Title: The Lost Heir

Summary: Hiccup goes through with his plan to run away, leaving behind no loose ends… or so he believes. After discovering the Nest and then fleeing north, Hiccup builds a utopia at the Dragon Sanctuary, working towards his ultimate goal of destroying the Queen. But no good deed goes unpunished, and ghosts from his past are destined to resurface.

Chapter Eleven: Testimonies

Flying.

Fishlegs is flying.

That's the only thought that registers over the unending scream pouring out of his mouth. At least, he's pretty sure it's him screaming, though it does sound awfully girlish even to his own ears. He thinks it started as a cry for help, but it has lasted so long that any words he may have been saying have been stretched beyond recognition. Still, the meaning is clear: he is a man in distress.

He doesn't dare look to see how high the gronckle has taken him – the last thing his eyes saw was the beautifully solid half-moon bridge before he squeezed them shut the instant he felt himself be lifted into the air. He had one final moment of clarity to think that Snotlout had better be damn grateful, and then absolute terror gripped his body.

And now, he's flying.

The gronckle has a firm grip on his shoulders, but its paws don't feel like they're pricking his skin. He's either very lucky or completely numbed by adrenaline.

He fights the dire urge to break its hold – he has no idea how great a fall it would be or where he would land – but that doesn't mean the dragon won't simply decide to drop him.

He doesn't know how to tell it that he wants to go back down – aside from screaming in fear, that is. But, if anything, his distress has the opposite effect, making the dragon skittish and its flight terribly erratic. The Dragon Master extolls dragons for their intelligence, but the longer this flight persists, the more Fishlegs doubts that to be the case. If they both want it to end, why not just land!?

It's hard to hear anything over the rush of wind in his ears and his piercing scream, but he's almost certain he hears a woman's voice before things seem to level out. He's no longer swinging wildly like a Berserker's mace, but he continues to dangle in the gronckle's clutches like one of innumerable pillaged sheep Fishlegs remembers watching be carried off to the Nest.

That thought makes him reconsider keeping his eyes shut; it makes imagining his gruesome end all too easy.

He cracks open an eye to see who has come to his rescue. He looks first to his left, where the cityscape rushes past as an indistinct blur of turquoise ice and colourful wings.

When he turns his head to the right, he has to squint from a sudden glare of sunlight flooding his vision. Something vast and reflective is flying alongside them. Perhaps it's an armoured dragon – Fishlegs has seen a few of the reptiles clad in chainmail these last few days, but none seemed to shine quite so brilliantly. Once the light has rolled over the length of its body, Fishlegs is afforded his first proper look at the dragon. It has large, plate-like scales that remind him of his mother's looking glass and an enormous, upturned horn between its eyes.

There's no rider astride the creature but he hears the same voice again, soft and reassuring. "It's all right now. Easy, girl."

Did she just jump from one dragon to another in flight? Fishlegs gulps. That takes some daring. Or a total lack of wits. But Fishlegs is inclined to think only generous thoughts of his saviour and decides to be nothing but impressed. Well, impressed and grateful. Especially when she guides the gronckle towards the nearest solid rock.

They land on the second-highest orbital walkway, and Fishleg's legs give out almost immediately.

"First-time flyer?" the crazy brave woman asks knowingly.

"What gave me away?" Fishlegs returns, looking up to see the most beautiful girl he's ever seen. Lithe and raven-haired. She sort of takes his breath away, and Fishlegs congratulates himself for getting at least one witticism out before being struck dumb.

She extends a hand to help him up, smiling. "I'm Heather of the Ísfjallan Guard," she tells him.

Fishlegs swallows, mouth dry. "I-I'm Fishlegs… of Berk."

Heather's eyes bulge. "Berk! Does Hiccup know you're here? Ah! He must do. I leave for one week and he gets himself into a personal crisis. Typical," she tuts, folding her arms judgmentally.

Fishlegs squeaks. This is huge. Does she know Hiccup!? Not only that, but she seems to be in the unique position of not being up to speed on the complicated Hooligan–Ísfjallan situation. Fishlegs recognises what a golden opportunity this is and starts thinking faster than a Jorgenson could race at Thawfest.

Fishlegs nods fervently. "YES! That's exactly right!" he says, a touch too enthusiastic. "In fact, Hiccup asked to see me, but I don't know where to find him." He hopes he's not overdoing the innocent act but the melodrama has a way of escaping in the wake of actual drama – like nearly being carried off by a dragon, as a random example. "You wouldn't be able to take me to him, would you?" he asks hopefully.

