~Ouroboros~

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1st Cycle ~ Omne Imperfectum

Wounds come in many varieties, from cuts to burns, tears and concussions. They range from barely noticeable tingles to all consuming pain that forces you into unconsciousness. But they are all nothing compared to the wounds of the heart – for unlike wounds of the body they remain with you, gnawing away at you until finally, they swallow you whole.

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1st - 1. Musings Over Fire

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Stoick sat in front of the fire pit in his house staring at the neat stack of wood as it slowly burned to ashes. The sun had long since fallen beyond the horizon, and fortunately for him his duties for the day as chief went with it.

The last dragon raid had been beaten off with no casualties for once, and remarkably little damage to the village as compared to what he had long since come to expect. So it was that he could afford a little time to just relax, stroke the fire, and not think about the problems that his village faced from the combined strengths of the dragons and his son Hiccup.

For a moment he reflected on the multiple failings of his son and wondered what the gods were thinking to have given him a son that was...

Was like…

Well, you really could only describe Hiccup as being like Hiccup as there was nothing to compare him to. The elder herself had pronounced on the day of his naming that Hiccup would never become a real Viking…

In fact… Stoick idly thought for a moment. In fact it was quite astounding the amount of sheer destruction that Hiccup could cause with his weak and uncoordinated body. It was almost as if Loki himself was guiding his actions.

And yet he could not quite bring himself to believe that Loki would ever select someone with a body build as Hiccup to use as his representation on earth. The other gods would probably laugh him out of court if he ever selected Hiccup and the others found out about it – they would never let him forget that.

"Besides which I asked the village elder about him enough times that she threw me out of her hut the last time. Still don't know where she got the strength for that from" he muttered under his breath, and then chuckled; "In fact if his abilities for accidental destruction were ever turned against the dragons then they would likely take care of the pest problem once and for all."

Still, Hiccup was his and Valhalarama's son and ever since her death at the dragon's claws many winters back, Stoick tried to take care of him as she would have wished. Even from an early age Stoick was considered as the strongest Viking in the village and Val was just as good as him at fighting dragons.

He himself was famous for having ripped a dragon's head clean off its shoulders in his youth – granted the dragon was a terrible terror which never reached more than three feet in length and were more of an annoyance than a real threat Unless you were stupid enough to stand still and allow a horde of them to swarm over you…

In any case, that was still quite an accomplishment for a child barely old enough to walk properly. His fame was completely set in stone when he became chief at the young age of sixteen winters and titled 'Stoick the Vast' along with having multiple kills of almost every dragon kind known to exist – except for the Nightfury of course, but killing a Nightfury was impossible since it never landed. Heck, no one had ever even gotten more than a glimpse of it; the only proofs of its existence were its unnervingly accurate blue plasma bolts and the horrible damage it did to the village. The sheer destruction it could cause without once showing itself was the primary reason for it being unanimously voted as the most deadly of the all dragon races and the only dragon listed under the legendary type.

Val on the other hand earned her fame in a true battle – she was in fact known for having survived alone against three monstrous Nightmares in one of the largest dragon raids of their generation while most Vikings were hard pressed to handle just one of those gargantuan beasts without backup. After all, a fully grown monstrous Nightmare could swallow a Viking whole, had enough spikes that it could impale you with any part of its body, and spit liquid fire which was nearly impossible to put out – meaning that if any got on you, amputation or death were likely the only alternatives. As if that wasn't enough, they also have a nasty habit of setting themselves on fire – if they were not stupid beasts intent on killing us all I would have been mighty impressed with that fiendishly clever way of combining their unique fire with the immunity to said fire that all dragons seem to share…

Most other Vikings were just not at his and Val's standards and thus had to be satisfied with the dubious honour of having their best kills be either the double headed hideous Zipplebacks or the bumble bee like Gronckles. Few had the chance to fight against anything else, considering that dragons outside the five common types were exceptionally rare – Timberjacks capable of slicing through trees with their razor sharp wings and Thunder Drums that could unleash piercing screeches capable of disorienting any Vikings nearby being just two of the most recent ones, having been spotted two summers ago. Most of the other dragon types recorded in the dragon manual haven't been seen since his father's time.

