AUTHOR'S NOTE: I think it killed me to write this chapter. I was on the brink of TEARS. I was literally CHOKING because of how brutal it is.
Trigger Warning: Death, Violence, Angst
For a time, life is quiet and peaceful.
Northuldra, the land of stillness and song, hums with the soft breath of spirits, the rustling of trees that whisper secrets only the wind understands. The rivers, glassy and deep, carry songs from the mountains to the sea, and the stars stretch endlessly across the sky, watching with the patience of old gods.
Here, under the northern lights, dragons weave through the clouds like embers caught in a storm. Their wings carve the sky, their voices ripple through the air in long, mournful cries that shake the ground and stir the rivers.
It didn't take long for Hiccup to settle into the rhythm of the forest, or for Elsa to grow used to his presence. He returned often, slipping past the mist as if the spirits themselves allowed it. She never asked how.
Maybe they liked him. Maybe they were simply curious.
Or maybe—just maybe—they had been waiting.
Hiccup was always full of questions. About dragons. About magic. About her powers, though she didn't always have answers. The spirits had given them to her, but she did not command them. She was still learning.
Still growing.
Still breaking.
And yet, with him, everything felt easy. He carved wooden dragons by the river while she watched, telling her stories of the sky, of flying, of worlds beyond the mist.
"I'll take you someday," he promised to her once. "You'd love it."
Elsa hesitated. "I don't know if I'd belong out there."
Hiccup tilted his head. "You belong wherever you want to belong."
She didn't answer.
The seasons shifted.
Summer faded.
And with it, so did their time.
His hands become steadier, his eyes sharper. He learns to listen as the Northuldra do, to hear the difference between the sigh of the wind and the warning of a coming storm. He learns to understand the way dragons move—not just in the sky, but in the way they lower their heads, the way their tails flick, the way they breathe.
Elsa watches him, sometimes.
She does not know what to make of him.
He is unlike the others who come from beyond the forest. He is not loud like the men with iron swords, nor is he cruel like those who set fire to the trees. He is quiet, careful. He does not move as if he owns the land beneath his feet—he moves as if he is learning from it.
And she thinks, in some way, the spirits have taken a liking to him.
Hiccup and his mother stay longer than intended, their wandering feet finding rest among Elsa's people. Hidden away from the warmongers that destroyed their lands and killed their people.
He loves it here, actually.
He loves the way Anna's laughter rings through the trees, how she drags him by the hand to show him something new , something wonderful. He loves the way Jack flicks a snowball at him when he least expects it, the way they tumble through the snow like children who have never known the weight of war.
And Elsa.
She is quiet, but never cold. She is ice and breath and quiet thunder, the echo of the wind before a storm. She listens more than she speaks, watches more than she moves. But when she does, it is always with intention.
Hiccup watches her too, sometimes. How she carves the air with her hands, weaving ice into something alive. How her eyes glisten like the surface of a frozen lake.
She is unlike anyone he has ever met; unlike anyone he will ever meet.
Somewhere between childhood and something just beyond its reach, they find a language of their own.
Hiccup continues to carve dragons from wood, shaping them with hands that know the weight of something delicate. He helps around the village whenever he can, and offers his skills as a natural craftsman, a blacksmith. He works by firelight, his fingers steady even when the night wind howls through the trees.
Elsa sculpts ice creatures, breathing life into them with a flick of her wrist, a thought too fleeting to catch. Her magic blooms with the ease of the river breaking through ice in spring, but she does not always trust it, does not always trust herself.
Jack watches them both with an easy grin, the wind always at his back.
Anna follows them through the trees, a streak of laughter against the quiet hush of the forest.
For a time, life was simple.
For a time, life is good.
But this peace was never meant to last.
And the dragons do not stop coming.
At first, it is only a few more each week, each day, their bodies slinking through the sky like phantoms. They roost in the trees that bend beneath their weight, on the cliffs that fell in fragments, by the rivers that darkened in their reflection. Their eyes glow in the darkness, watchful and waiting.
Then the numbers grow.
They are hungry. They are restless. The land is not enough.
The forest is not enough; the sky is not enough.
The balance begins to shift.
The spirits whisper in the wind, in the ice, in the roots of the trees. The rivers pull faster, the skies crackle with storm light. The earth holds its breath.
Something is coming.
Hiccup watches his mother, the way her shoulders grow heavier, the way her hands tremble when she runs them down Toothless's scales.
And it is Elsa's father who speaks the truth first, one evening by the fire. His voice is steady, but his eyes are full of quiet grief.
The fire crackles between them, shadows dancing on Agnarr's face as he watches the flames. His voice is calm, but it is the kind of calm that knows the edge of a storm, the silence before a blade strikes.
"The dragons need more than we can give," the former prince says at last. "The land is straining beneath them. The balance is shifting, and the spirits are growing restless."
Hiccup looks at his mother. Valka nods.
She has known this for a long time.
She has watched the skies, counted the dragons as they came, seen the way they roosted too close, fought too often, devoured too much. She has seen the signs.
They cannot stay.
They should not stay.
Hiccup swallows hard. His voice is hoarse when he speaks.