"Hitchflying can be disorientating for new arrivals," Heather consoles. "Of course I can."

Astrid rolls up the scroll, having stared at it long enough. If Hiccup designed the Astrid (a blush rises to her cheeks at the implication of that), then why did H tell her it was the work of the Dragon Master?

Oh. That thieving half-troll. He must be taking credit for Hiccup's ingenuity! Astrid holds in her hands confirmation of Hiccup's continued life past that awful day in the cove, but her fear for his safety persists. Increases. What if he's creating designs for the Dragon Master under duress? No wonder the man's playing games with the Hooligans – he mustn't want to lose his golden goose to them.

She can picture him now, holed up in some high tower, churning out idea after revolutionary idea, the Dragon Masters boot on his neck all the while.

The scroll crumples in her fist. She'd bet her kransen this isn't the only patent belonging to the heir to be found in the Archives. Astrid marches to the nearest shelf and selects something at random. It's blueprints for the dockyard locks. A detailed cross-section reveals the intricate inner workings – interlocking discs with teeth that get successively larger, annotated 'cogs'. Astrid snorts at the funny-sounding word, unsurprised but outraged on the missing boy's behalf when she sees his initials on this parchment too.

She stuffs the offending parchment back in its cubby, moves along, and snatches up another. The illustration depicts a training dummy that fights back. An exploded diagram shows more of those cogs driving mechanical arms, and the corner bears three Hagalazes and three Isazes. Astrid's blood boils.

Almost every scroll is the same. She tries demanding answers from the scribe tidying up after her, but he refuses to acknowledge her presence, having overheard her faction from the loudmouth kid from earlier. But whether it's fear or prejudice keeping his mouth shut, Astrid can't tell.

She strides over to an empty desk and collapses into a chair, pounding her fist against the table. She lets out a long sigh.

She's looking for a census or a manifest that might tell her where to find Hiccup, but there are too many scrolls and she doesn't understand the sorting system. Besides, no one wants to risk helping her now they know she's a Hooligan.

Someone clears their throat to her left.

"They say personal accounts aren't much of a substitute for seeing her in person, but the Dragon Master only allows pledged riders on scouting missions." Astrid turns to see an elderly woman in scribe's robes holding a loosely bound book.

"What?"

The woman offers it to her. "It's a good starting point for recruits," she says simply.

Astrid's about to correct the woman: she's not a recruit, she's a captive… sort of. But something stops her. Instead, she finds herself taking the proffered book and settling down to read. After all, there might be a very good reason the woman thought this particular book might be of use to her.

A quick flip through the pages reveals an assortment of handwriting. Some pages are neat, some messy. Some used coal, some ink. Looking closer, Astrid even recognises a variance in dialect. This book has contributions from innumerable authors. The pages at the front look the newest, less dog-eared and smudged. She begins reading the latest entry, mild interest giving way to unfettered curiosity.

Don't let this steady script mislead you, my hands won't cease shaking. I've outsourced the recording of this account to another who can better preserve my experience, though nothing can do justice to the horrors of the Nest.

Astrid gasps.

We were warned of what we would find there: a beast the size of a mountain. But we'd seen the Bewilderbeast, and we thought we could comprehend its vastness.

This creature is not like our King. It's pure evil. It knows nothing but hate and hunger. It has an unmatched power to subjugate and destroy. I looked into her eyes and felt the most helpless I ever had. Slipshod, my dragon, was struggling the most out of the party. When I fell silent out of terror, he nearly succumbed to her call. In a trance-like state, he took us closer to the Red Death. I barely remember the rest, but I believe I owe the Dragon Master my life for what followed.

– Gristle Thorgrimsson

The next page contains a similar account, albeit with fouler language. Some accounts are longer than this, describing the hellish journey through the volcano. Another has a much less fortunate end…

After reading at least a dozen, Astrid flips to the end of the book. Or rather, the first entry. She's only skim-reading at first, expecting more of the same, but then her eyes snag on one particular word and she starts over, straightening in her chair.

Berk.

I had been with the dragons for a week before I finally got through to them. I needed to go home. I had a newborn son who needed me, a husband whom I loved, a life I needed to return to. I was safer than I'd ever been, but still, I couldn't sleep for fear for my family. How could I rest when they were ever in danger?

I was more confused than I'd ever been. Why were these dragons so different from those on Berk? So much friendlier, so affectionate? I'd always known Dragons were gentler than we Hooligans gave them credit for, but these dragons were actively caring for me. So much so that Cloudjumper finally caved to my request to go home.

