before he could take his second step he remembered all his previous attempts to best Spitelout's son and stopped himself. He still scowled but it did no good. Snotlout remembered those attempts, too.

With a sad shake of his head, his opponent sighed. "Please. 'World's most deadly weapon?' Maybe if we were still fighting them." He twitched his head, the left horn on his helmet pointing in the general direction of Asgeirr. The Nightmare was dozing in a sunny spot on the other side of the clearing. "Sure, you are good with a billhook. You might have been as good as your father some day. But we aren't fighting dragons any more." He stared intently at him, the mocking expression gone. "If this trading mission goes the way I figure it will then our next big fight will be against other Vikings. And you can bet they'll be using swords." He pointed down at the blunted practice weapon on the ground between them. "Which means you either learn to fight with one or you wind up dead."

It made an annoying amount of sense, but it didn't change one important fact. "But it's too heavy!"

Snotlout grunted in frustration. "Fine! So a long sword is too much for your puny muscles to handle. Try using a short sword. Or a mace." Another nasty grin spread across his wide face. "You could always ask Hiccup to make you something special."

The reference to Berk's newest hero seriously bothered him. Determined not to let on how much it upset him, Tuffnut turned his eyes to the ground. He saw the sword he'd cast aside and leaned down to retrieve it. Two more steps carried him to where his shield had rolled to a stop and he picked that up as well. He said nothing, concentrating on working his thin arm into the straps and trying not to think about all the things that were wrong with his life now.

"You might want to try using an axe. I'm sure Astrid could teach you how in no time."

Still he said nothing, focusing instead on trying to get the straps of his shield to sit comfortably on his arm. The thing was making his shoulder ache again before he even put it to use.

"You know, Astrid? Your training partner? She could teach you a thing or two about fighting."

Shield settled to his satisfaction, he lifted his sword. Holding its point down so it didn't pull at his wrist so much he shuffled a few steps closer toward Snotlout.

"Of course, she might be too busy teaching Hiccup a few things to bother with you." The leer in his voice didn't matter. He'd never speak that way around her; he knew better. All that mattered was his guard was down.

Unfortunately it didn't help. When he abruptly rushed toward him, he tried to raise the rounded end of his own weapon chest high. He intended to leave a nice deep bruise in the middle of that brawny chest to match all the ones on his own arms and ribs. Shutting him up would be nice, too.

Unfortunately the sword hadn't gotten any lighter while it was sitting on the ground. If anything it might possibly have gotten heavier, for when he tried to raise it the tip stayed stubbornly down. Instead of ramming the end over the top edge of Snotlout's shield and into center of his overly muscled body he plowed it into the center of the wooden disk. The handle of his weapon, already at a bad angle, twisted sharply out of his hands. For an instant he wanted to howl his frustration at seeing his surprise attack going as badly as everything else he'd tried so far. The next instant he realized he could at least be satisfied at having seen Snot's eyes widen marginally as he was nearly taken by surprise.

With an angry scowl his opponent raised his shield with both hands and slammed it into him. The two shields met with a loud thump an instant before Tuffnut was knocked flat onto his back. His helmet flew off and his head met the ground. He was immediately grateful he had chosen a field with nice thick grass for this meeting. There were no stars flickering in his vision as he stared up at the sky, only the heavy gray clouds that had been building all morning. There's a storm coming, he thought. He was more right than he knew.

Before he could get up, Snotlout tossed his own shield aside, yanked his sword out of the ground and stepped forward to plant one heavy foot in the center of the shield Tuff was still carrying. Pinned underneath, he could only watch with detached interest as the other boy's sword came swinging over and down and buried its rounded tip in the soft, grassy ground next to his left ear.

"Why are we out here," the boy standing on his chest demanded loudly.

Tuffnut supposed it was a fair question, considering 'here' was an hour's walk from Berk. He knew this for certain for he had walked it. But he wasn't interested in discussing his reasons for wanting to train with Snotlout away from the village. "Get off me," he muttered.

The foot on his shield pressed down harder, actually making it difficult to breathe. "No. Tell me why you're avoiding Astrid. You should be training with her."

He tried to push the heavier boy off but had no leverage. "I don't want to fight her. Get off me!"

Snotlout smirked as only a larger, stronger male in control of the situation could. "Afraid of getting beaten bloody by a little shield maiden?"

"She could crush you," he retorted. "In fact, she already did, in dragon training."

That ruffled him but he came back quickly with, "That didn't count, we were fighting dragons, not each other."

Ruffnut had had enough. "I don't care! Get OFF!" His legs were still free so he tried to kick Snotlout's out from under him. It didn't work, but it did distract him enough that his weight came off the shield for an instant. He finally pushed himself up and staggered to his feet. He grabbed his helmet and dumped it on his head, then found his sword and picked it up. The arm holding the shield ached even more from having been forced to support Snot's considerable weight.