The aptly named rare species of dragons such as these were never seen in packs and rarely attacked in any case – it was a fortunate Viking indeed that got a chance to slay them. Well, fortunate or unfortunate was easily debatable as these dragons were typically at least as deadly as the most brutal Nightmares, and their appearance during a dragon raid could easily double the Viking casualties accrued during it. As it was, it should not be surprising that it fell onto him or one of the other veteran Vikings to take on these beasts while the younger Vikings were satisfied with Zipplebacks and Gronckles.

Zipplebacks were only slightly less prestigious than the equally sized monstrous Nightmares – though they were missing the sheer strength and danger of the Nightmares, you still had to contend with two heads trying to maul you or at least inject you with the acid their teeth excrete, two tails swiping at your legs, and a rather unique flaming system where one head breathed out flammable gas and the other head set if off with a spark – resulting in a huge explosion capable of turning a house into rubble. Truly a considerable feat – considering the usual sturdiness of Viking construction.

Even worse, you can't count on getting close to the blasted things to prevent them from blowing you up since they are immune to fire and not too phased by the shockwave, making them fully capable of setting off the gas cloud even if they themselves are within the blast radius! At least they can only produce enough gas for two large explosions before running out. It was also fortunate that the gas became inert within half a minute – if that wasn't the case then a few Zipplebacks would be able to blockade the Vikings from stopping the other dragons from stealing the sheep by threatening to light the gasses on fire for the unfortunate Vikings bravely trying to pass through. Not that the dumb beasts could strategize to save their lives.

Gronckles were different once again. At first glance they might have seemed weak for their size – only half that of Nightmares and Zipplebacks; they more than made up with it with their nigh impenetrable hide which makes the only plausible way of bringing them down being through bashing at them with a hammer until they stopped moving. Heck, I once bent a sword by trying to stab one through its eye – the bastard just closed its eyelids, which are apparently just as armoured as the rest of his body!

Fortunately the only method of attack for Gronckles was through smashing at their prey with their nigh dozen anvil-weight bodies or shooting one of its six fireballs – More like molten rocks, with just as much piercing power. Its lack of spikes, quills, sword-like wings, poison, acid, or a plethora of other dangers meant that the only attack to watch out for was the balls of magma it spit out, although with their weight approaching that of two dozen well-endowed Vikings meant that there was always a possibility of one bludgeoning a Viking to death. Still, their compact size and short bumble-bee like wings made it possible to ensnare them mid-flight with bolas and kill them while they were disoriented from the fall and still tied up with the bola net. Not that it means that they aren't dangerous – but with all of its weaknesses I can somewhat understand why killing one is only just slightly more prestigious than surviving a horde of terrible terrors.

The terrible terrors, which at full grown size never reached a length greater than two feet, were little more than pests. They lacked all of the attacks which made the other dragons dangerous, were easily distracted, and unlike the other dragons did not even have enough jaw strength (or the required jaw size) to do little more than annoy him and the other Vikings.

Though they were almost as precise with their fireballs as the much feared Nightfury, the most it could do was set something on fire, as even a blast to the face would just result in minor burns and burnt hairs – so much unlike the blue plasma bolts of the Nightfury which were capable of destroying watchtowers or buildings in one shot. Truly the only reason we even consider them as dragons – besides their looks – is due to them usually attacking in packs, which in sufficient sizes could overpower almost any Viking…

For him though – the Nightmares, Zipplebacks, Gronckles and Terrors were nothing to be afraid of or to spare too much thought towards. Instead it was the deadly Nadder type of dragons that he reserved his loathing for. Missing the front legs of most dragons, the Nadders looked remarkably similar to birds, or at least would have if birds grew to twenty five feet, were covered in scales instead of feathers, and had four to five dozen rock hard and razor sharp quills in their tails – which besides injecting paralyzing venom upon contact with its target through the tube like canals passing within the center of each quill were also capable of being shot out with enough force to puncture through armour and impale the unfortunate Viking to a tree from over three dozen paces away.