I climbed on his back – that was the first time we ever rode together; being carried off was certainly less majestic – and we soared into the sky. I thought about what a sight I'd make on dragonback when I returned. What Stoick would say –

Astrid feels concussed. This can't be real. This testimony cannot have been written by a woman twenty years dead.

She turns to the final page of the book, heart pounding, mind racing.

– Valka Haddock

the byline dares to read.

Great. Freja's. Ghost.

Fishlegs would've quite happily never flown again. He certainly wasn't in any hurry to return to the air, but when Heather suggests taking her dragon, Windshear, to meet Hiccup, Fishlegs finds himself agreeing quite easily.

Heather argues it's much faster than walking, which Fishlegs doesn't doubt, but that's not the only reason he doesn't protest the arrangement. The truth is, the idea of sitting so close to Heather for the duration of the flight seems rather romantic.

The reality, however, is a little wanting in the romance department.

Fishlegs has to constantly remind himself not to hold on too tight, but equally can't stomach anything less than the iron grip he has around her midsection. They're only going at a fraction of the speed of Fishlegs' earlier spin, but the wind rushes in his ears – or maybe his own roaring pulse – and Fishlegs can't even make pleasant small talk over the noise. In summary: a disaster.

He should've asked to walk. That way he might've been able to get her to let something else slip about the missing Hooligan. Not to mention he wouldn't have made such a fool out of himself. But none of that seems to matter so much when they finally land and Heather leads him to a large set of double doors.

"Here?" Fishlegs asks, a little astounded.

These are… really nice doors, probably leading to really nice rooms. Fancier, even then the accommodations made for the younger tribesmen, and Fish, Snot and Tuff are being treated like reluctant guests of honour by their jailors (minus a day's hard labour, of course). Fishlegs hadn't known what to expect given the gag order on his situation, but if this is really where Hiccup lives, they must be treating him like a jarl. But why?

"Hiccup, open up!" Heather demands, rapping on the door with her fist.

There's a scuffle on the other side and a faint sound of bare feet over stone. Fishlegs wrings his hands nervously. The latch is slid away with a clink of metal and the door is pulled ajar.

Fishlegs barely glimpses a head of auburn hair before he's muscled aside. The door is wrenched shut – possibly-Hiccup's shout of confusion carries over the threshold – and between him and the door now stands Aesir, hands on her hips.

Fish gulps.

He's done for.

"That was quite sly, Ingerman," she says, almost commendatory. "It's most fortunate that I arrived when I did." Fortunate is hardly the word Fish would use. Aesir turns to Heather. "It's wonderful to have you back, dear. Although you have missed rather a lot."

"I'm starting to realise that," Heather says, giving Fishlegs a wary assessment. Fishlegs does his best to look contrite, but she only frowns in return. "I know there's never a good time for bad news, but how do you think Hiccup–" Aesir hurriedly shushes Heather.

"Let me deal with this first," Aesir requests, turning back to him. "Cloudjumper, would you take Ingerman back to the residential district while I speak to Heather?"

Behind him, Aesir's stormcutter releases a soft growl.

"Thank you."

And Fishlegs is treated to a third nauseating flight that day.

"Gobber, we need more than that!" Stoick roars. He seizes the blacksmith by his hairy vest and shakes him emphatically. "How do you know!?"

Gobber shakes his head lamely. He can't tell them it's because he has a very compelling reason to believe his source because they'd only ask who that person is. Who could strike any doubt of Hiccup's safety from his conscience? Why, only the boy's mother herself, of course.

And telling them that is a can of worms he doesn't want to open. How can he look his chief in the eye and tell him his wife is a traitor? Would it matter to him that she's alive in the face of everything she's done to survive? Gobber doesn't know. And it's not something he's willing to test while defection is punishable by death.

It's a law that dates back to old clan conflicts some three hundred years ago, though naturally there's been no precedent since Hooligans arrived on Berk. Dragons are unlike any other known enemy – siding with them is a death sentence on its own. But after Johann brought news of dragon sympathisers across the sea, Stoick vowed anyone caught riding a dragon on his island would be branded a deserter, and suffer all that came with it.

An execution would be the least of Valka's worries if Stoick found out her identity and refused to pardon her.

And, alright, in Stoick's defence, Gobber couldn't imagine him harming a hair on the love of his life's head. But since they arrived in Ísfjall, Stoick has been… slipping. He's angrier than he ever was, filled with an impotent, futile rage without an outlet. He doesn't sleep. Barely eats, and spends most of his spare time stewing in silence.