"I'm serious, Tuff. Why are we doing this? You should be training with Astrid; she's your training partner."

"I don't want to fight her! She talks to her!" He went after the shieldless boy, hoping that advantage would be enough to let him score some hits. It wasn't. Snot defended himself with only his sword with the same ease he had using his shield.

Hardly showing any strain under the onslaught of Tuffnut's attack his opponent yelled with exasperation, "Talks to WHO?"

His newest attack having failed, Tuff stepped back and just glared at him. Finally he said, "Who do you think?"

Snotlout seemed genuinely confused. "Who? Ruffnut?" The expression on his face was answer enough. "Who cares if they talk? What's it matter to you?"

He didn't respond but attacked again, trying to imagine his sword was a billhook. It didn't work.

"So train with Ruffnut then," he declared, still keeping Tuff's sword from endangering any part of his person with only his own blunt weapon.

That suggestion truly enraged him and he raised his shield and charged, hoping to knock the larger boy down. A solid strike on his shield sent a spike of pain into this elbow. He didn't want to say anything but it came leaping out of his mouth before he could stop it. "I CAN'T FIGHT HER!"

Snotlout stopped moving and just stared, an incredulous expression on his less than handsome face. He frowned, obviously trying to grasp such a confusing statement before quickly giving it up. "Sheep spit. You two have been fighting your whole lives."

Tuff took a deep breath, hating every word that had to pass his lips. "That's why I can't fight her," he snarled. It came out only slightly more intimidating than his growl, which didn't move Snotlout one bit.

"You're not making any sense."

His shoulder aching fiercely, his elbow still tingling and his bruised arms and ribs demanding reparation from their attacker, Tuffnut tried the only move he hadn't used yet. He'd been practicing it whenever he could get some time alone, saving it for when he wanted to impress someone. Now it was the only thing that might get Snotlout to shut up. He turned slightly, pushed out with his shield arm to keep his opponent at bay for a second then spun completely around, hard and fast. He swung his sword in a huge arc, slashing at head height. Snotlout simply took a step back and waited for the steel to pass him by.

Once it had, the bigger boy stepped back toward Tuff. He was intensely dismayed to realize his move had done nothing more than spin him around and present his unprotected back to Snotlout. A leather booted foot sent him sailing face first into that nose-saving soft grass. That same boot was then firmly pressed into the middle of his back. He tried to turn over but the cold metal that gently kissed the back of his neck convinced him to remain where he was. It would have actually been comfortable if not for the oaf grinding his foot between his shoulder blades.

Comfort didn't matter to him at that moment, though. Snotlout had pushed and jabbed and nagged at him for almost an hour. While the time they'd spent practicing was worth it to him, he didn't think he could stomach any more of the bigger boy's taunts and questions.

He was surprised when, a moment later, the weight came off his back. He heard Snotlout take a few steps back. Tired and sore, he managed to climb once more to his feet. When he faced off with him he got another surprise. Snot shook his head.

"You know what? You're right. This is stupid." He reached around behind him and drew out a coarse rag he kept stuffed in his belt. He began wiping the dirt from his practice sword. "You aren't paying attention, you aren't learning and I'm wasting my time. I'm done with this." He turned and walked toward his dozing dragon, still wiping down the length of his weapon with the rag.

Tuffnut was truly torn. He hated relying on the son of the chief's second for something he needed as badly as this. The braggart was annoying, even if he was right, and couldn't keep a secret to save his life. How could he convince him to stay and help him without revealing everything he was planning?

"Have you ever tried to fight your own shadow?" He despised the way his voice sounded winded and whiny. Regardless, Snotlout turned.

"What do you mean?"

"I have been fighting her my whole life. That's why I need to train with someone else." He waited a moment, but the other boy didn't seem to catch on. He wasn't surprised. "I know how she fights. She knows how I fight. Every fight is a draw. I can't learn anything from her because she knows everything I know."

For a hopeful moment, the larger boy seemed to think about it. But then he asked, "What do you two fight with?"

Puzzled at the question, Tuffnut could only shrug. "Our fists, mostly."

Snotlout grimaced. "No, you yak-tipping twit. What weapons?"

"Oh. Billhooks."

That prompted a rising of the eyebrows and an expansive arms-out gesture that he easily translated as, 'Well, there you go.'

That did him no good at all and a moment later Snot was walking off again.

"Aren't you going to help me?"

"I tried. You failed."

Desperation seeped in and brought him to a place he never went with Ruffnut: compromise. "Fine! I'll get a short sword."