At the very least in the heat of battle their aim was not that good without them taking the time to pinpoint their target, and if they tried to compensate for their lack of precision by shoot more than a single quill at a time it becomes possible to block them with a good shield… I shudder to think of the losses we would experience if they had perfect accuracy at a moment's notice or could shoot more than one quill while still preserving their power…

No matter how impressive their abilities were, Stoick's hate for them had nothing to do with their skills, at least not directly – No, his sheer loathing towards them was because it was a Nadder that took away his wife four winters ago.

That god forsaken dragon that killed her must have sniped at her from far with its quills or snuck up behind her – there was simply no way that Val could have fallen in a fair battle. When Stoick found her after that raid her entire back was riddled with quills spilling her precious blood through their venom canals and a long gash rend down her spine. It was small conciliation that she was guaranteed entrance into Valhala – he had found a deadly Nadder with all of its tail quills spent that had likely been the cause of her death lying in front of her where it had fallen after Val had personally put her axe through its skull with the last bit of her strength.

Miraculously she was still alive even with the severity of her wounds, but even as he desperately tried to stem the unceasing flow of blood from her back he knew that she would not last. Even with the quills miraculously missing her heart and lungs, the deep gash through her spine alone was more than enough to seal her face. She likely knew that as well, as with the last of her strength she grabbed him and begged him to keep their son safe. His heart was rent into a thousand pieces as he begged her to hold on and told her that everything would be fine – even as they both knew that it was too late, far too late for her.

He had never quite forgiven himself for that – for not coming sooner.

It was after her death that he started to get a perverse sense of vindication and perhaps a shard of dark happiness whenever he watched life leave the eyes of yet another Nadder.

And yet even as their deaths piled up, his hunger was never sated and pain was never far from his side.

Even now Stoick felt as if someone was slowly inserting a dull knife into his chest whenever he thought of his wife. He had been told time and time again that the pain would dull over time, and in a way, it did – the dagger's razor edge having been weathered down until it was no longer the sharp stab followed by feelings of numbness, disbelief and loss; having been replaced by prolonged pain of certainty that his wife was dead, as the dull blade slowly tore its way into his heart. Never quite reaching it – never enough to just finish its job – but never ceasing its efforts either.

Somehow though, he highly doubted that that was what the others meant when they blabbed out the saying. But it's not like I am the only one who has lost someone they loved; death is after all an occupational hazard for us Vikings, the dragon raids and everything… the crippled leading the crippled – all of us just deluding each other while hoping that the pain will end if enough chant those same mantas – 'the pain will pass with time…' – 'at least she is in a better place…' – 'you will see her again…' – Damn those bloody dragons!

He knew that the dragons were not the only ones responsible for their deaths – Vikings lived an exceptionally dangerous life even before the raids started; what with accidents during hunting expeditions, dangerous storms during fishing trips, or illness during the worst days of winter. Heck, there was always the chance of raids from nearby tribes which fortunately stopped with the arrival of the dragons – but still…

It was simply easier to blame them for everything. When the pain becomes unbearable – it is not possible to rage at the weather that claimed everyone during a fishing trip; to yell at the slippery slope and the cliff that caused the death of your son when he went out hunting…

The dragons on the other hand were always conveniently nearby. With the dragon raids happening every other month they were perfect for lashing out that pent up hopeless anger. For what was more cathartic than the plunging of an axe deep within the soft underbelly of a hideous Zippleback and hearing its dying breath as warm blood pours down your hands; or hearing the final cracking of a Gronckle's skull after it yields to your persistent hammer strikes; or the exhilaration at standing over the cooling headless corpse of a monstrous Nightmare along with the fellow Vikings that have made the victory possible… It is really only my duty as chief that prevents me from rushing off towards the nearest Nadder during every dragon raid – almost as if with each of their deaths I come closer to forgiving myself for ultimately failing her.

