Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The time had come. It was time for Hiccup to finally become a man. Years of being the worst viking to have graced Berk, he had finally proved himself. Now he was worthy of being heir, the future chief of their quaint and cold village—of being his father's son.

Still, what would have made him jump around in glee just a few months ago, only filled him with dread. Standing behind the gates that separated him from the arena itself, he could only feel what the familiar sense of doom. Pure, sheer, and utter doom.

His heart was pounding so hard, he half-believed that it would burst out of his chest. He hoped his heart would burst out of his chest. Then he could avoid this. Because this surely wouldn't end well.

"Hiccup," He jumped a whole feet into the air before twisting around, his spiraling thoughts interrupted by an unusually gentle voice. Astrid was standing behind him, arms hanging tensely at her sides. She wore a grim expression, lips tight and eyebrows furrowed. "Will you be alright?"

The question gave Hiccup pause. Would he?

"Yeah, yeah," Hiccup said, silently cursing the noticeable waver in his voice. By Odin, why couldn't he be more assuring? "I'll be okay. Maybe."

Hiccup couldn't help but wince at Astrid's unimpressed stare. But he couldn't run away now. He was in too deep. He had no choice but to go into the arena, and face the Monstrous Nightmare. But he wouldn't do what they'd want him to do. He wouldn't stick a knife into its neck, cut its wings off with an axe, nor bash its face with a hammer. No, Hiccup could never do that. Not anymore. Not after Toothless.

"Dad's gonna kill me after this." Hiccup groaned pityingly, hiding his face away in his hands.

Astrid could do nothing but pat his shoulder with a somber look.

﹏𓊝﹏

Standing face to face with the Monstrous Nightmare, Hiccup realized that this was so much different from the night raids. Instead of terrifying glimpses of the beast surrounded by raging fire, Hiccup could see the deep red of its scales, the warm puff of its breath gently swaying his hair. The dragon was still terrifying, oh absolutely. Yet it was so much clearer now, despite the gray fog surrounding the island. Beautiful day to kill a dragon, huh?

But still, Hiccup forced himself to be brave. He had to do this. He could either muck it up like he always did, ending his own life to the claws of the Monstrous Nightmare, and then the dragon's to the furious vikings surrounding them.

Or he could change everything. If he did this right, he could show them—prove to them that there were something akin to a soul in those great big eyes.

Because looking into the Monstrous Nightmare's eyes, Hiccup couldn't see the ugly beast that the other vikings claimed they saw. No, what he saw was an incredibly intelligent creature—hurt, angry and afraid, bearing his teeth only in an attempt to defend himself.

And so, despite his father's angry shouts and the shocked looks of the vikings watching from the arena, Hiccup brought his hand towards the dragon's snout and turned his head away, hoping that he could prove that there were more to dragons than being brutal killing machines. He could show them that maybe, maybe, humans had been wrong all along. Maybe they weren't just mindless beasts.

He felt a warm pressure on his hand. Smiling gently, Hiccup couldn't help but sigh from relief. Little did he know, he had just changed his entire fate.

Fragile silence washed over them, the crowd watching with bated breath—afraid that a single noise or a movement, no matter how quiet, would end the dragon's stupor. Even from the back of the stands they could hear the mighty breathing of the monstrous beast.

Then chaos broke.

"END THE FIGHT!" The chief bellowed, already standing up and grabbing at the trustworthy axe by his side. "END THE FIGHT NOW!"

The crowd scattered to make way for their chief, fearing his rage would be redirected at them if they didn't move fast enough. The Monstrous Nightmare, startled terribly by the sudden shout, lifted his front leg and stretched out his wings. He screeched ear-piercingly as he set himself on fire in an effort to appear as a threat. Fortunately for him and unfortunately for Hiccup, it worked.

While his father tried to find a way to get into the arena, the mob started to yell and shout, only further aggravating the dragon, who stomped his front legs up and down. Hiccup watched everything in horror, paralyzed, his feet frozen to the ground. When his ears picked up a faint whistling, only then could he move his head towards the sound. And the closer and louder it grew, the more the familiarity of the ringing dawned on him. Oh gods.

He wasn't the only one who recognized the call. Heads flew up as they frantically searched in the air for the beast no Berkian had ever seen. No Berkian until a few months ago.

BOOM! The purple blast exploded the barricade that separated the humans from the dragons, and a massive black mass flashed by them and in to the arena. He curled himself around the teenager, who looked impossibly small and breakable inside the Night Fury's clutches. He roared fiercely at the Monstrous Night and the humans watching them. The other dragon's roar paled in comparison to the night-scaled beast.

In the 'Book of Dragons' there was one important rule pertaining Night Furies. If you see a Night Fury, run away and hide and pray it doesn't find you.

But they were vikings. And vikings don't just run away and hide.

The mob rushed in to the arena, breaking through the barrier. If a dragon could do it, so could they. Some came rushing in trough the hole the Night Fury had created. Now everyone was surrounding them—Hiccup and the two dragons. They hade no way to escape now. No way of escaping their fate.

The mob grabbed whatever weapon they could find and started hurling themselves on the Monstrous Nightmare. They grabbed at his horns, threw bolas around his wings while the dragon screeched in both rage—and pain, as whatever sharp object lying around was quickly jammed into his hide.

The Monstrous Nightmare was strong. But not strong enough. He could only handle so many viking coming from all sides, and there were too many. With a final howl, the beast succumbed to its injuries.

From inside Toothless's protective wings, Hiccup made an anguished noise. Looking at all the destruction, the smoke, and all the blood splattered across the ground, Hiccup couldn't help but shake fervently and spiral. This was all his fault, this was all his fault, THIS WAS ALL HIS—

Above him, Toothless was fighting tooth and nail to keep himself and Hiccup alive. Shooting plasma blast and clawing at the viking who dared to come to close. It didn't matter that there was a piercing burn at his hind leg, from which suspiciously looked like a dagger was sticking out of. It didn't matter that the humans where banging their metal shields with their metal weapons, making his ears feel like exploding. None of it mattered.

As long as he and Hiccup got out of there alive.

For there was something the Monstrous Nightmare didn't have that Toothless had. A motivation that far exceeded the biological instinct to survive.

Toothless had Hiccup. The little hatchling who had stolen the skies from him, and then built him a new one. With his strange contraption made of thin metal rods and tough leather, Hiccup had given Toothless back the ability to fly—with just a small price to pay; the boy flying with him.

A price he had come to willingly pay and cherish.

The hatchling had saved his life all those months ago. Now Toothless would do the same. Just so that they could be free among the clouds, once again.

But the vikings were relentless. Their stubbornness blinded them from standing down, and really thinking of the best way to handle this. Thinking wasn't exactly their forte.

But with his father, who had already landed a couple of blows, got trapped under the Night Fury, Hiccup snapped out of his frozen state. This had gone too far. It had gone to far long ago, but with his fathers life on the line, Hiccup felt a protective energy flare through his core. That was his dad! He couldn't let Toothless kill him.

The scream crawled out of him, big and explosive:

"TOOTHLESS, STOP!"

For a brief second, Hiccup feared he wouldn't. Toothless's eyes stayed slitted, and his plasma blast was still aimed and ready to fire. His dad was going to die now, right in front of him.

But then Toothless softened. He turned around and tilted his head, his pupils wide and confused. He had listened to Hiccup.

That gave the mob the perfect opportunity to pounce. Vikings surrounded him from all corners, grabbing at whatever they could get a hold of, and subduing the Night Fury. Still it struggled against the restraints, worried that his hatchling would be hurt by the very same pack who had raised him.

They muzzled him. Bound him with ropes, keeping his wings tucked achingly at his sides. Then they pushed him down, leaving him no escape from the hell that would await him. No matter how loud or desperate the boy screamed, begging them to not hurt Toothless, there was nothing he could do. The last Night Fury alive, finally captured.

﹏𓊝﹏

The cells were a makeshift prison of sorts, meant for traitors and criminals, such as the treacherous friend who had been forgotten long ago. The boy in Stoick's arms was so starkly different from that man. He did not look like a criminal, nor a traitor. He was just a boy, too small and fragile for his age. He did not look like a traitor at all.

That didn't mean he wasn't one.

Stoick hauled Hiccup by the arm before shoving him inside the cell. He had left all the gentleness of a father back at the comfort of their home. He wasn't a father right now.

Now, he was a chief.

Odin, where did I go wrong. Did he not push him enough? Make him go to dragon training far too late? Coddled him too much?

Fail to fill him with righteous hatred for the very beasts who had taken Valka—his own mother—from them?

Waves of what only sounded like excuses stumbled out of the boy's mouth. 'Please's, I'm 'sorry's, an 'Oh gods, it's all a mess'. His eyes darted frantically around, tears forming when he took in where they were. He stared back at his towering father, afraid of what was to come. Stoick had never hurt him before.

Despite his massive stature and his usually angry demeanor, he had never put a hand meant for harm on Hiccup, believing himself above such discipline. His dad had always tried to protect him, even if he ended up grabbing his wrist to tightly or made his shoulders ache.

But Hiccup had gone to far. Crossed a line he was never meant to cross. He had gone and frolicked with dragons, treating them as friends—creatures to be protected. All the villages teachings, all the death and destruction, all of it was for naught. That poor, stupid, foolish boy had been tricking them all this time. Betrayal, that is what he did.

A chief could not forgive such an act.

"How could you do such a thing?!", Stoick shouted, sharp rage coating his voice. "You've what? Mingling with dragons? Made them your friends?"

"I know Dad, and- and you're right, I should've told you sooner, but Toothless won't hurt you!"

"Toothless? You named that foul beast?!"

"He is not a beast, Dad, he- he's intelligent and kind, and-"

"Kind!?" Stoick whirled around to face him. "Dragons, Hiccup, are not kind! They're dangerous, not innocent little yaklings you can cuddle!" The red of his beard couldn't hold a candle to the red of his face, swollen with anger.

"And yet, you've gone and fraternized with them, despite everything they've done! You care more about that Night Fury's safety than the people it almost killed. People you almost got killed!"

Stoick paced, back and forth, barely being able to look at the boy. Hiccup half-thought that his pacing would score permanent marks on the floor. Back and forth Stoick paced, unable to look at him for more than a second.

"He was just defending us! They were trying to kill him!"