He needs Valka back, but she won't return to him on her own. She must be too afraid of her reception after all these years. Fortunately, the star-crossed lovers have their best friend Gobber to set them straight. Because whatever Valka has gotten herself into, she must have a reason for it, and he's prepared to hear her side of things.

"Aesir… Aesir mentioned your wife's name," Gobber improvises at last.

Spitelout and Phlegma gasp like asthmatic yaks.

Stoick goes stiff as a board. "What?" he asks.

"I warned her not to touch your helmet again if she knows what's good for her. Said it belonged to your wife. And she knew her name was Valka. She told me Hiccup had spoken of his mother to her once," he says.

Gobber doesn't know how Valka can invent lies so easily. He's going to have to remember all of this in case it comes up again later. The thought makes him sweat all over. But the white lie has the intended effect. There's a glimmer of hope in Stoick's forest-green eyes.

"She said that?" he asks. It's like he's coming alive for the first time in years. It doesn't happen all at once, but later if Gobber had to pinpoint the moment Stoick allowed that hopeful little seed to be planted, it would be now, in this moment.

It's not a total transformation; he's still quick to play the offensive. "Then she knows what the dragons did to her," Stoick surmises, releasing his hold on Gobber. "And yet she still thinks I'll make peace with them after they killed my wife and… took my son." The concession is more than Gobber could've hoped to achieve when preparing for this conversation on the ferry ride back from training.

"I wonder if perhaps she knows all too well everything you've lost, and only wishes to help us fight the war the right way. The way that means we win," Gobber postulates gravely.

"You're starting to sound like one of them," Stoick warns.

"I'm only trying to keep an open mind. I choose to believe Hiccup is out there somewhere. I have hope that we'll bring him home."

"Hope is for fools," Stoick grunts, shoulder-checking any Viking who can't get out of his way fast enough as he heads for the men's dorm.

Gobber sighs, watching him retreat.

Then I'm the biggest fool of them all.

Hiccup stumbles back into his room. What was that all about? It sounds like Heather's back, which is the best news Hiccup's had all day. He could really use a friend right now. But why wouldn't his mother let him see her? Is something wrong?

He tries the handle again, but it has the resistance of someone forcing it closed. A few moments pass and the door goes flying open.

"Phew, that was a close one," his mother says, locking the door behind herself and Heather.

"By all means, please come in," Hiccup says sarcastically, as the two women have already made themselves comfortable at the dining table.

"What was that all about?" asks Heather, toeing off her riding boots and propping her feet up on the adjacent chair.

Valka removes her mask and shakes out her loose curls. "That was one part of A Very Complicated Problem."

"Oh no, what happened now?" Hiccup groans.

"I'm not entirely sure," Heather begins. "I rescued this man from what looked like an accidental flight, and he asked me to bring him to you. I thought he was a friend of yours, I'm sorry, Hiccup. If I'd have known–"

"Don't worry yourself, dear. It was Fishlegs Ingerman, and he asked for 'Hiccup'," Valka explains.

"Oh."

"What does that mean?" Heather asks, more confused than before.

"Fishlegs is a member of our old tribe. There are about twenty of them here, only they didn't come to learn how to train dragons," Hiccup tells her. "They wanted my – that is, Hiccup's – weregild. Or that's what they said, anyway. I think they were after my head."

"Ugh, Viking blood debts. They always get so messy," Heather comments.

"You haven't heard the worst of it. So when I realised my dad wasn't a mercantile bastard, and was actually trying to avenge me, I thought, hey! What if I told him I wasn't dead!"

"Wow, Hiccup! That's so brave! What did he say when you revealed your true identity?"

"Well… he didn't say anything."

"Okay, I'm lost again."

"The idiot thought we could get them to give dragons a chance if we promised to tell them what happened to their heir in return," Valka contributes.

"And how's that going?"

"About as well as you'd expect," Hiccup admits. "I'm building a rapport with some of my old classmates. It's a work in progress," he defends.

"Tell her about the girl," Valka prompts.

Hiccup blushes scarlet.

"Girl!? What girl!?" Heather rubs her hands together gleefully.

"It's not like that," he protests.

"This wouldn't be the same girl you rampaged through the city with because you were too embarrassed to admit you're the jarl of an impregnable stronghold, would it? I told you, girls totally go for that."

"That's not what happened. She wouldn't have trusted me if I'd told her I was the Dragon Master. And she wouldn't have forgotten me if she realised I was someone from her past."

"And did she? Forget you, I mean?" Heather asks knowingly.

"Hah! Did she!" Valka interjects. "The first thing she does is go looking for 'H' the hunky herbalist," he teases.

Hiccup holds up a finger. "Never say that to me again."

