Haha, fast chapter, eh? I do so like this one-although, I think I'll let this one settle, because the next one will be a MASSIVE lore drop, haha. Have fun!
Snotlout didn't know where he was going. Scratch that, he didn't know why he was going wherever he was going.
Not for the first time, Snotlout cursed his tendency to act on impulse.
The mild rain of the early hours of the night had gone and shifted into an unforgiving downpour, accentuated harshly by lightning and thunder alike.
"No dragon attacks," Snotlout muttered, wiping his face and immediately regretting it. His hands had been muddy, and now his face was too.
Snotlout let out a sharp bark of laughter–though no smile sat on his face. Now, with his face muddy and his view masked by the muck and filth, it didn't matter what little light could escape and pierce the cloud cover–he couldn't see anything anyways.
As if to spite him, a thick branch smacked him in the face.
"What the hell was that?!" Snotlout raged, smacking the branch to the side, only for it to rebound and hit him in the face again.
What…?
Snotlout squinted, and vaguely made out the silhouette of a trail of broken trees before him.
"You've gotta be kidding me." he muttered, rubbing his eyes with the back of his fist tiredly, "There's a dragon here. Of course. Just my luck."
Although… It's raining. I should have the upper hand… Snotlout grimaced. He knew that wasn't true. Even if the dragon–or whatever it was that broke these trees–couldn't use their fire, they still had a multitude of other weapons (i.e. claws, teeth, venom…) at their disposal.
By all means, he should turn around, walk the other way, and pray he doesn't fall into a random boar pit the Thorston family dug. (They dug a lot)
However, he was a Jorgenson, and Jorgensons don't shy away from the opportunity to kill a dragon–yes, I know, dad. Snotlout mentally recited, rolling his eyes, only to blink furiously when a muddy raindrop landed right on them.
Before he knew it, mechanically, Snotlout began following the trail. It led down, down, and down, until the ground reached a slight pit. Snotlout squinted again, rubbing his forehead clean (or at least trying to) with his leather vambrace.
What…?
Snotlout was sure he was hallucinating.
Why in the name of Hel is there a rope down here…?
Just to make sure it was real, Snotlout reached down and picked up the edge of it with his fingers. Sure enough, the coarse feeling of the rope and twine rubbing in between his fingers was there.
Snotlout dropped the rope as if it had burned him. It was then he noticed, that it wasn't actually a rope.
A net. Snotlout thought numbly.
This far into the forest?
Why?
Thunder boomed. Lightning struck. The ground was muddy.
Snotlout jolted and his already precarious footing shifted. Before he knew it, he was sliding down the slope, feet first and braced for impact. Although, at the speed he was going, he doubted it would be necessary.
He presumed all the bones in his body would immediately turn into mush and become totally useless the moment he hit something.
Snotlout yelped, and he distantly felt a branch–or something cut his shoulder open. Slowly, bit by bit, the mudslide trickled to a stop. Though, not for long. The rain was still going strong, and it was only a matter of time before it reached wherever he was right now.
Snotlout staggered upwards, and immediately regretted ever leaving the campsite. Quickly, despite everything his father told him, he ran a quick analysis of himself.
His shoulder was torn open, courtesy of whatever (probably a branch). His right shoe was missing, most likely lost in the mudslide, and the same ankle seemed to be twisted. His helmet was also missing, although that was to be expected. He also felt the unpleasant taste of mud on his tongue, which also led him to another churning feeling in his stomach.
Final conclusion?
He was wet, injured, and probably sick to boot. Snotlout cursed quietly under his breath, sniffling slightly.
The dark-haired Viking leaned against a tree, breathing harshly through his mouth. He needed to move. Fast. Wherever he was, the dragon-beast-thing probably was, too. He needed to get a feel for his location, pray it was somewhat familiar and work from there.
But what about Hiccup?
Snotlout paused.
What about him?
Well… the dark corner of Snotlout's mind that he seemed to horribly fail at repressing nowadays hesitated, He's going to be worried.
His feelings don't matter. Snotlout retorted forcefully.
Really? The dark corner whined, But he'll be so worried… And disappointed.
Snotlout snarled wordlessly and got up, His feelings don't matter. No one's feelings matter.
The voice was silent for a moment, before it spoke up again, its quiet words ringing loudly within Snotlout's headspace. Not even yours?
Snotlout shut the voice out of his mind.
He grabbed a nearby branch, still attached to its tree, and shook it off. For the first time in a while, Snotlout was thankful for his short build. It made using branches as crutches much, much easier.