"He and his friends have killed hundreds of us-"

"And we've killed thousands of them! They're not raiding us because they have to, they're raiding us because they don't have a choice! There's, like, this massive dragon on their island, and it's nothing like we've ever seen before-"

"Their island?" Stoick stopped, turning to Hiccup and lifting him clean of the ground by the shoulders. He pressed his face close to Hiccup's, so close the boy could feel his father's maddened breathing. "So you've been to the nest?

Oh gods. Hiccup needed to shut up. Quickly—before he'd say something he'd regret. Unfortunately, one thing Hiccup was never able to do, ever since he started talking, was knowing when to shut up.

"I- Nest? Did I say nest?"

"How did you find it!?" Stoick hollered right into Hiccup's face, making the latter wince at the stray spittle flying at him.

Gently, Hiccup took hold of the distressing hands that was seizing his shoulder, hoping in vain that he could somehow calm Stoick, if only a little bit. "No- Not me, Dad. Toothless. Only a dragon can find the nest."

Stoick's grip grew loose. His face slackened. Realization dawned in both father and son, the latter realizing what a grave mistake he had just made—and the former realizing he had finally found the right key—no, the weapon—to finally end the war. For good.

He put Hiccup down, slowly and gently, as if in a trance. He turned away from him, his only son, and went for the door.

"No..." Hiccup whispered, more to the darkness of the cell than to his father. Then again, much louder: "NO!"

"You can't!" Hiccup followed after Stoick, desperate for him to see reason. "It's not what you think! She's big—bigger than any dragon you've ever seen."

Stoick was an unrelenting force. He moved onward, ignoring his child's begging.

"I promise, you can't win this one!"

Hiccup grasped his old man's arm.

"Dad, please!"

Still his father didn't look back. When was the last time he looked back?

"For once in your life, will you just please listen to me!?"

In a swoosh and a harsh thud, Hiccup was laying on the ground. Confused and disoriented, Hiccup look up at the dangerous chief towering over him.

Always towering, never on the same level.

"You've thrown your lot in with them. You're no viking."

The chief's voice was low and breathy, yet its coldness able to rival Niflheim itself.

"You're not my son."

With just a few words, their bond shattered. Scattered, with no amount of thick rope and sticky tree sap to repair it to the way it once was. There was no father and son anymore.

Just a chief and the boy who betrayed them. Betrayed him.

Swiftly, Stoick the vast turned around once again. He grabbed hold of the cell door, opened it wide enough for him to pass trough. Then slammed it shut so harshly it bounced back, leaving the boy in the darkness—save for a faint line of light from the faint daylight.

Hiccup had nothing now.

No village. No friends. No Toothless. No—

Hiccup crumbled down on the filthy cell floor, his heart and spirit breaking along with him.

Outside, Stoick's anger drained, his face twisting to that of shock. What did he just say?

Still, he forced his face into the right image of stoicism—the very ideal he had been named after—and yelled out an order. He was chief. And a chief always protects his own.

﹏𓊝﹏

They came for him at dusk.

At first, Hiccup thought it was his father, hoping to make amends. A needy, childish hope that he would turn back to the kind and caring father he was when Hiccup was younger. When Stoick would immediately apologize if he thought he had been too harsh on his little son. When everything was so much easier.

But Stoick was not his father anymore. He had no claim on him anymore.

Then he thought it was Gobber, who always knew how to cheer him up. Who always let him stay in late at the forge ever since he was 7, until the sun had long come and gone and he would shoo him off, lest both he and Hiccup get yelled at by his father. Only then did Gobber not want him.

Or maybe it was Astrid! Strong, brave Astrid who always knew how to be a perfect viking. She'd know what to do! She had seen what he saw. She had understood. Maybe she had come to yell at him, to pick his bearings and order him to figure out something crazy to do to fix this whole mess.

But no. Hiccup had never been that lucky. His luck ran out long ago, after shooting down Toothless. It was time for him to pay for his sins. A repayment he would have no choice but to pay.

The cell door flew open, revealing about two dozens bloodlusting vikings, the most violent and brutal dragon killers of their tribes. Some young, some old. They were the ones who hated dragons the most, always agreeing to go search for the nest, scorned by the death of their wives, children, and other loved ones. They outright despised them. Including anyone who had anything to do with them.

With his eyes brimming red, Hiccup could not see—much less comprehend—anything. It all happened so fast.

There were hands everywhere. Clutching his arms, tugging at his hair, and dragging him across the floor. Hiccup couldn't help the surprised shout that came out of him. Pain exploded everywhere as he was brutally dragged out of the cell.

The sun was on its way down, lowering itself in the west at a seemingly breakneck pace. The days had only gotten shorter the closer winter came. The fog plaguing their island was still present.

The village watched as the small boy, too small for a viking, was dragged through the gravel, a hand covering his attempt to scream for help. His face was tear-streaked and puffy. It was a horrifying sight, and yet, they did not look away. Yet, they did not do anything.

The mob was too angry. Too violent. They would not intervene, fearing that the boy's fate would include them for trying to save him.

Because they knew what was going to happen to that boy. Every grown viking knew, and with that knowledge, hid their children behind their skirts and tunics. They didn't deserve to see such brutality at their young age. Even the reasonable vikings had a limit.

And so, the mob forcefully pulled Hiccup through the town, forcing him deep into the forest. They would not be disturbed there. They would do the ritual, finally freeing Berk of their curse that had tormented them for 15 years.

Because there, deep in the forest, a witch's stake awaited him.

﹏𓊝﹏

Stoick lifted heavy crates full of provisions into the longship, hoping that there would be enough to feed all the vikings. They would need all the energy they could get before the big battle. The longboats was already full to the brim with handheld-weapons of every kind; maces, axes, swords—and bigger contraptions; catapults, bolas, everything that could aid them in defeating the red death.

But it was not the weapons that made the main longboat dip deeper into the water more than it usually did.

On the biggest longboat they had, a Night Fury, once a renowned and vicious legend, had been reduced to a pitiful creature. Its limbs was bound to a wooden platform, leaving it no wiggle room. A thick wooden muzzle sat tightly around its snout. It could not use its wings, nor its claws. The Night Fury was rendered defenseless.

The other vikings stayed far away from it, fearing its wrath if it somehow broke free. But Stoick was not afraid. He had faced stronger and more powerful foes. He would not shy away from the Night Fury.

"Lead us home, devil." Stoick held his axe in front of the beast's blazing green eyes. Eyes so green, it reminded him of…

Stoick expected the dragon to glare at him, slit his eyes like all the other dragons did whenever a human got to close, make whatever snarl or growl it could in its confines.

The hellion did no such thing. Instead, it turned its big great head towards the village, and let out what sounded like a distressed and wrathful call towards the forest.

Bewildered, Stoick turned to follow its gaze. The village seemed perfectly normal. Except for the tense atmosphere, and there being more villagers outside than there usually was at this time of day. But it had been a strange and disastrous day. Of course they would like to gossip.

Still, the Night Fury screeched, piercing the ears of the all the unfortunate vikings close enough. It thrashed against its restraints, attempting to lift its paws to claw at the chain.

"Get him down!" Stoick ordered, before heading fist-first towards the dragon, intent to subdue it. Vikings piled on the longship, attempting to help their chief, but the beast remained resilient. More and more viking came to help, but no amount of vikings could get the dragon under control.

"I don' get it!" Gobber shouted, voice barely audible over the Night Fury's screams. "Why'd the beastie start hollering?"

"I don't know, Gobber!" Stoick pressed down on the dragons head, but found he had not moved it even an inch. Had his comment really made it that furious? "We just need to- Agh! Get it to calm down!"

The chains groaned against the force, deep claw marks having already ravaged the wooden platform. Somehow the Night Fury was growing even stronger, no matter how many vikings attempted to overpower him.

"CHIEF!" A panicked voice broke through the crowd. Clutching her knees, Astrid stood at the top of the docks whilst inhaling lungfuls of air. When she looked up, Stoick could see the pure fear in her eyes.

"Chief!" She cried out again.

"Not now, lass!" Stoick replied, feeling his muscles start to spasm. "We're busy-"

"It's Hiccup!"

That made Stoick let go of the Night Fury, who took advantage of the lessened pressure and broke through the wooden muzzle.

Several vikings yelped, looking at their chief as if he had lost his wits. Stoick paid them—nor the Night Fury any mind.

What had that boy done now?

"They took him to the forest!"

At that, Stoick frowned, unsettled.

Why would they-

All color drained from Stoick's face. Thor, this couldn't be happening.

A memory unfolded itself inside of Stoick's head.

An old ritual that had not been performed in ages. Not since his grandfather rule, when they had caught a young girl conversing with the dead. Or that's what his grandfather had told him. Then told not to go to that part of the forest.

The memory swirled around in Stoick's head, only mortifying him exponentially. They had dragged her, kicking and screaming, deep into the forest. There, they branded her a witch.

Which could only mean-

CRUSH!

﹏𓊝﹏

Hiccup sobbed into the open air, head hung low, unable to cover his face as his hands had been bound to a post. It was old and rusted, but it still stood strong. It held Hiccup up just fine. He was kneeling on the damp forest floor, bleeding from everywhere. His arms, knees, neck, and head bore all sorts of marks and scrapes. He swore he had seen one of them hold a tuft of his bloody hair.

"You must understand, witch," Old Mildew drawled, circling him like a vulture. "We are only protecting the good people of our village"

"I am not a witch." Hiccup's voice sounded hoarse, broken after wailing for so long.

It was dark now. Despite so much time exploring Berk, Hiccup did not recognize this part of the forest. He had never gone this deep.

A spray of minuscule stones were thrown at Hiccup, making him turn away, unable to get those tiny specks out of his eyes and mouth.

"QUIET!" Barked a man, his offending hand still open and raised.

Mildew continued. "For 15 years, you have terrorized Berk, destroying our beautiful island with your curse!" The old man stopped in front of Hiccup, pulling the hairs rooted to the front of his head to face him, making him cry out and sob all the more louder.

"Well not anymore, witch. For tonight, we shall banish you far away from Berk, back to Niflheim where you belong!"

The mob whooped and cheered as Mildew—who was now smirking gleefully—raised his voice.

"Get the knife! We'll start by cutting of the witch's left index finger. Lest he start using his magic, pointing cures at us and our loved ones!"

A series of AYE's followed, as one of the burly viking went off to find the knife. Still pulling his hair, Mildew strained Hiccup's neck more, making him moan in anguish. A distinct metal taste bubbled at the back of his throat. Gods, was that blood he was tasting?