Tuffnut felt another moment of hope as the Jorgenson boy stopped once more. His thick arms fell to his sides and his head lowered a moment before he looked over his shoulder. His expression didn't look promising, though. He glared at him for a long, silent moment. Then he glanced over at his forgotten shield and back to Tuff. "You know who uses a short sword?" He moved to his shield, picked it up with the same hand that held his sword and worked it onto his left arm with no real effort. He rapped his practice blade against the iron rim of the scarred wooden disk twice and took up a fighting stance. "Mord uses a short sword. You know why?"

Tuffnut didn't like where this was going.

"Because he understands the difference. A long sword is a storm." Snotlout began swinging and jabbing, going through all the practice moves he and Mord had insisted needed mastery. "It's wind and hail and thunder. It beats on your roof, it hammers at your door." He began moving closer, still swinging his own long sword as if its weight were of no consequence even after all the time he'd just spent pounding on Tuffnut. "It reaches out and hits you no matter where you go. You can't escape it unless you just run away." He was only a few steps away now, still swinging; the rounded tip was actually whistling slightly as it slashed through the warm, moist air. Tuff raised his shield a bit, nervous at this display. "You need strength and stamina to withstand the storm and you better be able to answer with a storm of your own."

Snot stopped swinging, lowered his shield and sword and just stared at him a moment.

"But a short sword is lightning. It's power and speed and death. It hits you before you know it's happened whether you're ready or not." He casually raised his sword again, not as an attack but to measure the distance between them. He was close enough that the tip of his weapon touched the middle of Tuffnut's side. "A long sword can kill you from here. But a short sword is half as long, thinner, has a sharper point." He took a wide step forward, sliding the flat of his blade along Tuff's woolen overshirt. "You have to be this close to kill with a short sword." He paused to let that sink in, then tipped his head down and looked at him from under his wide brows. "But you don't kill from here with a short sword."

Confused and still slightly nervous about what Snotlout intended, Tuff muttered, "You don't?"

"No." He took the last step. He was now standing only a hand span away, their shields bumping with a soft clatter. "You kill from here with a short sword." He was still glaring at him from under his brows, practically from under the rim of his helmet. Tuffnut could smell the mutton and onions he'd eaten for breakfast on his breath. "You know how you get this close to another Viking to kill him with a short sword?"

He honestly didn't know. He'd never considered the disadvantage of reach with a short sword against its longer cousin.

"You take a heavy shield with you into combat, not these flimsy little things." He bumped his shield against Tuff's for emphasis. "You pick a Viking with a nicely sharpened long sword and a pretty painted shield and you go after him. You hold your shield out and let him bash at it like a baby swatting at flies. And you push him. And push him. And PUSH him!" Each 'push' was accompanied by a rough press of Snot's shield against his. The last one caused him to stumble a bit and step back. Snotlout stayed with him, his expression sliding into real aggression. "And when he starts to realize he can't get past the sturdy piece of oak you're wearing like your own skin, you SLAM it against him!"

As Tuffnut feared, Snotlout's words were mirrored with action. The larger boy shoved his shield hard against him and causing him to stagger once more. He tried to step back but Snot stayed with him step for step. It didn't even occur to him to attempt a defense with his sword. It wouldn't have mattered. He'd lost his grip on it moments ago without even knowing it. He managed to get his feet settled and push back a bit but he knew instinctively that Snotlout had stopped moving forward only because he wanted to.

"It's from here you kill him with your short sword! You're too close for him to swing at you so you ignore his sword arm. All you have to do is get his shield out of the way for the last strike." He gave a wicked smile and Tuffnut finally realized just how serious Snotlout was about being a warrior. "Your shield weighs twice what his does. You angle it so the rim of yours catches his and you pull them both down. Then you punch your shiny little needle right into his heart."

Tuffnut wanted no further demonstration, but Snotlout was determined to drive his point home, literally. He didn't even notice when Snot reversed the grip on his practice sword, from holding the tip up to having its entire length dangle from his hand like a spear. With a sharp smack of the iron rims meeting, Snot's shield raked downward, forcing his own to drop. His arm felt like it had been pulled from his shoulder and his left knee erupted in pain as the lower rim slammed into it. Snotlout's fist, curled around the grip of his sword, drove straight at his chest and plowed into it with terrible force.

He was once again on his back, in the grass, staring at the cloudy sky overhead. This time the air had been driven from his lungs and he saw stars flickering around the edge of his vision. It didn't hurt at first. Not until he tried to draw his first breath. Then he felt a sharp biting pain and feared something had been broken. But as he labored to regain his breath it eased into a familiar throbbing; a sign of a colorful and long lasting bruise to come.