"Jorgensons don't need crutches, boy-o."
Snotlout nearly dropped his branch.
"Oh Thor." he said, before chuckling hysterically, "I do not need this right now. Talk to me later! The Snot ain't home right now!"
He planted the branch before him and traversed forward. With each step he took, he less used the branch as a crutch, and more as another leg.
Snotlout could feel blood sluggishly seep out of his shoulder wound, and he frowned, his eyelids drooping.
Suddenly, walking became a lot harder. His right foot squelched unpleasantly into the ground, and his ankle twanged sharply with every step.
Snotlout paused and leaned against his branch, breathing raggedly. His eyelids fell shut, and he tipped forward. Closer… Closer…
And he fell.
O~O
Hiccup turned over and groaned, before sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
There's no point. He thought morosely, It's too cold… and the water level seems to be increasing. I might need to improve this design in the future…
It was then he noticed the apparent lack of snoring, or any signs of another living being.
"Snotlout?"
Nothing.
Hiccup's heart started beating faster, and he shifted his fur vest back onto his shoulders, "Snotlout?"
Still nothing.
Hiccup cursed and got up. The sky seemed to be lightening at the very least–the beginning of sunrise. How long had it been since Snotlout was gone?
The rain had by no means stopped, or even lightened, but it was definitely a lot less harsh (no hail!) than it had been in the middle of the night.
It was light enough for Hiccup to run and look.
But–
Hiccup was broken out of his thought by the sharp sound of birds–ravens cawing. Hiccup slowly turned around, pinpointing the location of origin, and his blood ran cold.
Raven Point was a mountain known for its association with death. Not many went up there and came back down alive. It could be dragons, it could be boars, it could be feral yaks, gnomes, trolls, whatever.
However, no matter who or what it was, if there was a dead body on the mountain, the ravens would come out. Majestically, darkly, ominously, they would circle around the area of the corpse, before a singular raven would dive down. Whatever it did, no one knew–most Vikings were too scared to go up the mountain (save for the Jorgensons, maybe, but they were more stupid than brave)–but then it would caw, and the rest of the ravens would swoop down beside it and feast on the remains.
No one entered Raven Point during winter.
Nobody and nothing had the guts to enter Raven Point during winter. Even the animals avoided that mountain.
It was certain death.
(And yet, Hiccup went anyways…)
As such, normally during winter, the Ravens would be quiet.
Hiccup's heart pumped faster, and a cold sweat slid down the back of his neck.
They weren't quiet.
It is raining.
They weren't quiet.
Nothing with feathers should be flying right now.
They weren't quiet.
It defies logic–
Hiccup skidded to a stop.
The ominous cawing of the Ravens could be heard above him. They were circling. Hiccup roughly estimated the area they were circling over and ran. As he ran down the path, he felt a sense of dread claw its way up his throat.
This way… Hiccup realized, …Is oddly familiar… Too familiar…
Sure enough, he walked into a broken branch.
No, perhaps that was too demeaning.
He walked into a broken tree.
Hiccup looked at the tree and grimaced. Snotlout definitely came this way. There was blood on the side of the tree. His helmet was on the ground.
Of course, it could've just been a mudslide that brought the helmet here–after all, this was the base of Raven Point–a mountain.
(The blood killed any hope Hiccup had of that, though.)
"Snotlout!" Hiccup yelled, "Snotlout!"
He broke off a branch, and dug it into the ground, giving himself extra support as he slid down the slope. "Snotlout!"
He froze.
Ah. So that's why this place is so familiar.
Hiccup gingerly picked up the ends of his net with two fingers. He really shouldn't have left this here…
Although, to be fair, he wasn't exactly expecting anyone to actually find it. It was nearing the Cold Season! It didn't matter how curious a person was, to go this near Raven Point so close to Winter was a death sentence.
"It's already bad nothing grows on this lump of an island, Hiccup." the auburn-haired teen remembered his father complaining over a mug of mead, "Then there are idiots who become delusional an' think that going up Raven's Point will get 'em food. It'll give you nothing, ya hear that, boy? Nothin' but death." and he sipped his mead and looked far off into the distance.
His father didn't speak for most of that night.
The ravens circled.
Hiccup grimaced and threw the net to the side. He'd figure that out later. Then, he realized the net was also red.
It was a bit of a stretch… But if Snotlout was going in the direction Hiccup thought Snotlout was going in…
Then he wouldn't be far.
Hiccup skidded to a stop, bracing himself against a (not-broken) tree.