"You won't be enjoying this." Mildew chuckled, dropping Hiccup's head lazily.

The torture felt like it lasted forever. And then, the knife pulled went away. The pain did not.

The newly separated finger dropped gently into the ground. Shakily, Hiccup couldn't stop himself from looking up. His curiosity had always made him want to find and learn about thing, even if he would regret it. And so, he looked.

It was far from clean cut. No, it was jagged, meant to be painful. Hiccup hand was an earthquake, trembling violently and banging against the post, only further aggravating the fresh injury.

Blood. So much blood. Blood everywhere.

Hiccup cried out, or what should have been a cry, as his voice was nothing but shrill and low. The sight had only intensified the pain.

For such a inhumane sight, the vikings certainly were cheery. They clapped each others back as they saw the finger laying uselessly on the ground, some even joking about touching it.

"Silence." Mildew quieted the crowd. He had turned around—his back to Hiccup—to face the mob. "Next, we shall cut out his tongue, so he'll be unable to enchant us! Then we shall carve out his eyes, unless we want him to find us if he ever gets reborn. And then, for the finale…"

Mildew's grin twisted upwards, yet somehow so remarkably cruel. "We shall-"

"Burn the witch! Burn the witch! BURN THE WITCH!" Their volume grew louder as their excitement did. Hiccup could only weep. When would this torture end?

He wanted his dad—Where was his dad-

A whistling sound flew through the air, but unable to reach the ears of the mob. They were quite busy, cheering the lucky fellow who would get the honor of cutting of the witch's tongue.

But Hiccup, he heard.

﹏𓊝﹏

The demon had escaped its confines. It was now running up the town, swerving expertly through shop-corners, yet barreling through stands.

Faster and faster he went, until he was but a vague black mass tearing his way through Berk's forest.

Toothless sniffed the air as he half-ran, half-flew, tailing the faint scent of distress and agony. He could not lose the scent. Because losing that meant losing Hiccup. Forever.

Branches, bushes, twigs whipped at Toothless's hide. He almost crashed through a tree, only managing to avoid it with his finely honed reflexes. Either way, that wouldn't stop him. Nothing could stop him.

He only got faster when the scent became stronger. He was getting closer now. He knew, by the way he could taste the blood in the air, mingled with his human's smell.

Night Furies were vengeful beings. They did not easily forgive, nor forget. All of them would perish. Toothless would make sure of that.

He had finally reached the deep parts of the forest, where the bloody smell grew tenfold. The closer he got, the clearer he could hear the chants. Rough and loud voices cheered merrily, but under all that noise, Toothless caught the painful sobs.

It only served to fuel Toothless's fury.

Faster and faster, Toothless went; never losing speed, until—

There.

Toothless did not hold back. With a strong and well timed jumped, Toothless angled his claws towards the leader.

﹏𓊝﹏

Stoick was too late.

When he arrived (he had tracked the Night Fury by its paw-prints), there were bodies everywhere. Guts were scattered across the dirt, some even got on the trees and were now swaying delicately, as if mocking the scene.

Over 20 vikings, both young and old, lay dead. Some had their legs ripped from them, others were missing their arms. One didn't even have a head, neck gushing out blood, seemingly never-ending. It was like nothing Stoick had ever seen before.

He somehow registered one of the bodies belonging to Old Mildew. His whole upper body was torn up into shreds, as if his assailant spent more time specifically on him.

But it was not Mildew that Stoick came here for.

In the middle of it all, was a boy, bleeding from head to toe. His eyes were colored red, snot running down his noise. He was bleeding heavily from his left hand.

Bile crawled its way up Stoick's throat, but something in him made him swallow it back down. He couldn't weak now.

Around his son, was the Night Fury, whose tail curled around the teenager. He looked impossibly small in there. The dragon was also covered in blood, though most of it, Stoick would wager, was not from itself.

"CHIEF!" A man in his late thirties, who had somehow survived, crawled his way towards Stoick. Both of his legs were missing, probably bitten off judging by the uneven cut. Still, the man was alive, and was looking to his chief. Finally, he could be saved.

"HEL-" The plasma blast cut him off. Where there was once half a body, there was now a blazing fire. More blood splattered. So much blood.

The devil's eyes were slitted, the thinnest Stoick had ever seen on a dragon. Smoke slithered out of its mouth, the aftermath of its infamous fire.

Then its pupils focused in on him. Stoick's blood turned cold. That was not the look of a animal who would stand down and forgive. No, that glint in its eyes were that of a creature who had no forgiveness left to give.

The Night Fury opened his maw, fire building in his very core, and ready to aim. Stoick should have run. He should have hidden. If you see a Night Fury, run away and hide and pray it doesn't find you.

By the gods, he should have listened. He really should have listened.

As the Night Fury was about to let go, a hand clasped his snout."

No." A small voice broke through the crackling of the fires.

Hiccup, still on his knees, held his left hand in front of the dragon, blocking his way of fire. The Night Fury's pupils wavered for a moment, but remained slitted. Stoick heard a low rumble come out of it, glaring at the boy in warning.

"Please don't."

It looked towards Stoick, then back at his hatchling. For a second, Hiccup thought he wouldn't listen. Just like his—

Toothless softened. His vast shoulder, still tense, let down a bit. The fire died in his throat. He had listened to him. Hiccup rested his head against his bud's neck.

He was so, so tired.

That gave Stoick the opportunity to really notice the hurt they had brought upon his boy. How far had they been able to take it? How could he have let this happen? Looking closer at Hiccup's left hand, his fears were confirmed.

Between his thumb and middle finger, there was a space that was not originally there. He could vaguely see the ridged flesh sticking out, the wound still bleeding.

Great Odin. Mighty Thor. Where had he been when this happened?

Stoick knew. So did Hiccup, along with the Night Fury. Instead of protecting him from the angry mob, he was to focused on the dragons. He should've seen this coming. The village had long hated dragons and anything concerning them. Stoick was a fool for thinking he was the only one.

And now he was looking at the consequences. Limbs, fires, guts, destruction. And among the destruction laid a boy and his dragon.

A boy Stoick said wasn't his son anymore. What had he done.

Said boy was simply staring at him now. There was only hurt in his eyes. Hurt and betrayal, etched into his brow, his smile long torn. It would not grow back for a long time. And those beady green eyes.

The only physical trait his son had inherited from him. The eyes Valka said she'd always love. What would she think now? Sweet, kind Valka?

Now those eyes were glaring at him with hurt and betrayal. And fury. Gritting his teeth, Hiccup climbed swiftly—with what little strength he had left. It was a miracle he could even stand—on to Toothless's back. The exertion made him let out a final cry of pain, before his voice gave out.

Only when Stoick realized what the boy was doing, was he finally able to move.

"HICCUP!" Stoick bellowed, already grieving the idea of losing his boy forever.

But the boy and the dragon was already gone. They flew into the night sky, and disappeared behind the clouds.

There they would be unreachable. Even from Stoick the Vast.

﹏𓊝﹏

Numbness was all Stoick felt as he looked at the smoke.

His memory slipped away from him. He did not remember Gobber and the other villagers reaching him, gasping at the horror that laid before them. He did not remember helping with gathering all the body parts, and then putting them all in the pyre. There were simply too many, they would not be able to identify which ones belonged to who.

Still, he did not say anything. After a moment of silence, without any word from their chief, Gobber took the lead and began the funeral write.

Stoick watched on in silence, only paying attention to the smoke dancing faintly before disappearing into the sky. Just like Hiccup.

The sun was already greeting them from the east, peaking shyly out of the horizon. The fog had let up.

He gained consciousness when he felt a warm hand on his back. Gobber stood beside him, looking sorrowfully at him.

He didn't need to be told what happened. He saw the destruction and the missing boy and Night Fury. He already knew.

And so, he escorted his friend to his house, the one standing at the top of the hill. The chief's house. Now belonging only to him.

Inside the house, Gobber made sure Stoick was seated firmly on his chair, started the fireplace, and began cooking a meal. It had been such a long day. They could wait with fixing things until the morrow. For now, his friend needed nourishment and rest.

He made sure Stoick ate every last bite, and made sure to only serve him water. When they were finished with their meal, they simply sat in silence.

Stoick was as stoic as ever, but his eyes were missing the glint of life. They looked so lost now. Gobber had seen carcasses livelier than his friend. It was not an unfamiliar look. He had seen that very same look all those years ago. It still haunted him. Stoick's eyes were so empty.

For once in his life, Gobber didn't know what to say. What could he say? First his wife gets taken by dragons, and now his son too?

"Go home." Stoick's gruff voice startled Gobber. He had not spoken since before sundown.

Gobber looked like he wanted to protest, disliking the idea of letting his friend by himself. But Stoick insisted.

"Just go, Gobber."

Gobber could not disagree more. But the firm look Stoick gave him killed any protest that was dripping at the tip of his tongue. And so he went, unable to argue with the chief.

Finally alone, Stoick simply watched the fire. He didn't have anything better to do. There were no more thump thump thump of his son's feet when he paced around his rooms, nor could he listen to the familiar drumming of his son's pen against his desk.

Those sounds were proof that Hiccup was there in their home, safe and sound. There Stoick knew he would be protected from dragons. He had learned his lesson long ago. No dragon would be able to break into their house anymore.

But it was all for naught. His son was gone now. He'd never be able to hear those sounds again.

Stoick realized that he had turned his head towards Hiccup's room unintentionally.

When was the last time he had gone up there? How much had the room changed from the chaotic kid Hiccup once was to the teenager he had become? What didn't he know about his son?

And so he made his way up the stairs. The stairs were built to fit him, in fact the whole house was made to accommodate him. It forced Hiccup to climb them, unless he wanted to risk falling off.

In his grief Stoick thought: 'He would never climb these stairs ever again.'

At the top of the stairs, Stoick immediately spotted stack of papers across Hiccup's desk. From where he was standing, he was unable to see what it was that had Hiccup making new charcoal pencils everyday. With that, he moved forward, passing the unmade bed—never again would he sleep there—before stopping at the old and worn desk. The one from Trader Johan, that Hiccup had begged him to get for his 10th birthday.

Never again would he write on here.

He scanned the papers, looking for anything that would reveal Hiccup's thoughts. What he found were sketches of a dragon. Not just any dragon, the Night Fury. Over and over again. Some had the dragon smiling, some with it frowning. In some drawing the dragon rested lazily, while in other sketches the dragon had his wings flared. Some sketches had a tail, some didn't.