Snotlout stood over him, his expression once again disdainful. "Short swords aren't for weaker warriors, Tuffnut. They're for stronger ones. If you ever see an enemy on the battlefield carrying a short sword, stay away from him or you'll be dead before you know what happened." He stared at him a moment, perhaps expecting a reply. Tuffnut could barely draw enough breath to stay alive; speaking was beyond him at the moment. Snot turned away and took a few steps before he stopped and turned back. "You want my advice? Go work with Ingifast for a year. Haul logs and raise masts for him. Build up your strength. Then you'll have arms that can use a long sword, not just a billhook."

Tuffnut heard Snotlout call to his Nightmare. He heard Asgeirr take to the air. Then he could only hear his own labored breathing, occasionally mixed with the pained groans that he couldn't quite subdue. The grass was still soft, the air warm enough to be comfortable. He watched the clouds grow darker and felt his mood match them.

Snotlout had dealt a serious blow to his plans. It wasn't just that he'd shown him how inadequate his fighting skills were. He'd already known he wasn't really prepared for a serious fight against other Vikings. The prospect of such a battle had already occurred to him; that was why he had asked him to come out to a field far from Berk and help teach him what he needed to know.

The bruise he'd wanted to put on Snotlout now sat firmly on his own chest, telling him he had to rethink everything. But it did no good. He had already looked for any other way to change the direction his life was headed and could find no better alternatives. Being a capable warrior had seemed the most likely way to get away from his problems. Now it looked like being a rower was all he'd be able to offer for his escape. And rowing needed just as much strength as being a warrior. He didn't know how to overcome that problem, either.

Eventually he was breathing normally and was able to sit up. The echo of Snotlout's fist drove itself into his chest with every deep breath he took. Trying not to anger the injury more than necessary, he stood up, slung his shield across his back and sheathed his sword at his hip. An ache that matched his chest was gnawing at his shoulder, trying to convince him that it was the more serious injury. He winced and muttered, "Shut up" at it. He had a long walk home. The first step caused his knee to voice its opinion of which part was worst off. "You too," he told it. Neither listened.

The shore was the easiest way to find the path home. He limped back the way he'd come until the rumpled sheet of beaten lead that was the sea came into view. Whitecaps were marching toward the shore like foaming soldiers coming to attack the broken stones of Berk's rocky beach.

Tuffnut shook his head at that image. His life wouldn't work that way. His body was made for a billhook and a dragon. He still had the billhook, but the dragon was under him instead of in front of him. And that just wouldn't work. There had to be another way. He almost wished the dragons were still attacking Berk. He'd known exactly what his future would be and found it a good one. Now... it was all murky, dark and obscure like the storm front closing in on their island.

Working his slow way along the shore, he heard a sound; a familiar sound that seemed more memory than reality. It was coming from the roiling sea. He turned his head and scanned the skies.

He found them, further along the shore. A double handful of dragons were diving among a shoal of fish they'd driven into shallower waters. As he watched, more dragons came down from the swarming darkness to lay into their hapless prey. Several different species were in that cluster, attacking over and over until their talons were full of wriggling silver shapes. Within a few minutes, all of them had all they could carry and as one they took off over the water, away from the growling gray mass of the approaching storm.

"Huh," he muttered. "Weird."

Homes had changed in Berk.

They had never been considered a sanctuary or a safe place, not when they were guaranteed to be reduced to smoldering ashes within a few years of being built. Only the Great Hall could withstand the fiery attacks of dragons, built into the side of a mountain as it was. Anything irreplaceable or of great value was stored there. When a villager's house had been leveled, those living in it would take temporary shelter within the Hall until the new house could be raised. Homes were merely where people slept, ate or held small gatherings. Sick livestock might be kept within one's house to prevent the ailment from spreading.

Without the constant loss of homes within the village, people were beginning to see them as something of value; a place to hold more than just the basic necessities of life. With no one being repeatedly forced to take residence in the Hall, people were beginning to think of their homes as a place to get away from the minor frustrations of their daily lives. They didn't congregate in the Hall as much except for meals and games.

Tuffnut had never seen his home as a sanctuary and still didn't. He might never again have to help rebuild it but he couldn't consider it a place to go to get away from minor aggravations. Most of the aggravations in his life lived in his home.

He stood some distance away, watching the lazy gray curls drifting from the smoke hole of his house and wondering if she was inside. He seldom thought of his twin as Ruffnut; 'her' was all the name she needed. No one without a twin, which was everyone, could understand that she figured as largely in his life as his mother. More, really, since Grima Thorston spent as much time out of their house as possible, mostly because of Eirik. When Grima was home she usually found things to complain about concerning how little her children helped their father. Apparently the bulk of each day she spent out among the village didn't count as 'not helping their father' because she was always trying to earn a few extra coins.

Tonight, Tuffnut seemed to recall, his mother was going to be spending most of her time with Freya in the Great Hall helping prepare the evening meal for those returning from fishing voyages or hunts. Because she was out helping cook for others it would fall to the twins to cook for their father. It was likely that wouldn't happen and equally likely Eirik wouldn't remember not eating. Grima would then loudly declare it fortunate she had brought food from the Great Hall to give him or else he would probably starve.