Hiccup's heart dropped into his stomach. He was right.
The ground was wet with blood and muck, and it could've been the lack of light, but Hiccup was sure he saw Snotlout's shoe there too. Hiccup looked up.
The ravens were circling.
He was in the right spot.
He looked down again, "Snotlout!"
The sun started to peek slightly over the horizon. The rain hadn't lightened in the least. This didn't seem to be turning out very well.
Suddenly, a warbling call answered him.
Hiccup nearly fell over, "Toothless?!"
The call was a bit louder this time, nearly edging into a shriek–one that was the center of many-a Viking horror story.
"Toothless!"
(Funny how such a dragon was Hiccup's savior.)
Hiccup looked around, "Where are you?"
Hiccup heard Toothless huff slightly (and he could imagine the eye-roll he got with it), before a flaming purple-blue ball of death came hurtling out of the foliage before him. Hiccup watched, mesmerized, as the deathly fire exploded in the sky.
Hiccup trailed his eyes lower to where he was sure the blast escaped from, and was immediately chilled.
The ravens were circling.
He nearly forgot about them.
They seemed to be cawing louder now, though.
It nearly sounded as if they were singing for the dead. Singing in harmony to cross over the spirits.
How ridiculous.
(Hiccup needed to find Snotlout now)
Throwing all caution to the wind, Hiccup jumped into the foliage, letting out a sharp yelp when he felt the ground below him give way. "Toothless!"
As if on cue, a dark, scaly mass caught Hiccup's falling form and comforted the auburn-haired teen in its embrace.
"Toothless."
The Night Fury warbled and cooed, attempting a crooked smile. Hiccup felt a tired smile grow on his face despite his current… predicament.
"Hey, bud." Hiccup murmured, placing his hand on the side of Toothless's snout, "What'cha doin'?"
Toothless rolled his eyes and dropped Hiccup down. Seeing his opportunity, Hiccup started describing Snotlout to his dragon. (It was a long shot–there was no guarantee the Night Fury even understood him, but any chance was still a chance).
Toothless stared at him cluelessly for the majority of Hiccup's demonstration, before suddenly seeming to understand. Then, he started pacing.
"What is it?" Hiccup asked, not bothering to mask the hope (and exhaustion) in his voice.
Toothless snorted, and dragged Hiccup under an overhang. He warbled and growled, pawing at the ground.
Hiccup tilted his head.
Toothless seemed oddly stressed.
"What is it, bud?"
The Night Fury glanced at Hiccup and unsheathed his teeth, growling slightly, before spitting one, two, three fireballs into the earth.
Hiccup shrugged helplessly, "I don't get it, what are you sayi–ah!" Toothless cut him off by grabbing Hiccup by the arm and dragging him further into the overhang, which seemed to meld into a cave.
"Huh." Hiccup murmured, "A cove in a cove. Who would've thought…"
Toothless moaned slightly and pawed at the ground, again shooting fire–though this time, in a steady blast–in a circular motion around a dark corner of the Overhang.
For a split second, the darkness was illuminated, and Hiccup reeled backwards. "Wait…" he shook his head and blinked, rubbing his eyes, "Do that again…?"
Toothless snarled and shook his head, blasting again, though this time, much weaker than before.
It wasn't a trick of the light.
"Snotlout…?"
O~O
Hatchling-Forest-Eye wasn't prepared.
He knew what was going on.
He knew this affliction.
It was slightly different, but he knew it.
His mother had it.
She came home, once. To Queen's nest bearing this–this disgusting smell of sickness, and Hatchling-Forest-Eye watched it all.
He watched her slowly degrade, unable to hunt and feed herself.
He watched her starve.
He watched her suffer.
For the longest time, Hatchling-Forest-Eye was unsure of what was going on, what happened when his mother finally closed her silvery-gray eyes and never opened them again. Then, on the first mission he went on, given straight to him by Queen herself, he realized.
He realized when he aimed a little far-off on a shot and hit a Hornhead instead of an intricate tree. He realized when the Hornhead screamed in pain, convulsing–just like his mother did–before stopping.
The Hornhead's eyes were open, though.
Open, until Giant-Queen-Hornhead closed them.
The raid ended early that night.
Hatchling-Forest-Eye hated himself. Then, he remembered. The same smell… The same smell he smelled on the Hornhead he blasted, and his mother…
It was the smell of the End. Finality. Not acceptance, but definitely absolution.
It was repulsive.