"We're leaving."
Elsa does not flinch. She does not waver. But there is something in her eyes, something deep and quiet, like the moment before ice cracks beneath your feet.
"You're leaving," she says. It is not a question.
"We have to," Valka murmurs, and though she speaks to Agnarr, her eyes linger on Elsa. "If we stay, the balance will break."
Elsa is still. The firelight flickers against her skin, warm against cold.
Valka's voice is gentler. "It is not forever. We will find new homes for all the dragons here."
Something shifts in her gaze. He cannot name it. Hiccup hesitates. "We'll come back."
But even as he says it, Elsa shrinks and hides her face on her knees, and the shadows stretch against the trees.
Jack is unusually quiet as he shifts beside her. Anna's mouth presses into a thin line, and folds her arms and stares at the ground, her jaw now clenched.
Elsa does not say a word.
The morning they leave, the air is too cold for spring, and the frost is thicker than usual.
Hiccup can feel it against his skin, the way the frost clings to his sleeves, the way the wind howls lower, heavier, as if the forest itself is holding its breath.
Jack is the first to break the silence. He shoves Hiccup lightly, his grin crooked, though something in his eyes is unreadable. "Don't get eaten out there, dragon boy."
Hiccup smirks. "No promises."
Anna hugs him too tightly, her fingers gripping his tunic as if she could hold him there by will alone.
"You guys better visit us. Your mom. And Toothless. And Cloudjumper." she warns. It is not a request.
And then there is Elsa.
She stands a little apart from the others, watching. Snowflakes catch in her lashes, settle against her braid, her hands clasped together. She looks like something carved from the winter itself, something meant to last beyond time.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks.
Then, carefully, Hiccup presses something into her hands.
A dragon. Small, carved from wood, its wings spread wide.
Her fingers curl around it.
Hiccup hesitates. "I meant what I said."
Elsa looks at him, something unreadable in her gaze.
Then—softer than snow, quieter than breath—
"I know."
They are gone by midday.
The dragons rise with them, wings blotting out the sky.
Elsa stands where he left her, the carving still in her hand. She watched until they were only shadows, until the wind carried their echoes far beyond reach. She clenches the carving in her palm.
The wind stirs through the trees, biting at her skin.
And somewhere in the distance, the spirits begin to whisper.
The forest has always whispered to her.
The wind speaks in hushed warnings, but Elsa does not listen.
It moves through the pines, through the rivers, curling through the stones of her home with something restless, something wary. The spirits murmur in the rustling of leaves, in the flickering of flames, in the way the waters hesitate before lapping the shore.
Tonight, they grew more and more restless.
Tonight, the wind is sharp, the flames flicker without cause, the ground trembles beneath the hooves of skittish reindeer. The river has grown still, too still, as if holding its breath.
Elsa feels it too.
It lingers beneath her skin, the ice stirring deep in her veins, a quiet warning curling around her spine like a ghost of a chill.
There is a storm coming.
Not of wind, nor of rain, nor of fire.
Something else.
Something colder.
But Elsa does not listen.
She has spent too many years balancing on the edge of herself—her magic coiling in her chest like a tide she cannot hold back. It rises in her palms when she breathes too sharply, when her heartbeat quickens, when the weight of expectation presses too tightly against her ribs.
She stands at the edge of the village, where the mist rolls like ocean waves in the moonlight, thick and silver. Jack finds her at her usual spot, moves closer to her before scaling the tree and balancing on a low branch dusted with frost where his fingers rest. Her parents must have sent him again.
Jack notices her distress before she does.
He always does.
"You're doing it again," he says lightly, watching the frost creep across the bark of a tree where her fingers had barely brushed. He climbs down to lean his head against a low-hanging branch, arms crossed, his brown hair unruly in the breeze. "This would worry Hiccup if you keep this up."
Elsa exhales, steadying her breath.
The ice recedes.
Jack grins, ruffling her hair. "Better." Elsa bats his hand away, though not before a small smile tugs at her lips.
She rolls her eyes but does not pull away when he throws an arm over her shoulder.
She thinks, for a moment, that this peace will last.
Jack has always been her balance. It took a while for her to adjust, now that Hiccup had gone with his mother to faraway lands.
And yet, tonight, even he grows uneasy. She sees it in the way his gaze lingers on the treetops, the way his fingers drum against his arm, the way his laughter is softer than usual, as if something in the air makes him wary.
Elsa tilts her head, listening.
The spirits are whispering again.
But their voices are not speaking to her.
They are warning her.
She does not hear the dragons before she sees them.
One might think it might signal Hiccup and Valka's return, but their dragons were nowhere to be found. That was what Anna thought anyway.
They streak across the sky in dark like falling stars, desperate shapes, their wings beating against the wind in ragged, frantic motions; something wrong. They are not flying in formation. They are not searching for food or roosting grounds.
Their cries are not songs of territory, nor calls of migration. They are the screams of creatures fleeing from something far worse.
Jack is the first to notice.
Elsa follows his gaze, her stomach twisting as more shadows cut through the sky, dipping low into the trees, disappearing into the mist.
They are fleeing in panic.