The whole routine was just one of many that had played out countless times within his home that was not a sanctuary. If it wasn't their mother complaining about her children, it was their father forgetting his children's names or throwing his boots at Terrible Terrors that only he could see. And if it wasn't his parents, it was her.

And lately, she was the biggest problem of all.

Regardless of how he felt about his home or his twin or his father, Tuffnut needed to talk to Eirik. He didn't imagine the conversation would go well, but sometimes the old man was surprisingly clear in his mind. It was hard to tell when he might speak as he used to. Tuffnut had come to suspect it helped when he was surprised with something he liked.

Which reminded him; Eirik had asked for a new whetstone some days ago. Tuff hadn't made any real effort to find him one because he knew his father would almost certainly forget he'd asked. But giving him one before he talked to him might give him an advantage. So instead of heading home, he went over to Mord's and asked if he had any extras. Mord spent most of his spare time honing weapons so he had whetstones practically lying around like autumn leaves.

A short time later, whetstone in hand, Tuffnut stepped into his unburnt home that was not a sanctuary and looked around for her. He didn't see her and the blanket which covered the door to their shared room was pinned back so she probably wasn't in there. Eirik, as usual, was there. He was sitting in his favorite chair with a small pile of small bones beside him. There was a large waxed ball of wool in his lap and a thin bladed knife in one hand while his other hand held his latest effort.

For all he couldn't do now, including standing straight or walking without getting dizzy, Eirik Thorston could still make the very best bone needles anyone had ever seen. The waxed ball of wool in his lap had over a dozen of them speared into it. The one he was working on now seemed to be made from the thigh bone of a squirrel. His knife patiently scraped along its length. When he was finished it would be sharp enough to poke so fine a hole in a finger hardly any blood would come. His real mastery, though, was carving out the eye of the needle. He always did that last, though Tuffnut didn't know why. He thought that if the eye got damaged before it got sharpened Eirik could save himself the time and start a new one. His father didn't seem to believe that. He also seldom broke an eye.

"Dad," he called from the door, not wanting to startle him too much. Carving needles seemed to take him far away and suddenly showing up close to Eirik without warning him was a good way to get a needle in the thigh. The older man looked up at him, squinting suspiciously.

"Throst?" His quavering voice was filled with doubt, as though he knew his mind was not whole or trustworthy. Throst was his uncle, one of the small number of villagers lost at sea in a storm rather than taken by a dragon.

"I'm your son," he announced dispassionately. Eirik would never remember. The reason was hidden under the unruly draping of greasy blonde hair. The right side of his head was slightly caved in, the result of a blow from a Deadly Nadder's tail when his twin children had only just reached their first winter. It wasn't his fault he couldn't remember. That didn't make it less frustrating to have to constantly remind his father who he was. Or diminish the anger he sometimes felt when his father didn't believe him.

"Pigknuckle?"

"What?" That was a new one. He'd never heard of anyone called 'Pigknuckle' in Berk before. Maybe it was another long lost uncle. Something occurred to him. "Do you mean Hogknee?"

Thin, straggly eyebrows rose on a high forehead and tried hopelessly to meet up with a retreating hairline. "Hogknee? What kind of stupid name is that?"

Arguing was another skill Eirik hadn't lost when his head got broken. But the arguments would quickly get childish and circular and usually ended in screaming. Eirik could scream like a five year old girl with a grown man's lungs. It was not a good combination.

Sensing things could go badly in a hurry, Tuffnut stepped forward and handed his father the new whetstone. "Here, I got this for you."

The pale, haunted eyes lit up like a child's when given a sweetcake. He stroked the flat, rough surface with calloused fingertips that bore dozens of thin scars. "Oh, oh, look! Look, I can sharpen my old knife now!" He carefully pressed his squirrelbone needle into the ball of wool and wax and spat on the stone before he began raking the old steel blade along the stone's length. His tongue stuck out from between chapped lips as he concentrated and he chewed it between the toothless gums of the right side of his mouth. His mind wasn't the only thing that had broken when the Nadder's tail caught him across the head.

Tuffnut watched his father sharpen his whittling knife, the long, deliberate strokes steady and sure. Using a whetstone properly had survived the shattering of Eirik's skull but the names of his children and wife hadn't. It made no sense to him.

The newly honed edge of the knife was tested against a scarred and calloused thumb. "Ooh, looka that!" Eirik chortled to himself as a line of blood welled up from the cut. He stuck the thumb, blood and all, in his mouth and continued to make small happy noises. When he made to continue working on his squirrelbone needle, Tuff interrupted him.