He had hoped never to smell it again–and he was sure he wouldn't, courtesy of his stupid Hatchling-brother-Twoleg damning him to never touch the sky again–but he did.
In the form of yet another Twoleg.
This one had blue eyes so light they were almost silver, and really, they were the only things Hatchling-Forest-Eye could make out anyways. Amid all the muck, all the grime coating the Twoleg's body, the only notable things were the blood and eyes.
And the sickness.
Hatchling-Forest-Eye wasted no time. He grabbed a giant branch (not his fancy digging one, how barbaric!) and poked the Twoleg over to an Overhang-Cave he didn't really use. Then, he shot three blasts into the ground, and stayed a good distance away.
He didn't want to catch that Vahni-forsaken sickness.
(It was merciless.
No Dreki escaped it.
Occasionally, he prayed Queen would catch it so he could finally be free–)
Then he heard his stupid Hatchling-brother-Twoleg call out his Twoleg name in the distance, and his blood ran cold.
It might've just been that Hatchling-Forest-Eye was worked up, but he was terrified. Where there was one sick Dreki, there was sure to be more. Some Dreki who weren't sick became sick and then suffered because of it.
What if that was the same for the Twolegs?
Hatchling-Forest-Eye rolled around a prospective blast in his throat, before igniting and releasing. He watched the deathly-sun-fire explode right on target, momentarily illuminating the darkness with its light.
Then, after a few stark moments, he heard a shriek and Hatchling-brother-Twoleg came plummeting out of the tree cover. How stupid. The Dark-Scale shook his head and bounded forward, easily catching his stupid Hatchling-brother within his wings.
Distantly, Hatchling-Forest-Eye felt the pitter-patter of raindrops against his scales, uncomfortable and strangely cold on his Vahni-warmed skin. HIs stupid Hatchling-brother seemed rather happy to see him (he was doing that weird… thing with his mouth again), then he started chattering.
Incessantly.
Hatchling-Forest-Eye tilted his head quizzically. It looked as if his Hatchling-brother was describing someone with his wild motion. Suddenly, Hatchling-Forest-Eye realized.
The Sick-One.
He paced around agitatedly. Hatchling-Forest-Eye did not want his Hatchling-brother to get sick like Sick-One. He wouldn't allow it!
But…
Hatchling-Forest-Eye sneaked a glance at his Hatchling-Brother.
He looks so… desperate.
Like I did.
Hatchling-Forest-Eye snorted and grabbed Hatchling-brother by the scruff, dragging him over to Overhang-Cave. Then, he dropped his Hatchling-brother and pawed at the ground sharply, blasting three sharp blasts into the ground.
The pattern, rhythm, and symbol of Fulang and Slànachadh.
The dual Gods of Suffering and Healing.
It was a warning.
His stupid, stupid Hatchling-brother ignored it and ventured forward. Hatchling-Forest-Eye was tempted to just grab him and throw him down. Maybe roar in his face a little to remind him who held the upper hand.
Hatchling-Forest-Eye snarled at his own thought.
Oh, who was he kidding?
His stupid, stupid Hatchling-brother wouldn't care at all.
He was stupid like that.
Compressing his fire, Hatchling-Forest-Eye hissed out a steady stream of Death-Fire, just barely illuminating Sick-One.
Hatchling-brother-Twoleg seemed surprised. His scent beckoned Hatchling-Forest-Eye to blast again.
Hatchling-Forest-Eye hissed and shook his head, feeling his scales freeze over. He was nearing his limit. He had to be careful.
He opened his mouth and shot out another steady, compressed beam of Death-Fire, illuminating the corner of the Overhang-Cave more steadily, before snapping his jaws shut and hiding his nose underneath his paws.
He regretted this already.
O~O
Snotlout was floating.
No, that's not right.
Snotlout was drowning.
.
.
. . . . . .
Snotlout gasped for air.
He was no longer drowning.
He was boiling. He was–He was–
Were those Elderberries?
Why were they so big?
Snotlout struggled to string more than one thought together in a cohesive line.
Nothing felt in his control.
Then, the world tipped. The water–water–blood–around him swished around his body, moving freely, even though Snotlout himself was anchored to the ground.
Why is that?
On impulse, Snotlout dove down.
The blood around him constricted his mind, compressed his airways, and threatened to drown him. But he kept diving downward.
Eventually, he reached the bottom.
There was nothing.
No, that's a lie.
There was something.
It was an axe.
Axe and a chain.
"What?" Snotlout murmured.
He followed the chain with his eyes, and it trailed closer and closer, until…
Something raked itself across his back.