It was then he caught a glimpse of green fabric at the corner of the desk, buried under heaps of used paper.

It was a green Deadly Nadder Valka had made when she was pregnant, that somehow manage to get four feet instead of two. Stoick thought Hiccup had lost it long ago, but here it was, nestled in the corner of the desk, close to the boy's bed.

If it wasn't for the mess on the desk, it would be one of the first things Hiccup would see in the morning.

Slowly with the little Nadder in his hands, Stoick moved away from the desk and sank down on Hiccup's bed. It gave a creak against the sudden weight, but held steady. Deeming it safe, Stoick looked at the papers that carried som many of Hiccup's thoughts. They seemed to know more about him than his own father.

When was the last time he talked, actually talked, to Hiccup? They were only near each other when they were eating their day- and nightmeal, and even then did they barely talk. Only awkward greetings and rushed goodbyes.

Their only time spent in comfort was when one of Stoick's braids fell out and he needed them redone. Hiccup would grab a chair, pull it close and start brushing out his braid. Then he would carefully braid his beard, a feat which took about half an hour. After finishing off the last braid, Hiccup would pat his beard, as if appreciating his own work, and muttered a quiet "There you go, Dad."

Stoick wasn't ashamed that there were times he had purposefully fought roughly—just so that his braids would fall out quicker. Just to be near Hiccup for once.

And still, he didn't attempt to talk to him. He didn't listen. And look at where that left him.

He was sitting on the boy's bed when it really hit Stoick. He had lost his one and only child. His precious Hiccup.

Chapter Text

The room stayed as it was. For six years, Stoick let it be, only rifling through Hiccup's old papers. The bed stayed unkept. The green Nadder stayed in its corner.

Although, dust was nowhere to be found. Every week, Stoick would go over the room with a broom and washcloth, keeping the room clean from age and spiderwebs. With that, the room looked exactly as it looked like six years ago.

Because even though the room's owner was gone, the room was still well lived in. Every time his heart clenched, his grief threatening to rip him apart from inside out, Stoick sought comfort in his long gone son's room. He would sit on the creaky bed and just hold the green Nadder. Simply sitting. Waiting.

He had waited for so long.

A day passed, then a week—months turned into years.

Stoick prayed to all the gods he could think of, from the great gods—Odin, Thor, Freyr, Hamingja, Eir, Ægir, Idun—any of the Norse gods he'd been taught about from when he was but a young boy. Praying that his boy would come back to him, so that he could be safe and sound in his father's arms again, his prodigal son.

Stoick wouldn't shout. He wouldn't scold. He'd tuck him softly into his chest, rest the boy's head on his beard just like he did when Hiccup was, well, littler. He'd make sure his son every drop of the hearthy meal that was waiting for him. Then he would tuck him in to bed, settle his dragon plush snug to Hiccup—and watch as his child fell asleep, safe inside their home.

Away from the raging mob. Away from any creature, dragon or human, who wanted to harm him. Hiccup would be protected by him, that he swore.

He could keep him safe again.

But he didn't. Stoick realized this three days after Hiccup…left. Soared through the skies on the Night Fury's back, far away from him. He was standing in front of Hiccup's desk, having spent the past two weeks frantically pillaging through the sketches and the notes, desperate to find a way to figure out where in the Archipelago—if he would even stay in the Archipelago—Hiccup would go.

At last, he found an answer to his prayers.

A journal. Wedged between the desk and the wall of the room, laying there innocently. An unknown hiding place. This was what he was looking for. This journal would tell Stoick everything. Anything.

He stayed in his position, more preoccupied with Hiccup's secrets than finding somewhere comfortable to sit. Then, with a lick to his thumb, turned the page to the first journal entry, and started reading.

He read. And read. And read. He read , having abandoned his chiefing duties days ago, the village leaving him to grieve alone. He needed time with Valka. He would need time with Hiccup too.

Until he came upon a sentence made him stop. There, scribbled in uneven runes, written down hastily in a way that was so Hiccup.

'…i finally managed to befriend toothless!!'

It was so…childlike. It reminded Stoick of the little boy before he hit his teenage years, the boy he used to see and know. A boy he could only vaguely remember. A boy who still talked to Fishlegs about every creature found in the big forest; trolls, faes, and dragons.

Hiccup didn't have any friends. At least, not after he and Fishlegs started to talk to each other less, then not at all. Stoick always disliked this, as he thought the future chief should have good relations with his fellow tribesmen. It wasn't for the lack of trying—Hiccup certainly tried to interact with the other teens. He just never got it right. Always for the same reason; He wasn't like them.

But he wasn't just outcasted, Stoick noted. that he'd become more like them. Snotlout, for all his stupidness, had the strength to protect himself. Hiccup didn't. And they made sure to reminded him of that. Everyday. Everytime one of his well-meaning inventions failed, everytime he tried to hold a weapon—not with the intent to forge or repair, but to fight—and accidentally dropped said weapon, Hiccup would only get glares and a 'useless…' carelessly flung at him. Nobody cared enough if he heard them. The other teens—save for Fishlegs—absolutely wanted for him to hear.

There was no denying it, Hiccup had been an outcast. For a really, really long time. But Stoick never did anything about it. Chalked it up to his inability to be a viking.

And…oh gods, Dagur.

How many times had Hiccup run up to him, begging him to do something when ever their ally visited? Drenched by river-water one year, tattered clothes the next. Everytime, claiming that "Dagur did it, Dad!"

The problem wasn't that Stoick didn't believe him, no, he did.

But what did he do? Nothing. He'd clap his son's shoulder, tell him to 'toughen' up; one dip in the lotic river by the Arrow's Tip wouldn't kill him.

Hel, in his younger days, Stoick and his old friends would dare each other to dive head-first into that very same river!

So why couldn't Hiccup be like them?

Stoick had tried and tried, he had taught him anything from sword-fighting to fishing—anything that could help the smallest boy of his age-group defend and support himself. Hiccup had to learn, because one day—Stoick wouldn't be there to protect and fend for him.

He had even let him join dragon training after begging his father to do so for years!

But Hiccup could never do anything his father wanted him to. He would rather go hunting for trolls, fantasize about and sketch his silly inventions, polish swords and sing with Gobber. Help baby birds with their broken wing. Befriend a dragon.

Rather the dragon than his tribe. His peers. His father.

He had always been different from them, that boy.

Was that why he left? Fled on the back of one of the most dangerous dragons to have graced their isle, and didn't look back once he realized that Berk didn't have anything worthy to offer him. Without so much as a kiss to the cheek, or a hug-goodbye. Just left with…Toothless.

His 15-year-old, finding solace in a dragon. A Night Fury no less. Stoick would laugh downright hysterically, if it weren't for the wrecking sobs he knew would ensue.

Only Hiccup could—and did—do such a thing. Only his Hiccup.

And now…now he was just gone.

Stoick understood now. An overwhelming, excruciating, agonizing feeling of bitter sadness bit at his heart. And gods be damned, did it hurt. His face became tight with pressure, pressing and pressing, with no relief in sight; never-ending.

Just like his Valka.

He had tried to run from it, hide it away, trying in vain to find anything else—anyone else—to blame on. And he had found someone to blame on.

Although he was holding a journal, it was not a journal Stoick saw. It was a mirror; a conviction that had his name written on it with big letters.

Stoick realized; it was not Hiccup that was the fool. It was him.

And look at him now. Old an alone, with a tankard of tasteless ale and his son's abandoned journal. 'The journal isn't the only thing that's abandoned', he thought bitterly.

Deep down tough, Stoick couldn't blame Hiccup. Because wouldn't he do the same? If he had been outcasted, treated the way Hiccup was , wouldn't he too take advantage of the thing that could save him? Even if said thing was their sworn enemy?

Sworn enemy turned friend. Hiccup had done the impossible; with his kindness and wit, he had seen what no one else had seen in those beasts. Only he and and his mother. He had calmed a dragon and tamed it. Trained him too.

Always seeing the good in people. So kind, just like his Valka.

He had gotten a chance to end the war—once and for all—and stupidly chucked it into the trash. If only he had listened.

But he didn't. He had gotten the opportunity to reach his son, and he had let it pass by. A choice that would haunt him to the end of his days. A choice that would fill him with regret and sorrow until he'd be nothing but ashes and dust drifting on his merry way to Niflheim.

So he did the only thing he could do now. He sent a prayer, one to every god he knew—Odin, Thor, Freyr, Hamingja, Eir, Ægir, Idun—hoping, praying that he would listen to his request. If Stoick couldn't keep his child safe, then he could.

He'd have to. Stoick would never forgive that dragon—Toothless—if he didn't. He'd never forgive himself.

﹏𓊝﹏

"They're not raiding us because they have to, they're raiding us because they don't have a choice!"

"Only a dragon can find the nest."

Of course. The answer had been sitting right in front of him. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have not just listened.

If he did, Hiccup would still be here. He wouldn't be subjected to such horrors that Mildew and the bloodthirsty vikings put him trough. Stoick could've protected him, and he didn't.

Hiccup had given him a clue so vital, it could end the everything. End the war, once and for all.

Not for the tribe. For Hiccup.

But the fire that had raged in his core ever since he saw Valka being taken, had dimmed. Coals burned faintly at its stead. He no longer yearned to massacre every dragon he came across. Yes, he still wanted to end the brutal dragon raids that his village were prey to, but for the first time in a long time, Stoick could think clearly.

What would Hiccup do?

Of course, he wouldn't just take the nearest longship and sail to Hellheim's Gate.

"It's not what you think! She's big—bigger than any dragon you've ever seen."

If they did decide to go on their mission, they would have to prepare. Stoick had seen many dragons, and by the way Hiccup's notes described her, the Red Death was massive. As colossal as the mountain she resided in, dwarfing any dragons that served her. Bigger than anything Stoick could imagine.

They would need many brave and battle-ready vikings with reliable weapons made out of the best blend of metal. They were fine in the weapons department, thanks to Gobber.

No, what they lacked was fighters.

Over two dozen men had decided that the village runt needed to go, excitedly running of to brand him.

But the Night Fury—who's one and only task was to protect his human from those evil vikings—had uncaringly wiped all of them out.(Stoick felt he couldn't blame him. Not really.)