"Dad, I want to be on Rorik when it leaves."

Looking up at his son, Eirik gave him a perturbed glare. He most likely wanted to be lost in his carving again. "What? Who's that? Ronnet?"

"Rorik," Tuffnut explained patiently. He couldn't lose his temper now, not when he needed his father's permission to go. "It's Hogknee's ship. He and Spitelout and some others are going on a trading voyage soon. I want to be on it when it leaves."

His father's expression slid slowly into something like grief. His tongue pushed out of the toothless side of his mouth a few times and he blinked as though he'd been staring at the sun. "You want to leave us?" The words were quiet, pained and made him wish he was old enough to simply jump on a boat and go where and when he wanted. He hadn't wanted to discuss it, didn't want to explain it. He just wanted to go.

"Yeah." He tried to sound certain of himself, as confident he was making the right choice as any adult. But that single word came out soft and weak, almost fearful. Frowning, he cleared his throat. "Yes. I think its time I left Berk."

Eirik seemed stricken for a long moment. He looked down at the ball of wool in his lap, picked it up. "I see.

There was movement off to one side of his vision, the sound of a single footfall. She stood in the doorway of their room, her expression nearly as painful to see as their father's.

Tuffnut's gut turned to ice. This was exactly what he hadn't wanted. She had to know sometime but he'd wanted to wait until the right moment. He'd been planning the conversation, trying to find a way to work the idea across before he revealed his decision.

That was all ruined now, just like everything else. He groaned and slapped a hand to his helmet. All he'd wanted was a few minutes with Eirik alone. Why did nothing he planned work any more?

"What did you say?" It was in her voice. The pain had already tipped over into anger. She wanted to fight now. That was how they solved everything between them. They knew no other way. He looked up at her and was surprised to see that there was still pain mixed with the anger on her face. This was going to be bad.

He didn't say anything. He was still torn. He didn't know how to tell her what he wanted. He hadn't figured out how to tell anyone what he was ultimately planning. He tensed, expecting she would come at him any moment. He was always ready for that.

"What did you say?"

Her voice had dropped, roughened. Her hands were balled into fists, tight enough the tendons on her arm stood out like small sticks under the skin. Her expression was unnerving. She wasn't looking at him with the usual mix of familiarity and annoyance. In her eyes he could see the glinting edge of tears that threatened to spill and a hatred so raw it collapsed the ice in his gut to a single sharp point. It was as if he had just become her most beloved enemy and she would show him the price of wounding her in such a horrible way.

Not wanting this encounter to go the way his training had gone that morning, he tried to give the best answer he could. He hoped a half truth would serve. "I want to go on the trading mission. I want to see how other Vikings live."

Her eyes narrowed a bit, taking in his words and chewing them hard and quick. Her frown deepened and she spat them back at him. "You won't come back! You said you thought it was time you left Berk!"

Strangely enough that broke up the ice in his gut. She'd figured it all out in a second. He had pretty much expected it of his twin. They simply knew each other too well. And that just made it all the worse. But he couldn't let her change his mind, not with her words or her anger or her fists. He had to go.

"I can't stay here."

"You can't leave!" It was a forceful statement, sounding like the plain yet aggravated statements of simple truth Grima had thrown at him as a child; 'You can't eat rocks! You can't fly by flapping your arms!'

Tuffnut looked aside at Eirik. Their father was watching the exchange with a simple glee. He couldn't fight dragons anymore, but he still loved a good fight. He and his twin obliged him in this quite often. But he needed Eirik's permission and that would be hard to wrangle from his disturbed mind if all he cared about was an imminent fistfight. He would get no help from that quarter.

It was seldom he had to explain anything to his sister. They were twins and their minds so often seemed to be two halves of the same person. As kids it was crazy and scary and awesome. But now their future had been completely changed and he couldn't see how it would work anymore. If she hadn't seen it yet then maybe he could get her to understand. That meant explaining his thoughts to her, and he didn't have a lot of practice at that. So, naturally, he messed that up too.

"I have to leave! There's nothing for me to do here anymore!"

Her eyes widened. Anger edged out pain and she stared at him in disbelief. She didn't yell. But she was almost ready to come at him now; he could see it. "You want to leave all of us because you're... bored?"

Eirik giggled. He could see it coming, too.

She flew at him, words no longer sufficient to express her feelings. Tuffnut stepped into her attack and they went at each other. Punches, gouges, elbows to ribs, knees to guts; it was all so predictable and comforting. Or it should have been.

If he hadn't been so sore from practice with Snotlout he would have held his own the way he always did. When the Thorston twins fought, they meant it. Nothing was held back, so nothing really worked that well unless one or the other found some temporary weakness and ruthlessly exploited it.