Stoick knew somewhere deep in his heart that her death was not his fault and thus there was nothing to forgive – she would have skinned him and thrust him into a barrel of salt if he so much as insinuated that she required his protection. And yet he still blamed himself for her death and attacked dragons with gusto – as if hoping that by linking her death to his foolish allusion to blame and seeking forgiveness by killing dragons would cause the eternal wounds caused by her death to abate even a miniscule amount.

It didn't of course, but that did not stop him from trying.

For many Vikings it became even easier to blame the deaths of their friends and family exclusively on dragons after the winter twelve winters ago when the being born from lightning and death itself, the shade of darkness, the one they called the Nightfury joined the dragon raids. After all, except during the winter season the village was raided every other month – and the addition of the Nightfury more than doubled the amount of repairs needed after each one, and the less was said about the casualty rates, the better. Even before its arrival it was easy for me to blame the damn beasts – now though? After the village started to gradually decline under the strain? …After they took my wife from me?

During the few peaceful moments as these he was honestly scared of how simple and 'innate' it was for him to fall into blaming the thrice blasted dragons (there – he did it again…) for every loss and every misfortune that occurred.

Even as the pain became unbearable and Stoick realized that he had spent too much time digging himself deeper into a pit of depression and he tried to focus on the fire in the hopes of quelling or at least subsiding his pained heart; Stoick knew that he would give anything to have her back – she was the love of his life, and the one thing holding this family of his together.

The first few years after her death he had been too out of it to notice the gradually widening chasm between him and his son – the chasm that Val had worked so hard to bridge.

By the time he had finally noticed it, it was too late – they were simply too different. He tried many times to fix things, to reach out to his son, but they were just too different from each other – it seemed that there was simply nothing similar for them to bond over. And so it was that even Val's final wish to keep Hiccup safe was turning out to be impossible.

In fact some days it seems as if Hiccup is getting hurt on purpose. Why, just the other day he came back with a story of tripping on the way back from the Meade hall and spraining his left leg badly enough that he could hardly move it the next day. How a Viking could ever become bedridden from a simple sprained leg he would never know. Heck, he could still remember how he had to bodily hold down Gobber from rushing back to the dragon raid with his right leg still bleeding from the stump just below the ankle – the rest having been bitten off mere minutes before.

Fortunately today Hiccup exhibited hardly a limp in his stride as he ran over to that same Gobber – who now worked as a blacksmith after losing his left arm on the very next dragon raid, and to whom Hiccup was apprenticed. After all if anything positive could be said about Hiccup, it was that he healed at a rate that could almost be called abnormal, or perhaps even celestial in nature.

Stoick snorted as he thought about the possibility of Hiccup's faster than average healing being a gift of the gods, and idly wondered if such a gift (if that's what it was) was their way of saying 'sorry for not giving you a proper Viking body!' or a way to make sure that he survived all his mishaps to provide enough amusement for them. Although I sincerely doubt that Odin would lower himself to laughing at our expense, I wouldn't put it past some of the other gods to have granted Hiccup life for no other reason than for their own comedic desires.

Stoick's demeanor darkened slightly as he remembered that dragons also tended to heal much faster than humans. Fortunately they could not regrow lost body parts, but it was extremely vexing to know that if you did not immediately kill the dragon with the wound you dealt it, it would most likely survive the damage – it was this property more than all the deadly attributes of each dragon type that made battling against them so dangerous, for you never knew when the stunned dragon you smashed your hammer against would be up and fighting.