"You called yourself 'H'? You couldn't think of anything more imaginative?" Heather whines.

He sputters. "In my defence, I didn't think I'd ever have to use it again. And you try thinking of a cool name on the spot."

"Nightshade Ingeborg Ravensdottir," Heather announces without missing a beat.

"That's actually pretty good," Hiccup allows. "But we're getting off topic."

"No, I think I'm starting to get it. You've got three identities to maintain and all these Hooligans running around trying to bust it open." Heather thinks for a moment. "Then that means that muscleman from your home tribe was manipulating me, but only to make sure you were alive. Aw, that's kind of sweet."

"There's more," Valka interrupts. "Gobber saw my face."

"Why didn't you lead with that!?" Hiccup exclaims, pulling at his hair.

"Because it wouldn't have made any sense to Heather," Valka returns with a mother's patience.

"Alright, so what does this mean? Do you think he told Stoick?" Hiccup asks, now pacing.

Valka chews her lip. "They don't seem to be as close as they once were. But I'm not sure. I guess we'll know for certain in the morning."

"You're taking this weirdly well," Hiccup observes.

"What do I have to lose? They're leaving soon, and when they do, life will go on just as it did before," she maintains.

"If you didn't think it would matter, why bother covering your face at all?" Hiccup asks archly.

Valka stiffens. "It's… complicated."

Hiccup has a personal theory: Valka knows, deep down, that Stoick will always love her. And that scares her. The thought of his forgiveness scares her more than a rejection. Because he's already rejecting them – their beliefs, the world they've created, everything. But that's because he doesn't understand.

She struggled with Hiccup's forgiveness five years ago. She blamed herself for staying away, but going back would've meant reabsorption into the war for both her and Cloudjumper. In the end, there was nothing to forgive.

Hiccup's situation is different. He ran away. If his father can't reconcile that, Hiccup wouldn't blame him.

The conversation trails off into an unhappy silence.

"So I'm sensing this is the wrong time for more bad news," Heather hedges.

"An astute observation, General," Hiccup banters, in an attempt to restore the previous level of energy. "But when has that ever stopped you?"

She smiles beautifically. "Never. So get this: King Enetus is gathering troops on the Moray coast. He's planning to invade Scotland."

"What does that have to do with us?" asks Valka.

"There's been some… chatter among the ranks lately," Heather starts, delicately. "They're getting impatient. We promised them the greatest battle in all of Midgard. A lot of them are only here for the glory, and many have been waiting years to see some action. Enetus is gathering forces as we speak and his summons will reach us before the summer solstice arrives. We could lose a third of our riders to this."

"Loki's balls," Hiccup swears.

"So we attack the Red Death before midsummer," Valka says evenly.

"We're not ready. That's less than a month away," Hiccup frets.

"It's a case of now or never, Hiccup," Heather tells him. "We'll figure something out."

She gets up from the table to hug his miserable frame. She inhales deeply. "Hey, are you wearing perfume?"

"It's scented oil," he mumbles.

"Going somewhere?" she asks.

Hiccup abruptly lets her go. "Damn. I was going to meet Astrid," he cusses, hunting around for his boots and nicking Heather's by mistake. He frowns in confusion when hers won't fit.

"I thought I blundered through that," Valka says, still apologetic.

"No, you didn't. She only knows Aesir is H's mother."

"This is making my brain hurt," Heather complains, holding her head.

"When were you supposed to meet her?" Valka probes.

"Half an eykt ago," Hiccup sighs, giving up on the boots and collapsing into a chair.

Who's he kidding? She'll be long gone by now.

"You look exhausted, Hiccup. Just go to bed. All your problems will still be here in the morning," Heather promises.

Hiccup looks at his bed. It's extremely tempting. He looks at Toothless' slab, jealous of how the lazy reptile slept through everything. But also grateful that even if he's not so great at taking care of himself, at least he's managed to keep Toothless content. The thought gives him a warm sense of accomplishment.

"That's *yawn* so comforting. Thanks," Hiccup says wryly but drags himself off to bed anyway, leaving his mother and Heather to let themselves out.

In spite of everything on his mind, he falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Hagalaz and Isaz are Elder Futhark letters equivalent to H and I respectively.

I don't know if Enetus would have been considered a king, but he was a Viking leader raising an army circa 1010.

A/N: Hi guys! So it's been almost exactly two years. Wild. I was inspired by commandocucumber updating my all-time favourite Prodigal Son recently. I started thinking, alright, there are parts of this story I'm not happy with, but there are also parts that I'm still proud of. Let's see where this goes.