He was definitely feeling a temporary weakness. The heel of her palm connected solidly with the side of his neck, making it painful to turn his head. A sharp elbow slammed against his head, just above his ear, dazing him further. A leg swept his feet out from under him and for the third time that day he was on his back. The smooth flagstones of the floor were nowhere as forgiving as grass and his back spasmed painfully as the breath was driven from him once more.

She'd changed. This wasn't a fight. She was trying to kill him. He was convinced of it when her foot came sweeping across his head. Luckily for him the angle was bad and all she really accomplished was to knock his helmet off and send it skittering across the room. He saw her looming, saw the mortal anger in her eyes and the shift of her hips. He heard Eirik cackling at the spectacle of it all, heard her grunt with the effort of her next strike. If she did kill him she would regret it, but not until later. Right now she regretted nothing.

Tuffnut managed to roll onto his side just as the next kick came. Her boot grazed the back of his head. After what Snot had done to him that morning he had nothing left to bring against her and precious little to defend himself. He curled up in a ball, knees against his forehead and hands laced across the back of his neck. It was survival instinct, nothing more. He covered as much of his vital anatomy as he could and waited.

She gave him three good kicks to the back, mostly against his shoulders. The last one that landed sounded a little different. He thought he might have heard a grunt of pain mixed with his father's laughter.

When no more blows assaulted him, he slowly uncurled and looked around. She was sitting on the floor, holding her foot and glaring at him fit to set him ablaze like dragon fire.

Somewhere during the attack he'd managed to get his breath back but his head was spinning and he thought me might lose his breakfast. He lay where he was, content to rest as long as she didn't move again. When he realized how hard she was gripping the end of her boot he knew she had probably broken a bone in her foot, maybe a toe or something. She was grimacing with more than just anger now.

When he was convinced she wasn't going to get back up any time soon, and that opening his mouth wouldn't immediately release the eggs and ale he'd eaten that morning, he grunted, "Are you finished?"

Her lips skinned even further back from her uneven teeth and she answered with undiminished ferocity, "No!"

Since she didn't seem capable of getting up just yet, he risked provoking her by attempting to stand. He was unsteady on his feet. His back still hurt something awful but his breathing had evened out. His knee and his shoulders both wanted his attention but he knew not to take his eyes off her. His stomach lurched once, half heartedly. He was determined his breakfast would stay down.

"I want to be on Hogknee's ship when it goes."

"Why should you leave," she demanded. "You belong here!" She winced when she tried to flex her foot.

"I can't stay here because my sword is too heavy."

She hesitated a moment, trying to work out his statement. A disturbing scowl pulled at her lips. "What happened, a Nadder get you in the head?"

He didn't care that she insulted their father. Eirik was right there, listening to every word and he wasn't able to tell he'd been insulted. He just grinned at the two of them. If anything, he was probably wishing they would go back to fighting. He wanted to fight, but he was worn out; he wanted to yell but that would probably get Eirik screaming. It was all going as bad as it had with Snotlout earlier.

Then he remembered what Snot had said, and thought he could use that to explain.

"I was going to be a dragon slayer, a true Viking. I'm good with a billhook; almost as good as he says he was." He waved vaguely at their father. "But that won't work anymore. We're gonna meet other Vikings soon and I'll never be anyone important if I stay here."

"Important?" She scoffed at the idea.

"A real warrior. Someone a chief's daughter might marry."

So now the last of it was out, everything he had planned and hoped for. Judging from her expression, Tuffnut might as well have thrown up his eggs and declared his intention to marry them. "Stupid," she rasped. "No chief's daughter is going to marry you. All you're going to do is drive Bjarki out of her mind."

Bjarki, he thought miserably. Their dragon was a large part of the problem. Of all the dragons they could have tamed, they'd had to wind up with a Hideous Zippleback. They hadn't even managed to come to an agreement about a name for the whole creature. They'd named the heads only. They'd tried several times, separately considering 'Trolleater', 'Bludenguts' and even 'Shatterbones' but neither one wanted to yield to the other's suggestion. For the most part they referred to the Zippleback as 'they' or 'them' since it always acted as if it were two distinct personalities tied into the same body. The only thing they never once considered calling their dragon was 'the twins'. That distinction had been always been their own and they were unwilling to share it with anyone, even their dragon.

Their dragon was yet another reason he wanted to leave, though it was not a comfortable thought. Nor did he have any idea how to express it. He wasn't entirely certain he wanted to express it.

Before the battle, they'd been 'the twins,' a description sometimes uttered with anger or frustration that suited, and often delighted, them. They had focused mostly on each other; how to bug one another, what the village gossips said about them or just fighting each other.

After Bjalki and Bjarki joined them, something changed. The dragon brought with them not one but two separate identities. Where there had been the two of them, now there were four. Without meaning to, the two Thorston twins became part of a foursome that he found a bit too crowded at times.