Jack straightens beside her, his expression sharpening. "That's not right."
Elsa is already moving.
The village stirs at the sight.
The elders turn their heads, murmuring in voices laced with unease. Hunters tighten their grips on their bows, children are gathered and led into their homes, the reindeer pace restlessly, ears flicking toward the mist.
The spirits whisper louder now, the flames bending, the ground rumbling, the wind shifting.
Something is wrong.
Elsa's father is already standing at the edge of the mist, her mother at his side. Agnarr's expression was unreadable, and Iduna stayed close beside him. Northuldra warriors follow and gather in silent formation, their steps slow, hesitant, deliberate, cautious.
More dragons dive into the trees, disappearing into the shadows. It seemed as though they were falling out of the sky this time.
The mist moves, stirring as if it knows what waits beyond.
Elsa steps forward.
And the warlords step through.
The world slows.
Yet everything happened too fast.
The first thing Elsa sees is the armor—gleaming, polished, foreign. The insignias mark them as men of the south, their blades sharp, their spears gleaming.
At their center, a man stands tall, unhurried, his cloak trailing behind him, his eyes sharp and hungry. He stands still, the weight of command settling over his shoulders like a second cloak.
His clothes are rich, lined with fur, his sword ornate but well-worn. His face is young, but his eyes are old, a deep, calculating olive greens that sweeps over them all with something between amusement and hunger.
She does not know his name.
She does not need to.
She can see what he is.
She has read them in her father's books, and has heard them in Hiccup's stories.
A conqueror.
A wolf in the skin of a king.
A wolf stepping into a den of unarmed sheep, unafraid.
Agnarr steps forward, his voice calm despite the growing tension. "This land is not yours."
Elsa wished he hadn't.
The warlord—prince, king, whatever he calls himself—tilts his head. "No, I suppose it isn't."
A flick of his hand.
Arrows fly.
The world shatters.
The cold comes before the grief.
And Elsa does not see the moment her mother falls.
She hears it. Elsa hears her mother's gasp before she sees the arrow buried in her chest.
The sharp gasp, the choked exhale, the sound of her father's voice breaking. Elsa does not hear what he says.
She sees her father drop to his knees before she feels the ice crawling beneath her feet.
The wind is screaming.
Her pulse is pounding.
Jack is moving.
Anna screams.
Elsa turns too late, but just in time to see her sister slip. The river is frozen. Or it was.
The ice cracks beneath her feet, splitting in jagged veins, the current rushing below like a living thing. Anna stumbles, trying to regain her footing, trying to turn back—
She does not see what happens next.
There is only motion—Jack diving to reach Anna's hand before she could be pulled into the river, Anna stumbling back again, the frozen river cracking beneath them. The world is all noise and silence at once.
Jack reaches for her.
Elsa reaches for her.
Too late.
Anna's fingers slip through hers.
She falls.
Jack goes after her.
Jack shouts something—something lost beneath the thunder of the storm.
The ice breaks.
The river engulfs them whole.
Elsa's breath stutters, and the world tilts.
Anna is gone.
Jack is gone.
She doesn't feel her knees hit the ice. She doesn't feel the breath leave her lungs in a strangled sound. She doesn't feel the cold seeping from her fingers into the earth.
The warlord steps forward, sword gleaming, a smirk curling on his lips.
And Elsa—Elsa breathes.
Her lungs shatter into frost.
The storm does not start—it erupts.
Wind and ice crash down in an avalanche of white, swallowing everything, devouring metal and men and war. The warriors cry out, their voices silenced beneath the roar of an endless blizzard.
The warlord reaches for his blade—too slow.
He does not have time to move before the frost curls up his legs, twisting, consuming, sealing him beneath a thick, impenetrable sheet of ice.
A prison of frost.
A coffin.
And still, Elsa does not stop.
She cannot stop.
Her power spills from her in waves, in shouts, in tears that freeze before they ever touch the ground.
Jack does not answer.
Anna does not answer.
There is only silence.
Only snow.
Only the wind.
And Elsa.
Alone.
For what felt like hours, days, weeks, months that stretched on forever.
She only feels the storm.
The grief is too much, too heavy, too sharp, curling inside her chest like a beast with claws of ice.
Her power shatters once more.
The wind howls.
Frozen.
Silent.
Gone.
But it is not enough.
Elsa cannot stop.
The storm does not end.
She cannot breathe, she cannot see, she cannot—
Jack.
Jack, who had reached for their sister.
Jack, who had disappeared beneath the water.
She gasps, as not even moments later, ice breaking beneath her hands as she crawls forward, her breath coming in ragged, uneven sobs, searching—searching—
Then—
A crack of frost.
A shift in the air.
A figure pulls itself from the shards of jagged ice from where they once fell.
Jack.
But not Jack.
His hair is whiter than before, his skin paler, his lips tinted blue. His eyes, bright and laughing, are now cold as ice. His fingers twitch, and frost spirals from them in elegant, uneven patterns.
Elsa's breath catches.
He looks at her.
Something flickers in his gaze—recognition, hesitation, something else.
Then he smiles.
And the storm stills.