Which meant that the village was down two dozens. It meant that they could not fulfill their goal. They simply did not have enough men.

So Stoick decided to wait. He decided that he couldn't put his village at risk when Devastating Winter was but a hair's breadth away, it was just to dangerous.

For once in his life, he would listen to his son. Even when he was long gone.

Nobody disagreed. They were too tired, too worried about having enough food to last them this winter. The gray and turbulent storm coming at them from the east already spoke of their luck this year. They had no choice but to hunker down for the rest of the year.

So the chief managed the village the best way that he could. He did not yell nor shout like he did before, only sighing when someone complained about a rather unimportant dispute, before promptly fixing it.

The villagers didn't bother him with their minuscule problems anymore. They let him breath.

He did not remark on how Astrid looked at him guiltily whenever he walked past her, then avoid his gaze when she saw that he had noticed her, even though it was painfully obvious.

She'd come to him when she was ready. This time, Stoick would give her time. Hiccup would do that.

The dragons would leave them alone for the winter, which meant they would not have to deal with dragon-raids anymore.

So Stoick decided to wait. Until frost came and snow fell upon them—and still, he would wait some more. He'd wait until the ice melted and February bleed into March. When the spring sun shined once again.

﹏𓊝﹏

When March came around, the dragons…ominously didn't. What should have been a blessing from the gods, something to be celebrated—only filled the village with an alarming sense of dread.

The dragons had attacked them for centuries. Why did they stop now?

What made them stop now?

The chief ordered them to calm down, that there must be a sound reason for their delay. The dragons always arrived at the beginning of spring, and they would not stop now. Soon, they would come and rain hell upon them, just like they always did—they needed to prepare for raids at once.

The dragons did not arrive. Nights were wasted on watching the skies for any fire-breathing attackers instead of sleeping.

The chief and his village stayed restless and confused. Astrid did not.

Sitting in his son's room as he often did nowadays, Stoick was interrupted by a banging to his front door. Sighing (for the eleventh time that day), he walked down the stairs to yell at Gobber, believing that he'd gone and gotten himself a barrel of mead and wanted his company. Tch, this late at night?

Opening the door, Stoick's chiding words died on his tongue. In front of him was not a drunk Gobber, but a teen girl—no taller than his chest—with red rimmed eyes and breathing heavily. Astrid.

"Lassie?" Stoick called. The sun had gone down long ago, leaving the island pitch dark. The girl should have been home in bed by now.

"I- Chief, I-" Her breathing became wilder as tears began streaming down her face.

"What's wrong, Astrid?" Stoick took her gently by the shoulders, lowered himself to her level. "You need to breath, lass."

"No- I need to-"

Astrid shook her head, her tears turning into sobs.

At first, Stoick didn't know what to do. He had never seen the strong, fierce future shieldmaiden look so vulnerable before. Never had he seen her cry or break down so hard.

But this was a child. She needed his help now. So Stoick pulled himself together, quickly figuring out what he needed to do.

Be kind, like Hiccup. Like Valka.

He led her into his home, sat her down by the fireplace. She'd warm up there. Spring may have taken place, but the nights were still chilly.

Stoick sat opposite her, facing her as he calmed her down with soft shhh's and take your time, lass's.

When her tears slowed down and her breathing wasn't as laborious, Stoick asked her again "What's wrong, lass?"

Astrid kept watching the ground, unable to make eye contact with him. She sniffled once before starting to explain.

"Hiccup," her voice broke at his name. Still, she continued. "Showed me Toothless, before…you know."

For a split second Stoick's frowned, but just as fast, schooled his expression into that of non-judgment. He couldn't imagine the girl ever being involved with Hiccup and his dragon, but it wasn't the most surprising thing he had seen or heard. He had gotten used to it.

He answered by nodding grimly.

"And I was there when we found the nest."

Startled, Stoick couldn't help his mouth from falling open, yet he remained speechless. After a moment of staring open-mouthed like a muttonhead at Astrid, who was still drilling a whole into his floor, Stoick resorted to let her continue.

"Alright…"

He expected her to continue, but she stayed silent, waiting for…waiting for what? Yell at her. Diminish her for doing something so incredibly dangerous and stupid? Granted, it was incredibly dangerous and stupid, and some time ago, he would of yelled at her. But looking at her now, sniffling and so obviously distressed, he couldn't make the same mistake. Not again.

He'd have to nudge her. Gently.

"What was it like, lass?" he prodded, expression neutral.

"Big. She—the Red Death—lived in a mountain, and she was just…controlling all these dragons. There were so many, and they were all dropping the food they got into her mouth. And then-"

She began to shake again. Stoick was about to tell her to take a deep breath, but she carried on.

"The Gronckle, he didn't have any food, so the Red Death just…"

"Just what, Astrid?"

…

"It ate him."

He had never thought—was that—

Was that why they had been raiding them?

Stoick did not—could not—feel more than surface-level pity for those poor creatures. They had done too much, even if he understood now. No, what he cared about was…

Was that what Hiccup had tried to tell him?

Of course it was. In their last moment together, the boy had asked him, pleaded for him to listen. Instead, Stoick had left him there, all alone and completely helpless to anyone that could— and wanted to hurt him. The cell itself spoke louder then any words did.

What was he thinking, putting him in a cell?

Hiccup was just a child. A naive and utterly reckless child, but what child wasn't?

Reckless. The word rebounded inside his head, and filled him with exasperation he had the unfortune of becoming familiar with ever since Hiccup learned how to walk.

Since Hiccup was—is reckless, then that meant…

What crazy thing had that boy come up with?

"And Hiccup has Toothless..." Stoick muttered, more to himself than to her.

"So if anyone had anything to do with the missing dragons…"

Then it would be Hiccup.

The words didn't need to be said out loud—they both knew.

Stoick heard his heart sink once again.

﹏𓊝﹏

He had to see it for himself. See whatever became of the fiend that had plagued them for so long.

End the war, once and for all.

Not for the tribe. For Hiccup.

It was nearing summer now, and the watch-towers had still not caught any dragon. The only ones who dared to come close were some irritating Terrors searching for food. Not that it was any different from last year. They never had the sharpest claws in the bunch.

Otherwise, the only dragons they saw where flying far above them, drifting lazily through the sky. Too far to be dangerous, for both dragons and vikings.

It was far too…convenient. His wayward son finding the nest after they had tried to track it down for years, then flees on dragon-back not even a full day later—only for the dragon raids to mysteriously stop the following spring? It could not be just a coincidence.

Stoick was not naive. Foolish and hard-headed maybe, but not naive.

And after Astrid's tearful confession, and the unfortunate reminder that his son was just a bit to much of a daredevil,

So they set their sights on Hellheim's Gate and sailed. Every mighty and capable warrior that lived on Berk were spread out across multiple longboats. Stoick stood at the bow, his ship containing only the best of the best—including Astrid.

Naturally, her parents had lightly objected, thinking her to young and inexperienced for such a hazardous task. After hearing about the mountainous size of the Red Death, they feared underestimating the big giant could hurt their daughter. It was far to risky.

Still, she had managed to convince them, parroting back the very known and very overused "I'm a viking, Mom! It's an occupational hazard!" spiel at her parents until they had relented.

At first, they tried the only-dragons-know-the-way hint, catching and tying a spry Terrible Terror to a ship's platform, hoping it would guide them to the nest. It did not work. At all. They racked it up to the Terror's known…lack of intelligence, and figured that a smarter dragon would do the trick.

After a week, with Hiccup's notes and Astrid's help, they had brought her calmly to the longboat. Still, nothing. According to Hiccup's notes, they should have reacted on their own, following whatever song the Red Death used to lure them. Even Astrid was perplexed, as the Deadly Nadder sniffed nosily at her outstretched hand.

That alarm bells in Stoick's head only rang louder.

So they had decided to rely on Astrid to lead the way. She had proven herself, and they trusted her to lead them right. Her memory did not yield, of that she swore.

Now she stood, head held high with her axe at her side, carrying the dauntlessness of a veteran who knew what awaited her.

She had been here before. She was ready.

After five days at sea, they had reached their destination, though it was much different from when Stoick was there before winter. Instead of billowing smoke, dense fog and ravenous dragons, they were welcomed by…only fog. An empty fog.

Like Berk, there were some dragons there, flying low—almost touching the water. Emphasis on some, considering there were no more than seven dragons roaming around in the distance. They barely cast a glance at the humans, paying them no heed. Some even had the audacity to snort at them before flying off to Odin knows where.

Stoick had never felt so unnerved before. He could barely handle the dragon's indifference, their carelessness for the vikings only making them more creepy. They were supposed to be attacking them by now, hurling fireballs and attempting to sink their talons into them. Not…flying around their longboats, frowning at their weapons and catapults, but leaving them alone.

They just looked at them with curiosity. With wariness too (they had not forgotten how angry vikings could get), but no longer did they posses the warning growls and the "Protect the nest!" screech. They simply…watched them. Trying to figure out what the humans were here for.

She's gone now. Why have they come?

They sailed past the fog, nerves frayed and hands gripping tightly around their shields and armament of choice. They sailed, until they could not sail anymore.

Where there should have been a great mountain housing the most dangerous, vile, wrathful beast in the entire archipelago, lay…nothing. The island was nothing but rubble and ashes—the remains of a battle fought long ago. No plant, nor food could prosper here; the ground was too hostile, too ruined.

The nest was uninhabitable.

But that couldn't be.

Last time they had ventured her, the nest was crawling with dragons in every nook and cranny. They could not go one step before coming face to snout with one. It was why they had returned home with nothing. There were simply too many of them.

Now…nothing. Nothing but utter destruction. And something red. There was something splattered across the ground, near a cluster of debris. It looked unnatural, standing out against the gray of the island.

The other vikings had noticed, now looking too him—awaiting his first move. He was the chief; they would listen to him. Gobber urged him with a 'What to do, Chief?'

Stoick made his move, and set his foot on the island. The longboat was close enough to the island, that his trek to land only made soft splash noises, wetting his leather boots. A repugnant odor assaulted his nose as soon as he set foot there, but that didn't stop Stoick. Nothing, not even that blasted, accursed She-Devil could stop him. Curiosity fueled his every step, inching him closer and closer to the red.

'Maybe Hiccup had gotten that from him after all', Stoick thought humorously.

He couldn't deny it any longer. That was undeniably blood. Stoick had seen it plenty of times, drenched into the ground, etched into his allies skin. Covering his son.