In fact, during the first generation of dragon attacks a staggering amount of casualties were due to leaving a crippled and stunned dragon behind and turning your attention to more viable threats, only to be stabbed in the back by what you considered as little more than a cooling carcass. This, more than anything else, lead to the timeless proverbs of 'no better kill than overkill' and 'you are only sure that a dragon is down when you cut off its head – and even then be cautious of turning your back to it' along with the standard mode of operation consisting of 'hammer at it until it stops moving – and then give it a few more whacks just to be sure'. At least that means that we do not have to capture live dragons too often for the younglings' training in the kill ring – what with any damage accrued during the day's training being gone the next…

A particularly loud crack from the fire brought Stoick out of his thoughts as he looked at the slowly dying fire in front of him. Frowning at the dark thoughts that had consumed his mind, he leaned over and picked up some more firewood from the nearby stack and threw them on the fire as he settled down again. Watching the flames dancing around and licking the newly added pine wood, Stoick inhaled the fresh smell of pine that the fire was beginning to release into the air around it as it attacked the newly added wood with renewed vigour.

As the fire crackled and embers floated up Stoick let his musings cease and lowering the fire poker to the floor allowed himself to be lost to the mesmerizing movements of the flame. Just a few more minutes, and then I will get back to sleep – it's already quite late and even though there is little to be done now that the village has been repaired, I will still need to check on the food situation – what with the winter just around the corner…

As time continued to pass unnoticed and unheeded he reflected idly that it is almost as if the world itself stopped existing beyond the whiskers of flames burning in front of him. Gradually, Stoick's shoulders slumped and his breathing deepened. His eyes, having long ago become unfocused, allowed the eyelids to close over themselves without their owner's permission.

Thus Stoick did not even notice it as he slipped into a deep sleep in the same awkward pose he was in when he first sat in front of the fire, with only luck and experience during countless similar situations during hunting expeditions keeping him from falling over face first into the slowly dying flames.

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It was the low pitched howl of the horn that roused Stoick. The fire has long ago burned down until only the lightly glowing embers were left, casting the room around him with a dull red glow. Damn, guess I fell asleep… And what is making that damn noise! For a few seconds he could do nothing but stare with barely open eyes at the burnt up wood while trying to sort through his mind, before his eyes widened as his sluggish brain provided him with the meaning behind the sound of the horn he was hearing. Shit! It's a dragon raid! But why!? – The last dragon raid was only a month ago and we should have at least another month before another one! This had better not be a false alarm – I swear I will make them shovel sheep dung for weeks if it is!

Lunging towards the door and his trusty hammer which he always kept within reach he fell face first onto the floor; just barely managing to break his fall with his arms.

Perhaps it was not such a good idea to try and run anywhere when you cannot feel your legs… he thought to himself while trying to massage some blood into them. Come on, come on! I don't have the time for this! Thankfully it wasn't even a minute before he could stand up and stumble his way towards the door. He had his hammer, his legs were now mostly responding to him, so all that was left was his son and he could focus on the battle.

"HICCUP! IT'S A DRAGON RAID! GET TO GOBBER AS FAST AS YOU CAN!" he yelled and rushed out the door to meet whatever raiding party the dragons decided to throw at them this time, ignoring his cape that hung in place near Val's on the hooks along the doorway. If the dragons were here, the fighting would keep him warm enough even during the depths of winter, to speak nothing of the only slightly freezing temperatures of a summer's night outside.

He really hoped that it was a false alarm – but somehow, he highly doubted that they were that lucky.

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A/N

Well, here is the actual start of the story. It should be relatively obvious that this is the start of the 'nightmare' that was talked about last chapter. Overall I will only add further parts to the story in the prologue in between the story arcs, sort of as interlude chapters.

Just a quick clarification for the POV: the 'human' characters will be written in third person, while the 'dragon' characters will be written in first person. Its not exactly humans / dragons, but that will hopefully be clarified as you read the story (I don't want to tell too much about how the story progresses, suffice it to say that the POV of each section says a lot about the character who it talks about).

I know that the stats about the dragons are not exactly canon – I tried to stick to official facts while at the same time writing the way I personally see the dragons shown in the movie. Case to point – I see Gronckles as smaller than the other dragons but heavier due to their thick armour-like plating. Just stick to the 'abilities and sizes' I provided, visually there is no difference (and unless you know all canonical dragon trivia by heart you shouldn't spot any discrepancies)

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Saienai Signing off.