It was the chain.
It was… spiked?
All of a sudden, the blood around him drained, and he was elsewhere. He was home. Snotlout got up, leaning back on his arms, before hissing sharply when his shoulder twanged. He shifted his weight and stood.
"When was this?"
Snotlout looked around his desolate home, and all of a sudden a deep, gnawing temptation to fill the silence with something–anything–came over him.
Then, something tapped him on his foot (that's weird, where did his shoe go?). Snotlout peered down.
It was the mug.
That tiny, comically small mug.
That tiny, comically small mug with a broken piece off the rim, with indents on the handle, as if hands too big were grasping it with strength too much for it to handle.
That tiny, comically small mug, that had blood stains up the top and coating the bottom. Snotlout felt his forehead head pulse.
Ah. he thought woozily, I remember now.
"Boy-o." Spitelout's–father's–voice echoed through the emptiness of the house.
Snotlout felt the urge to run.
He had to.
He needed to.
A heavy hand on a tiny shoulder.
And all those desires died right then and there.
"Ye are associatin' wit' tha' Hiccup boy again." Spitelout slurred. He'd been drinking mead that night. Too much.
Snotlout slowly took a half-kneeling position.
In times like this, where he wasn't sure what mood his father was in, somewhere in-between subservience and rebellion would do.
His father was annoyingly choosy like that.
"..."
"Well, aren' ya gonna say somethin' boy-o?!" Spitelout snarled, grabbing Snotlout by the shoulder, "Oh Gods, ye talk when I don't want ye ta talk, ye don't talk when I want ye ta talk! What am I gonna do with ye… stupid child…"
Snotlout winced. His right shoulder.
It felt…
Bad.
"I'm…" Snotlout gasped, "...Sorry!"
"What is that?" Spitelout shook him a little, and Snotlout felt his whole body rattle from the force, "Say that again! I dare ye."
"I'm…" Snotlout felt tears spring to his eyes, as he forced the sounds through his teeth, "I'm sorry."
Snotlout looked up, attempting to meet his father's eyes, but no matter how hard he tried, his view was always off-center.
His father's face was dark.
Snotlout twitched. His right shoulder spasmed.
His father's grip tightened.
"Ye're a Jorgenson, boy-o." Spitelout hissed, "We're the rightful chiefs! Before we didn't have a chance because Stoick held the Chiefdom, but now? Now we have a chance! But if ye keep speakin' with that–that Hiccup, we're all doomed!" Spitelout tightened his grip even more, and Snotlout couldn't help but cry out in pain.
"Remember this. Ye're a Viking, boy-o. Hiccup isn't. You carry all of us with ye. He doesn't."
.
"You are one of us."
All the voices started overlapping.
Snotlout's shoulder felt like it was burning.
His foot felt like it was freezing.
His mind was pulsing with emotions unknown and temperatures conflicting.
He wanted it all to stop.
He wanted it all to go away.
He wanted to go home.
Home.
Home.
Home.
Hhhhhhoooo m m mmmm eeeeeeeee ee e…
Then, a warmth surrounded him.
"M…om…?" Snotlout gasped weakly, "Is… you…?"
The warmth increased, and a cool hand laid itself on his forehead. Snotlout smiled. His mother hummed to him. It sounded oddly murky.
"M…om…" he whispered, "'s been… so long…" he gasped, "Where've you… been…?"
O~O
Fire-Stone-Heart was scared.
No.
She was terrified.
She couldn't feel her right wing.
She couldn't feel her right wing.
She was damned.
She was doomed.
If she ever made it back, somehow, someway, to the nest, Queen would most certainly dispose of her. She was useless.
A flightless Dreki was a useless Dreki.
(And a useless Dreki was a dead Dreki.)
And dead Dreki were replaceable.
Always replaceable.
(Except for the Dark-Scale)
Try as she might, Fire-Stone-Heart couldn't help but feel a strange kind of resentment for the Dark-Scale.
She knew it was unreasonable.
She knew it was wrong.
To think that she was–was jealous of a hatchling who lost his mother so early in life and caught Queen's attention along with it?
To think that she was jealous of a hatchling that was so alone, who was old enough to be initiated into his true name, but was damned to eternally stay a mere wyrm, for there was no one who could spare the time to give it to him.
To think that she was jealous… of that hatchling… that hatchling who could fly, fly, fly, at speeds faster than any Stone-scale like her could hope to achieve.
Perhaps she was just jealous because she was replaceable… and he wasn't.