And even though it had certainly rained and hailed and snowed here, it had not ruined the mess. It had carved itself into the gravel, a scar that would never fade.

Something else caught Stoick's eyes. Inspecting the shape the blood had taken, his eyebrows furrowed deep.

The blood stains were not only sprays and splatters, but a trail.

He felt Gobber approaching him. He was not particularly near, but the quietness let Stoick hear the thunk of his wooden leg on the gravel and his heavy breaths. The chief paid his good friend no mind, too fixated on this mystery.

Tentatively (as tentatively as a fearless 7 foot viking could), Stoick followed the trail. What he found at the end of the trail, behind a deceptively innocent rock, sent him…it sent him reeling, right back to that fatal night when his son lost a piece of his body to the angry horde.

Except this time, it was no finger. Behind the rock, laid a leather boot, it's foot still attached. Nothing else. No boy laid there, waiting for their help. Just a boot, with a foot still inside it, bone stuck morbidly out of the boot, unrecognizable if it weren't for the sharp edges.

Whatever flesh that had been detached from the original body had burnt to a crisp long ago. That's the stench. Great Odin, that stench.

It was with another forceful wave of mortification, rage, and agony that Stoick realized who the boot's owner was.

It couldn't be anyone else. No matter how much Stoick wanted it to. He could not change the worn heel that was the result of the owner kicking it back and forth whenever he was lost in thought. Nor could he change the amount of buckles—no laces. He'd tripped on those things far too many times. The size, the color.

It was his.

And covered in blood.

Just like last time.

He had been too late. He had failed to protect Hiccup for the umpteenth time.

Just like last time.

"Oh, Stoick…" Gobber muttered tearily behind him, carefully rubbing a hand on his back, trying and failing to console him as he threw his guts out.

But Stoick did not need consolation and solace at the moment. What he needed was his son.

﹏𓊝﹏

"Stoick."

There by the top of the stairs, Gobber stood leaning against the wall. In his wistfulness, Stoick could not recollect how long his friend had been standing there and watching him.

Years ago, he'd come up with a weak excuse for why he'd been sitting in his lost son's room. He'd talk about how dusty it was getting, that he was just doing some spring-cleaning.

As if he'd ever let the room get dusty.

Now he remained silent. Just looking at Gobber. He did not startle awkwardly, desperate for something to say whilst trying to keep his mask intact. Stoic.

That didn't mean Stoick was weaker now. He still had the strength that he was renowned for, his form still vast and intimidating, even in his 50's. But the hole in his heart, not the one made by his late wife, but made by Hiccup, had made him…mellow out.

When he lost Valka, he began his path of revenge, believing that if he found Hellheim's gate, destroyed that damned nest, only then could the love of his life rest in Valhalla.

No more would the village fear their loved ones perishing to those pests. No more would he worry about Hiccup dying to the very monsters his mother died to.

But with Hiccup…something shifted. He saw the world in a new perspective. In three day his world shifted, by grief and realizations. No more was the strict and battle-hardened chief of Berk—in his stead, sat a father who still longed to hold his child, just one more time. The whole village saw him change, and had no other choice but to accept it. Six years later, he didn't fear being so…un-stoic.

Besides, Gobber always did see right through him.

"Stuck wallowin', old man?" Gobber said with humor. Still, his eyes were wet. Hiccup was Gobber's boy too, and he grieved together with him, as if it was his own laddie. After so many years, even the mere thought of Hiccup made Gobber's breath hitch and eyes water. Stoick reckoned he didn't look any better. "I don' blame ya." Gobber continued, tracing his finger down the bedroom wall.

"I miss him too."

…

"I know Gobber. I know you do."

Gobber huffed, blinking away oncoming tears, and spotted the green Nadder.

"I suppose you want to take that with you?" He nudged his head towards the plush dragon nestled between Stoick's capable hands.

"Of course I do." Stoick answered, rubbing his thumb on the Nadder's head. It's fabric had naturally become worn after 21 years, but it's stitches held strong—not perfect (Valka wasn't the strongest sewer)—but they held on nonetheless. It was as if her love kept the Nadder together. "Can't leave it alone here, can I?"

"Suppose you can't!" Gobber said cheerly, lightening the mood with a single huff of his nose. Not out of exasperation, but amusement as he watched Stoick pocketing the soft plush.

Stoick smiled back as he looked around the room. "I'm gonna miss this place." Gobber nodded, understanding. The chief had been living his whole life here.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Gobber shifted stiffly at his feet.

"Eh…"

"What is it, Gobber?" Stoick turned to look directly at his friend.

"I was going through Hiccup's things back at the forge…" Gobber began fumbling with one of his many pockets, clumsily reaching around his figure to find something. Suspicion arising, Stoick inspected his friend with a raised eyebrow. "An' I found…Aha! This."

Gobber fished his hands out of his back pocket (Stoick frowned at that), and presented a small golden locket.

At first, Stoick thought, and if his memory served him right, looked exactly like Hiccup's early makings when he had just started—his eyebrows shot up, eyes widening with recognition.

It was one of the first thing Hiccup had ever made in Gobber's forge. He'd been given his apprenticeship at only eight winters old—only the top of his hairs reaching his father's hip—and he was so happy.

Finally, he could put his ideas into the world, instead of containing them in his chaotic mind or in pieces of paper that was so easily lost. He'd make traps for trolls, and bird feeders for the little ones in the forest, machines that would throw bolas—swords on fire! And, and—

But Gobber, unusually a buzzkill, had outright denied him. Told him that he'd have to start small, lest he burn his 'tiny wittle fingers' off.

Hiccup huffed and puffed. He pouted, squeezed his eyebrows inward in a very poor imitation of the the steely chief's glare. He ended up looking like a very angry baby yak who'd had his fish ripped away from him just as he was about to eat. A very cute baby yak. Who was angry.

Stoick pinched his cheek playfully, simpering as he pleasantly said "Well Gobber's the teacher, lad." They could both hear Gobber make a sound of agreement in the background. "That means you ought to listen to him."

"That's right, laddie! You listen to your father, you!"

With a final huff, Hiccup climbed on to his designated chair, and began following Gobber's instructions.

After a little struggle, and some stray burns, Stoick had been called into the forge.

Following a long day of chiefing, Stoick found himself at Gobber's forge, with a small bundle of joy mixed with pure chaotic energy barreling into his chest. Holding up his first creation.

A wee little locket made of gold, small and oval-shaped—though with many bumps and ridges. A beginner's work.

"Do you like it, Dad?" Hiccup asked him, voice small and child-like, looking to Stoick for approval.

Sure, it wasn't the greatest handiwork. Nor did it look remarkable. But it was Hiccup's. Which meant it was special. Unlike any locket he had ever seen before.

And Stoick was so proud.

Placing the boy on his right knee, the one not pressing to the floor, Stoick reached for the locket and began to brush at the imperfections. He pressed a kiss at Hiccup's temple, then made sure they boy was looking into his eyes.

"You've done a wonderful job, Hiccup. And I'm so proud of you." Stoick stated sincerely. He added another kiss for emphasis. "You'll be a great blacksmith someday."

Hiccup practically glowed, beaming at his father's praise and grinned widely, showing off his missing milk teeth.

"Well maybe not as great as me…" Gobber cheekily ruffled the boy's feather-like hair, messing up the already big mop of auburn mess.

Hiccup only beamed brighter.

﹏𓊝﹏

The golden locket was not the only thing they had found in Hiccup's workstation.

After going through Hiccup's bedroom, Stoick set his sight on the dingy space at the back of Gobber's workshop, hidden behind an old blanket turned curtain.

Various mock-ups and sketches decorated the wall, encasing the room with Hiccup's designs. Everywhere Stoick looked, he saw one of Hiccup's many thoughts that came to fruition. Blueprints were stacked up high on the shelves, some ending up on the floors.

Gobber stared at one of the papers, transfixed on the sketch it held. He kept tracing the outline of the charcoal-drawing, muttering on about what sounded like confused reverence.

Taking a closer look, Stoick saw a sketch of something that looked like a dragon's tail, with nuts and bolts attached oddly to it. What in Midgard could this be for?

Stoick did not bother with words, only grunting at Gobber inquiringly. Said blacksmith side-eyed him, before turning to point his stocky pointer finger at the sketch.

"This is…it's remarkable, Stoick!"

"What is it?"

"Some form of artificial tail, but this is only the left side of the tail?" His voice lowered, mumbling to himself. "Maybe it was for the Night Fury?"

"Norse, please."

This time Gobber rolled his eyes.

"It's a prosthetic tail, Stoick. Beastie must've lost its first tail and Hiccup made him a new one, by himself!"

Stoick attempted to look back in time, trying to remember if there was anything peculiar with the Night Fury's tail. Thinking back, it did look a tad off, the left half not quite matching the rest of the black scales that adorned him. And what was the mechanism-thing that Hiccup hooked his foot on when he got on the dragon?

But why? Why would his son go out of his way and make a new tail to replace the Night Fury's last one? Use precious resources and waste his smarts and skills on a blasted dragon?

Although Stoick did not understand all the nits and grits of the design (he was more of a wood-carver than a smithy), he could see the intricacy of every detail, the genius ingrained in it every sentence describing how the prosthetic functioned.

And judging by the master blacksmith's awe, this was a work of genius.

What Stoick thought was a room used for valueless and more often than not unstable, tinkering—in actuality, Hiccup had been here making…this. Something for a dragon.

It should have sounded like betrayal. The chief's son, cohorting with and making gadgets for their sworn enemy and greatest foe. However, the humiliating pinch of betrayal did not come tearing at him. He had no room for anger anymore. Just the feeling of loss.

This was Hiccup's life. Here he had written, and drawn, and created, and thought. And Stoick had missed—no, blatantly ignored all of it. He could've been here, taken the chance to really understand his son, spent whatever precious time he had with him. And then…maybe he wouldn't have left.

Instead he…didn't. He'd spent so much time being in the chief-role—yelling orders, breaking up petty fight, ensuring that his village wouldn't starve to death when Devastating Winter came. He was barely at home, only arriving after a long day, aching back and with a pounding headache. He'd come home to an empty house, dinner placed on the table and long gone cold. Sometimes he heard Hiccup tapping his foot to the floor of his room, rhythmically drumming his finger to his desk. Stoick knew he was up there.

He never went up there.