Once he realized that, he began to want something else entirely. Time away from her, away from their dragon. When he'd heard about the trading mission, he realized time wasn't enough. He wanted distance.

As much as Tuffnut loved bugging his sister, as hard as he tried to irritate her or goad her into a fight, he found no pleasure in telling her what he felt now.

"You're right. No chief's daughter will marry me." He ignored the look of slight shock on her face at the admission. "I'm not a whole person."

Confusion displaced the shock. "What?" The last tiny hope he'd entertained that she might understand disappeared with that single word. He clenched a fist and thumped his chest, having forgotten the gift Snotlout had given him earlier. It served only to anger him more.

"I'm half of a pair! I ride half a dragon! I'm not a whole anything!"

Being a twin had defined him from his first memory. He'd used to say there was two of him, considering her as practically a second self. When they were together, even Snotlout was wary of dealing with them. Separately they were weaker. Once dragons entered their lives, all that changed. He saw the advantages of being a single individual paired with a single dragon and wanted the same thing. Even Fishlegs had gained something from partnering with his lazy lump of a dragon. And Hiccup- well, he was the extreme example. From village embarrassment to a kind of hero no Viking had ever before seen. All because he was free to have his own dragon.

As his view of being a twin had changed, he'd hoped she would change her mind as well. He'd looked for signs, listened for clues. Instead she'd gotten distracted by the prospect of an arranged marriage. And her approach to that was the same as the one she used on him; she planned to fight. So far as he could see, she figured on being nothing more than his twin forever.

Regardless of how hard he went after his sister at times, it was very rare that he hurt her. But the pain that filled her eyes was undeniable, even to him. Guilt stabbed at him, made worse when indifference slowly took control of her expression.

"Fine," she said acidly. "Go." She struggled to her feet, keeping the end of one raised up and essentially confirming his suspicion of a broken toe. "You go marry a chief's daughter and I'll get stuck with some idiot fisherman or something." She began slowly limping toward their room.

Tuffnut hated all of this. He hated feeling like he was doing something wrong, like he'd done something to ruin her life. He even hated the idea that Eirik, in his rare clear moments, might miss his son. But most of all he hated feeling like he couldn't change his life if he wanted to. And he wanted to. As she made her way to their doorway, determined not to let any of her pain show, he made an unaccustomed attempt to put her at ease.

"What are you worried about? You think anyone is going to mess with a woman who rides a two-headed dragon?"

She stopped, and the silence in the room seemed to suck out all the air. Oddly, he suddenly realized that was the first time he'd ever referred to her as 'a woman' instead of a girl. When she glared over her shoulder at him, he knew both his reassurance and his unintended compliment had utterly failed. He'd done nothing more than bring it all back to his leaving and what that would do to them and their dragon.

She disappeared into their room and yanked the blanket over the doorway.

So that was it. Everything he'd wanted to avoid had come crashing down directly on his head. There was really nothing to do but to pick up what little was left him and go on. He glanced at Eirik. His father was busily working on his squirrel-bone needle, tongue occasionally poking from between his lips as he mindlessly chewed on it. A glimmer of hope; Eirik was settled and calm, having already forgotten what had just happened.

"Dad." No response. "Dad!"

Eirik glanced up, looking surprised to see someone in his house. "Tuffnut?"

He took a deep breath. "Spitelout, Gobber and Hogknee are going on a trading voyage. I want to be on their ship when they go."

His father stared at him a moment. He looked out the open door of their home, toward the ever present sound of the nearby surf. He looked thoughtful, as though weighing something of much importance. Scarred fingers caressed the thin blade of his knife. The pale eyes came back to meet his son's. "All Vikings should know the way of the waters."

A grin came across his face, and he said, "Great!"

The knife came up and pointed at him. "Provided Spitelout will have you." A knowing look came across his father's expression, perhaps some memory of his own first trial of adulthood that survived the Nadders' tail.

Tuffnut nodded enthusiastically, his own recent difficulties diminished by the good news. "Not a problem. Thanks!" He was out the door and headed toward the Jorgenson house to talk to the chief's second. Actually it was a problem. Getting Eirik's permission was actually just the first hurdle. He still had to talk Spitelout into letting him go with them.

He looked up at the gathering storm clouds and wondered if he had time to go back to Mord's and get another whetstone.

(c)Wirewolf 2013

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

Dreamworks Animation and used without permission

AN: I must apologize for this one. It's essentially filler. I've been trying for months to figure out how to deal with the last characters in the Dragon Training Class from the movie and it finally hit me. I did add a few details that will figure in later in the plot and I will use Tuffnut to some degree for the climax, but yeah, this is still filler.

Sorry folks. The next chapter will be a major development though, I promise!