She'd always felt this coming, actually.
She'd disobeyed Queen more than one time–and Queen didn't do so well with insubordination. Honestly, Fire-Stone-Heart was surprised she survived this long to begin with.
Though… not for much longer.
Fire-Stone-Heart looked at her wing again, her eyes darting back and forth in palpable stress. If Queen didn't end her, the Old-Oneleg would. She served no purpose.
Perhaps she would be killed in public, like the Fire-Scales were in this Twoleg nest.
(No… she was lying to herself. Stone-Scales never got such recognition…)
Fire-Stone-Heart shifted once more, gazing at her torn wing in apprehension.
Safe-scales had either died out or left a long time ago, not having the patience to bear with Queen's ignorance anymore.
Queen had felt herself superior and denied the Safe-scales their rightful place in the Nest. While the Safe-scales had been disappointed and confused, they went along with it, following the rules.
Then, Queen ate one of the Safe-scales' hatchlings, spitting their bones out at the flock in disdain. The next morning, they were all gone, and so were the bones.
Their ledge was demolished. Torn to shreds, as if to make a point, state their vehemence and denial at the prospect of ever returning.
For a time, back then, it seemed like Queen would swallow her pride and move forward more tactically, but then…
The two Dark-Scales came.
A mother and a hatchling.
They lost the Safe-scales, but gained two Dark-scales.
Queen didn't change at all.
No, actually, that was a lie.
She became crueler.
Fire-Stone-Heart still remembered when Queen sent out her first three hatchlings to participate in a raid. Vahni's blessing had barely formed within them yet–but Queen's intent was absolute.
They never came back.
Four Silver-Blinks later, and Fire-Stone-Heart was sent on a raid. She found her three hatchlings carved up in pieces and mounted on pikes, as if to ward her and her mate–her dead mate off.
She remembered crying out in grief, spewing lava everywhere, biting through everything.
Then, everything went blank, and when she woke up, she was in the dark.
This dark.
Every time she closed her eyes, she dreamed about that moment. Her first three hatchlings and how they flew straight to their deaths.
Every time she woke up, she smelled those reeking Twolegs.
All the time.
Every time.
Whenever she woke up, she smelled Dreki blood.
All the time.
Every time.
Whenever she was released in front of new Twolegs, she smelled Dreki blood.
All the time…
Most of the time.
Today, she didn't smell Dreki blood.
On that hatchling Twoleg whose build gave Giant-Queen-Hornhead's a challenge, all she could smell was musk–berries and dry trees. Perhaps a bit of salt.
If she stuck her tongue out and closed her eyes, she could still smell the taste of it.
Of freedom.
No Dreki blood.
None at all.
Plenty of fear.
But no Dreki blood.
How strange…
Fire-Stone-Heart closed her eyes, finally, for the first time in a long while, with no resentment replaying in her mind.
AN: Okay! So, end notes!
(some) Names were gotten from Google Translate!
-Vahni = Fire (Sanskrit)
- Fulang = Suffer (Scottish Gaelic)
- Slànachadh = Healing (Scottish Gaelic)
- Dreki = Dragon (Norse...?)
THE DRAGON NAMING SYSTEM!
Hatchlings are first named by their mothers, after striking physical features on their body. For example, if Toothless had a random white scale on his body, he would no longer be called 'Hatchling-Forest-Eye', but 'Hatchling-White-Scale'.
However, physical traits may or may not be transient, hence the initiation ceremony, normally done by the dragon's mother (and father, if their kind mates for life) in which they take an acquired personality trait of the dragon and change the name. For example, Meatlug's hatchling name was 'Hatchling-Small-Tooth'. Cute, right? Yeah, no, the teeth grew waaaaaaay larger. So, her mother renamed her 'Fire-Stone-Heart' for her unwavering conviction and warm personality.
Dragons can only mate when they're fully initiated as adults via Naming ceremony. Therefore, Toothless, like Hiccup, isn't technically a fully-grown dragon yet. And with his mother dead, he technically can't be initiated at the proper time.
There are contingencies in place if this happens, involving found family and chosen pack initiation, but that's not happening for a while. As of now, Toothless is still very much a hatchling.
Now, as for the Queen... She does have a name, but from how I interpret it, in Dragon society, the Queen lives for the Nest, she's a leader, she is a protector. Therefore, she/he loses the individuality that comes with a name and takes on the neutral title 'Queen'.
(The Berkian Nest's queen will definitely have her name revealed, soon enough. But not yet. Soon.)
THAT IS ALL!
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