And when he did have a moment with Hiccup, no matter how small, he chose to chastise him for his silly gadgets that brought more harm than good. Ask him why, just why he couldn't be more like them?

His son had always been sensitive, it was what made him—well, him. If he just let him be himself, let him work on his invention—the ones that didn't involve dragons at all. If he didn't pressure him so much on being the next chief, maybe he'd still have him. If he let him be…Hiccup.

The he wouldn't have lost him. Even if that meant having to choose another heir, even if that meant Hiccup would never learn how to wield an axe or use a hammer for anything besides smithing. Stoick couldn't care less anymore. As long as Hiccup was safe, that was all that would have mattered.

Stoick heard a ragged intake of breath besides him, and went to look at his friend. The blacksmith swayed unsteadily at his feet, it had Stoick worried. He grabbed the blacksmith's shoulder and turned his body so that the man faced him. Gobber continued holding the sketch, somehow keeping it crinkled, afraid he would ruin it somehow, before finally explaining.

"I taught him all of this, Stoick. And I-" His voice wavered. "And I taught him good…"

He looked so lost. In his grief, Stoick had only thought of himself—ignoring the village, ignoring his tribesmen, the people who needed him.

'Just like you did with Hiccup' a malicious, resentful voice echoed in his head.

In his grief, he ignored the closest thing Hiccup had to a father-like uncle. He had not seen the obvious. Gobber was hurting too.

"You did, Gobber. You did. And thanks to you, he will make it out there."

Gobber chuckled wetly, wiping the tears rolling down his face with his hook-less hand. Finally, he took his eyes of the paper and looked at Stoick with an uncertain smile.

"You still think he's out there? Little fishbone Hiccup?"

Stoick's face was certain, convinced, eyes holding the promise not of a chief, but a father.

"I don't think so. I know so."

﹏𓊝﹏

Walking down the path to the docks, Stoick could really marvel at how Berk had changed. No dragons meant no fear and paranoia, no using time on building new homes and repairing roofs whenever a dragon raid had hit them.

The island had grown, their field always full with food for them to eat. It seemed as if the nature around them was thanking them for the relief of fire and destruction. Traders sailed in with plentiful of wares and handy tools, no longer worried about the dragons that used to infest the water around the isle. Devastating Winter was not so devastating anymore. Their village would stay strong.

Children were running around freely, training with wooden swords and playing with toy dragons. They lived free from the terrors of war, inheriting a beautiful and blossoming Berk. Parents were only mildly concerned for them, not as panicked for their safety as before. They didn't need to anymore. No beast had attacked their village for six whole years. Thanks to him.

After connecting the dots, the villagers had started to…honor Hiccup. No longer were he seen as a witch, a curse placed upon them by vengeful gods, but as their savior. He alone had freed the from the Red Death's terror, ending the 300 year war. Because of Hiccup, their kids didn't need to worry about beasts raining hell upon them. Only catastrophic storms that would hit their island every now and then and occasional rival tribes. Normal viking stuff.

It was thanks to the boy they used to call 'useless' that they had revolutionary contraptions that improved their daily life and livelihood. Gobber had found countless unfinished blueprints with different ideas. Ideas that he had never seen before.

Fish traps that would catch trouts, mackerels—whatever fish that swam in Berk's waters in one throw instead of a whole day. Shields and armors with hidden weapons that would keep them safe if they ever got into a nasty fight. An appliance that Hiccup had called "water-timer" that—if Gobber understood correctly—could help them keep the track of time —and so many more!

Gobber raked through each and every design, finding some he deemed promising, improving them, before implementing them around the village.

Berk had never thrived and been more successful as it was now. This was what their ancestors had envisioned when they first stepped foot on their new home. Because of him.

Gobber led the way to the longboats, where a small, yet roomy one waited for him. It was jam-packed with rations and objects holding cherished memories. Hopefully, he would be able to deliver them to its rightful owner.

As he walked, his people greeted him, whishing him a good day and safe travels. Most were assuming that he would come back, some hoping their long-standing chief would stay. He had protected them for over thirty winters.

Maybe he would come back. Stoick didn't know yet.

Some villagers had arrived at the docks before him. A crowd had gathered at the edge of town, waiting to give him a final send-off. Bucket was already crying, bawling harder as Stoick clapped the sides of his arm. Mulch was carefully soothing him, he too was smiling woefully at him.

Trudging forward, Stoick spotted a figure whom he was steadily approaching.

A warrior stood by his ship, posture mighty and confident, brown fur coat swaying softly in the wind. She wasn't the biggest viking, but the muscles sleeping inside of her armor proved that size didn't hold her back. She could defeat two burly vikings at once with her polished and ornate axe easily. She had treasured said axe when she had found out just who had done the detailing.

Her braided hair stayed blonde, not darkening as her father's did. That didn't matter. She had brought her family honor as the years went by. A Hofferson, through and through.

Astrid the Steadfast, the newly coronated chief, waited by his fleet, ready to wish him luck on his voyage. She, along with Gobber, had help him pack, insisting that he take the biggest longship and pack as many things he needed. He had declined, deeming it unnecessary. Told her that she had to prioritize the village's needs over his (both She and Gobber had had huffed unamusedly at that).

Stoick had given his chiefdom to her just a week ago, trusting years of Astrid proving herself. She was ready to take up the mantle. She had showed herself capable of leading their tribe and keeping it from harm. Astrid had grown into a capable young woman, one Hiccup would be proud of. Stern, but caring.

She'd be able to protect their sacred village and its people, especially the young and helpless. Better than Stoick did.

"Ready to go, Chief?"

Stoick scoffed at her words, gingerly chastening her. "I'm not a chief anymore, lass. You know that better than anyone."

Astrid had the gall to look embarrassed, as if she didn't use the title on purpose.

"Can't help it, Stoick." the young chief answered lightly. "It's a habit."

The former chief huffed at the excuse, not buying it one bit.

Hopping onto the longship, Stoick thought about tucking the green Nadder in one of the chest, but decided against. He would rather keep it close, in case something happened to him. Besides, it'd be safer inside of his pocket.

"You think you'll ever make friends with them dragons?" Stoick inquired out of nowhere. He wasn't sure why he decided to ask, but the question slipped out of him anyways.

Astrid looked at him in surprise from the edge of the dock, stunned by his question, before chuckling easily. Her laughter grew quiet as her expression changed into something serious.

"Maybe someday," Astrid confessed. "But not today."

Her tone was solid. A distant mourning. They weren't ready. What Hiccup had revealed about dragons six years ago—that they were more than just mindless beasts—had shocked them and left them distraught. It had taken a while for them to accept it. The tribe would only be convinced when they saw genuine proof.

Proof came when Stoick gave order to release the dragons they still had. They were starved and scared, and most disagreed with this decision—afraid that the second their shackles were unclasped, they would immediately try to devour them.

But Stoick kept his voice firm, ordered them to do so anyways. Letting the dragons go would honor Hiccup's memory. The boy had said that there were more to dragons; this was how they would prove it.

He, Gobber, Astrid and surprisingly Fishlegs—who while still terrified of being near dragons, decided to tag along, his curiosity winning over. Stoick suspected he also felt guilty about the abrupt end of his and Hiccup's friendship, and this was his way of repaying him.

Some villagers watched on, prepared to swoop in if they needed it. They had taken the chains off the arena, leaving it open to the air. That way, the dragons could take to the skies as soon as they left their confines. With great effort, the blacksmith opened the steely gates that held the creatures they once regarded as devils and beasts.

At first, the dragons didn't move. Then the Deadly Nadder they had captured and imprisoned since last summer resolved to take the lead and be brave, her blue snout sniffing the open gate skeptically. Was this another training session?

She took a step forward, ready for the bad humans to reveal their cruel tricks and start attacking them. The Gronckle followed after her, she too becoming puzzled at the humans strange behavior. The first thing they noticed was that the roof of the arena had somehow disappeared. Strange. What were these humans playing at?

He had no hammer or axe, just stood away from the dragons with his arms stretched out, hands visible. Beside him stood two other humans, a little one and a big one. The Nadder remembered that both of them used to be so angry, always dragging at her fins and being to rough with her scales. They all used to be so, so angry. Now they were just…looking at her, arms and hands outstretched, just like the big human. They were calm. Almost too calm. Strange. Very Strange.

Another big one, this one more round that muscular, pointed to the sky. He was a bit more nervous than the rest, but stayed still; even though the Nadder sensed that he wanted to run far away from them. The green Zippleback she had been captured along with, peeked out of their cage as she looked up towards the sky. The sun almost blinded her with its intensity. Or had it really been that long since she had seen the great glow that used to warm her so?

How long had it been since they saw perfect clouds instead of the sad grime that covered their walls?

She watched the humans carefully, waiting for them to become a threat to her and her friends. When they kept their arms and face steady, the Nadder took a moment to consider them. Then she chirped and signaled too her friends with a beat of her wing.

The vikings watched in anticipation, wondering anxiously what the dragons would do.

They took flight. All of them; the Gronckle, the Hideous Zippleback, a Terrible Terror who had somehow survived the winter, and at last the blue Nadder, gave the big human a small nod before taking of.

They shook their mighty wings before taking off, leaving the viking slack-jawed in the dust. No vikings were hurt, the arena left without any new scorch- and claw marks.

They had done it. Hiccup had done it. He had finally made them see what he was desperately advocating for. Everything they had been taught about dragons had been wrong; they knew that now.

But that did not mean that they could live with them. It felt wrong, especially to Astrid. It was Hiccup who had befriended a dragon, not her. It felt incomplete to try to train dragons without him.

Stoick patted her head like she was 15 winters old again. Even after six years of growing up and maturing, Stoick would always see her as a child he swore to protect when he welcomed her to the village 21 years ago.

"Alright, lass." Change came to vikings harder than to most. Stoick the Vast knew that. Didn't mean he couldn't try.

With the modest longship, Stoick would journey through seas and storms, hell-bent on finding who he was looking for. Because Stoick knew, that somewhere out there, far, far away, was a boy—a young man now—and his dragon.

"To the great beyond, old friend." Gobber called to him, eyes watering as he nodded bittersweetly at him.

Stoick nodded back at him, letting a smile curve his face.

"To the great beyond."

Blessings and good whishes erupted from all the tribespeople, echoing 'To the great beyond!' across the whole village, wishing their former chief farewell as he sailed away.

