Another explosion. The house beside me set in flames. And the culprit escaping into the dark, empty sky.
I think about exterminating the fire, but by the time the thought is finished, Berk's 'water team', as I like to call them, is on it. They rush over with a barrel of water rolling behind them. Each of them grabs a bucket, fills it with water, then hurries to douse out the flames. As soon as they came, they're gone, off to the next fire.
My eyes linger on their retreating backs. There's five of them, all teenagers. The best of the group, in my opinion, is Astrid Hofferson. She's hardcore and the most qualified of the five for battle. Fifteen years old and yet she could probably down an entire armada in under a minute with just her double-edged battle axe. Besides her amazing skills, she also is quite beautiful. Her long, light blonde hair is wrapped into a braid down her back, with bangs that cover the left side of her face, and she wears a leather band across her forehead. Her outfit consists of a striped steel-blue sleeveless shirt, a red skirt decorated with spikes, another black skirt underneath that, dark blue pants, and dirt brown leather boots. The belt she wears is emblazoned with skulls and there's a small pouch tied to it. Atop her shoulders are metal shoulder pads and on her arms are tan cloth bracers with arm wrappings above them. To highlight her large sky blue eyes, she paints kohl around them. But what I like most about her is her determination. She actually takes her responsibilities seriously, unlike the other teens.
My second favorite of the teenagers would be Fishlegs Ingerman. He's a stout boy with short, straw-like blonde hair. He always wears a dark brown fur tunic, forest green pants, small fur boots, and a metal short-horned helmet on his head. His jade eyes are small and round and close together, his cheeks chubby and his nose bulbous like a small green tomato. Though Fishlegs isn't very viking-like, he still is possibly the most intelligent viking in all of Berk, which is a trait I find very respectable.
The twins are really... something. First, there's Ruffnut Thorston, the girl half of this maniacal duo. Her long pale-blonde hair is divided into three parts: two long messy braids that reach down to her waist and another on her back, with two short braids at the top of her head. She prefers a tomboyish look: a light brown animal-skin mini vest covering a dark blue shirt that is torn at the ends, a short taupe skirt which ends are also tattered, dark brown leggings, and dark blue furry boots. Around her waist, she wears a metal-leather belt with a crest in the middle of it. On her arms she has long dark-gray cloth bracers like Astrid's and she wears a studded helmet with four long, slender horns. Around her neck is a string necklace with a dragon tooth pendant. Her skin is tan for a viking and her eyes are cerulean blue, just like her brother's.
As mentioned before, Ruffnut has a brother, named Tuffnut Thorston, and he is Ruffnut's other half, metaphorically speaking. Together they are Ruff and Tuff, prank masters of Berk. Normally, Tuffnut wears a dark brown fur vest over a pale-green tunic, with a cloth belt around his waist. His pants are light grey-blue and his fur boots are dark brown. On his arms, he wears a long brown cloth arm band and he has a helmet similar to his sister's, only the horns are shorter and thicker than Ruff's. His hair is long and blond, ending in a bronze tint, and hangs lose on both his sides and his back. Like his sister, he wears a necklace with a dragon claw pendant. For the most part, I'm not fond of him or his sister as they are always, underline always, pulling pranks and acting immature.
I should probably include my least favorite of the group, too. Snotlout Jorgenson. But what good is there to say about him. He's iritating, a loud-mouth, hot-headed, the list goes on and on and on and on. Not to mention his arrogance which is, unbelievably, worse than his ignorance. And that is really saying something. He just boasts about how strong he is or how brave he is or how good he looks (none of which are true). He always wears a helmet with spiral sheep horns, his tunic tucked in his pants with open-stitching and a black vest over it, dark gray bracers on his arms, and matching fur boots. His brown hair is dark as choclate and is unkempt like my father's. He has beryl blue eyes and an obnoxious grin. More often than not, he acts defiant in the face of authority, like he's better than everyone else, though in truth he is just an annoying, immature idiot with a colossal ego. I'd be surprised if I could last a minute without slapping him with my hammer.
And then there's me. Asgard Valtev, with the chestnut locks styled in a long ponytail that reaches just above my waist, just how my mother used to do her own hair. Me, with the midnight blue irises that once stared into my sister's own brown orbs and silently said I love you, because I was too afraid to say it out loud. The girl who wears a biege shirt with a skull pendant strapped across the chest and a black studded skirt with another grey skirt under that. Black leggings and light brown fur boots. Metal shoulders pads and grey bracers for the perfect amount of edge. The nineteen year-old girl with her spiked war hammer who has trained her whole life to fight the very beasts that pilage her home. The viking who secretly cares but never wants to admit it because she's afraid of her own feelings.
Once upon a time I knew those five vikings. Once upon a time we were friends. Once upon a time my mother and sister were still alive.
My mother died four years after Serena was born, when I was eight. You'd think in this village she would've died a brave warrior defending her home. But it was simply a plague that killed her. Dad said so, claiming it was the Scourge of Odin, a deadly disease that enters through your blood, then destroys you from there on.
I used to think my mother was invincable. In my world, she was Thor, the almighty king of gods, and next to her, I was but a simple commoner. She was immortal, and I should've been the one who died from the sniffles. I even told her that as she lay on her death bed.
"No, love," she had said, her voice soft and melodious," You are my brave little warrior." I didn't feel like a warrior. I just felt weak and gulity, like this was all my fault. There was a deep void in my chest and it was filled with sorrow and anger. Sorrow for my mother, who had always been there to care for and love me. Sorrow for my sister, who would have to grow up without her mommy to keep her safe. Anger at the gods, because they let this happen. And anger at myself, because there wasn't anything I could do and I hated feeling so helpless.
The night she died was the night I received my hammer. It had been passed down from generation to generation in her family, presented to the eldest born. Now it was mine, and I would come to cherish it forever. That's why it's so special to me; the only reminder I have of her.
Dad loved mom much a great deal, but eventually he remarried. Freya was her name, our new mother. But I would never call her that. Because she will never be half the viking my mother was. Serena, however, wasn't as rude, prefering to call her ma'am or miss. I scolded her for it, telling her that lady didn't deserve our respect.
What's worse is that within the next year, we had a new little brother. Well, half-brother. Ragnar, she named him, a cute little kid with a mop of curly amber hair and icey blue eyes, like his mother. His mother. Not mine. I will always hold that against her.
That was how life was for a while, excruciatingly hard to deal with, yet it was still normal. Until Serena was taken away from me, just eight years later.
It happened on a cold morning, just like every other morning, cold and tasteless. During the afternoon, as where most dragon raids happen at night, but on that day one dragon snuck into the village, a dragon unlike any other we'd ever seen. I hadn't known at the time, but Serena was there when the dragon was caught and she tried to protect it. Just like my mother, she also had a love for dragons. I always told her one day it would get her killed, but I never actually believed it. Turns out, I was right.
By the time I arrived at the sene, the dragon was gone, along with my sister in it's clutches. When my mother died, I felt absolutely dreadful, but when Serena was taken, I felt that horror ten fold. All my anger and sorrow from before came back and tore at my already broken heart, until nothing was left of it.
The words I'm sorry kept whispering inside my head. But it wasn't enough. I had broken my promise to her. And it killed me.