Looking back, he saw Gobber waving cheerily, his cheeks wet. Astrid gave a final firm nod, and Stoick nodded right back at her. When he reached the horizon and couldn't see Berk anymore, he knew that his search would last months, maybe years. Never the matter; Stoick would spend blood, sweat and tears on this. If that meant he'd achieve what he had set up to do.

Stoick would find his Hiccup. Or die trying.

Chapter Text

In his hut, he looked up from his desk and angled his ears towards the slightly ajar window. He had just realized how quiet it was on the edge.

"For once." Hiccup commented dryly.

Toothless chortled lightly, sounding suspiciously like laughter. The dragon had picked it up from his human a long time ago. Although he had become used to the constant bustling nowadays, he too appreciated the break.

It wasn't completely silent, the Terrible Terrors that dwelled on the island squawked like always, behaving just like chickens when the sun came up.

Morning came as it always did, patient and beautiful. Luckily, Hiccup had built his hut on the perfect spot. The sunrise was a sight to behold, the sun shining warmly as it painted the sky a lovely pink.

At least there were no shuddering earthquakes emerging from the local volcano or furious howls from an indignant dragon being bathed. The former he'd happily avoid for the rest of his life, the latter being an unavoidable part of his occupation.

Oh, but he wouldn't trade it for the world. For five years he had lived here, prevailing in ways he didn't know he could. Flourishing. Become happy. Drekaból, or what Hiccup and the caretakers had lovingly nicknamed "Dragon's Edge". A dragon sanctuary Hiccup had built for himself, Toothless, and all the dragons that came their way.

When they arrived here, after searching countless islands up in the north (inside the archipelago was a no-go), and running away from unlivable terrains and native dragons who weren't keen on having them as guests. At last, they found the perfect island.

Rolling green lands that—if plowed correctly—were splendid for growing any type of vegetable. solid cliffs that could protect them from oncoming enemies, and due to its considerable size, was perfect for dragons. Really, Hiccup was surprised that there were only a few native species living there when they found it.

Unfortunately the island did have a volcano; something Hiccup and Toothless weren't particularly fond of after their stint with the Red Death. But they ignored it in favor of the beauty of the island and the promise of a safe place to finally rest.

Was Dragon's Edge at the "edge" of the world? Certainly not. Endless seas and countless island surrounded his home from every direction, and if he went far enough, some consisted of friends and enemies alike.

And Viggo.

His greatest adversary…and the sweetest, most infatuated and lovey-dovey man he knew. If said man chose to be, that is. Savvy business man with a cunning demeanor turned redeemed "friend of dragons"—and Hiccup's partner. In all the ways it mattered.

Once enemies fighting for what they believed in, almost verging on war. The Dragon Witch and their dragons, against the ruthless, yet smooth-speaking Hunter Chief—turned into something more. In fact, it was their conflicts and tensions that brought them together.

Hiccup would never have thought of getting chummy with Dragon Hunters—people who went out of their way to hunt dragons that weren't trying to raid or hurt them—much less the main guy behind everything, but Viggo…Viggo had changed. For him.

That's why Hiccup had made him a friend of dragons. The ex-hunter had seen the intelligence behind their big eyes, seen how magnificent these creatures were once you gained their loyalty. He had changed. That's why he was his business-partner now. Much more than partners.

For years, even after settling on the Edge, Hiccup didn't have any contact with other humans. Just dragons. And for years—two specifically—that was all he needed. What use was stupid humans who wanted to hurt such incredible creatures, when said incredible creatures were right at his fingertips?

But when he came across a wreckage of dragon scales and blood, strangely teal metal cages left abandoned, he immediately knew what choices he had.

Turn a blind eye, go back to the comfort of his home…Or follow the trail.

Of course he followed the trail, how could he not? The blood was obviously from dragons, there were no question about it. "Of course you did." Viggo would say years later—not with disdain, but with affection—as they laid languidly across the meadow. Of course he'd save the dragons.

So with a ticked off huff from Toothless—which Hiccup took as approval—they followed the scent of distressed dragons. It didn't take them long to find the ship containing dragons bound in chains, each and everyone treated horribly. With them, he found his new enemies…and also his future brother-in-law.

At Ryker's order, the hunters on the ship charged at them, engaging the Night Fury and it's rider in a difficult combat.

And it was difficult, this being their first fight in a couple of years and all. But they won. After a heated battle and some well placed plasma blasts, they managed to free the dragons and damage the ship hard enough for the to flee. In rage, the leader—Ryker, shot futile arrows at them, swearing that the no-good-beast-riding-son-of-a-bitch would regret it.

Unfortunately for him, that wouldn't be the last time they saw the dragon rider.

Some of the dragons they had freed flew on their merry way, thanking both Hiccup and Toothless in their on dragon-like way. Others were too wounded to be left all alone in the wild. He and Toothless lead those dragons too the Edge, were they would get the medical care they needed.

Just because they didn't get into any scuttles with other people, didn't mean Toothless was immune to accidents and illness. And dragon saliva could only help so much.

Whilst tending to the dragons, Hiccup's mind kept drifting of to the teal cages and hunter ships. It lead to him wondering how deep this operation went, and if the ugly bald-headed brute was really the brains behind it. He couldn't just let him do that. What if he hunted and killed more dragons. How many had he already killed?

It didn't take long for the real leader of the hunters to catch wind of the rumors. At first they were small; a vigilante that thought themselves above the dragon hunters, believing that some unthinking beasts had more worth than humans. The hunter tribe had nothing to worry about.

Just an inconvenience. Surely Ryker could manage that.

Until one day, a measly, insignificant hunter connected the dots. Just a couple of years ago, a blabbering trader he had met at a tavern regaled him of a tale—or rather, a scandal—from the small and quaint isle of Berk. They had discovered a teenager talking, siding with dragons, and for that—the teen was dragged by the hair, towards the forest, and been branded a witch. The witch had managed to escape, and with only a missing finger, fled on the back of a dragon. A Night Fury, the trader said.

At first he had sneered, not believing it for a second. A girl caught frolicking with dragons being branded a witch, he could believe—but fleeing on the back of a dragon? Preposterous. The Night Fury—the hunter gave an audible bah!—would have torn her to shreds before she even managed to touch it.

But before he could question the unreliable trader further, disappearing with the storm booming outside. No matter. It was just a tale.

Now, while the other men prepared bolas, readied their arrows, putting out fires, and shouted at him to "keep your ass moving!", the insignificant hunter couldn't help but stand dumbly. His eyes moved, focused and in search for something. There were the blazing fires clawing at the ships, the dark-scaled dragon blending seamlessly into the night, the rider hunching over the Night Fury's back and—there!

A missing index finger. The witch's mark. It was so dark, the flames raging on was the only light they had, but the hunter still caught it. The Night Fury flew beside the ship, giving the hunter the perfect view of the witch's left side. A small teen with the offspring of lightning and death, bearing that damned mark the trader had told him of all those years ago. This was no coincidence.

Rumor spread like wildfire.

The insignificant hunter told other insignificant hunters. Those hunter told more hunters, until muddled tales and blurred sightings were told over meat and ale. This was no ordinary vigilante or dragon lover. This was a hel-spawn, a creature who could speak to dragons, come to haunt them for their exploits. Even Ryker had the nerve to look a little spooked, before barking at his men to pick up the pace. The Dragon Witch had caused the enough damage.

Hiccup caught wind of his supposed "identity" being revealed when they kept calling him witch whenever he attacked them. He wasn't exactly sure how that happened. It took another while for him to realize that they weren't angrily yelling "he's getting away!", but rather "she's getting away!"

At first, Hiccup didn't know what to feel, what with his, ah…condition. Defensive, maybe? Vexed?

It led to many nights in front of the make-shift mirror, his overgrown hair tied up.

Ergi, they called him.

And they didn't even know what he was! How could they know how his body was a bit too different to be a girl, but not quite man enough? How for years he had hidden, being forbidden of speaking of his unsightly body, trying to be everything everyone in the village expected the heir of Berk to be.

Even the Chief (his father ) made sure it was kept under wraps; only the village healer knowing. Still, it wasn't enough. Hiccup figured it was his fragile figure and "un-manly" demeanor that had gotten him labeled witch such a demeaning name. Just another insult they used.

And so he confronted the dirty shame laying stagnantly inside of him for so long. A body he had not—could not—accept, even after becoming free.

After a long day of saving dragons and fighting hunter, he sat in front of the mirror.

On his knees, looking at his reflection, he could see all of him. The way someone could mistake his face for a boy's or girl's, and either way, they'd be right. How there were hair on his stubble, but only soft, barely visible ones.

The burns running down his body, from the back to the legs, where it ended on his disfigured stump. He could still remember vividly how deep, angry and red they once were. How it felt like he'd been sentenced to years in Niflheim. They still hurt some days, but the memory of gaining them hurt more.

He could see how much he had grown. In some places there laid muscles, other places fat. His shoulders were broad like a man's, but his chest curved into a more feminine shape. Inside of his belly, he knew there was something, something giving him blood every month, yet his hips stayed narrow. Unassuming. And down there…gods…

He could see how to them…it would have looked wrong.

So why did it feel right?

Here, without all the noise and insults, he couldn't bring himself to hate every part that made him less of the son his father wanted. In fact, if he untied his hair, let the brown strands frame his face—not too long, not too short—he found that he...looked like him.

Looking into the mirror, the figure staring back at him had a trail of tears running down his cheek. Moving his hand to his face, Hiccup touched his wet cheeks with four fingers.

When had he started crying?

Toothless, ever the loyal dragon, padded over to him and laid his great, big head on his lap. He looked up with wide, luminescent eyes, crooning uneasily.

Not wanting to worry his dragon any further, Hiccup hurriedly wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, before resting them atop of Toothless. Though, the shame was not as strong as it was before.

For with all the pain and sorrow, the raw anger at his past…came relief. It was as if the tears had flushed some of it out, in addition to his best friend, whose comfort was a steady anchor for him to hold on to.

"I'm OK, bud." Hiccup reassured him, running a hand gently across the Night Fury's scales. A trill rumbled out of Toothless as Hiccup hugged him, turning into a soothing purr—patient and understanding. Toothless didn't mind the scars and burns littering his body. To him, Hiccup was just Hiccup. "Just…realized something."

Who knew being regarded as a witch could give him so much freedom?

And it did make sense.

For all the hunters knew (they didn't know a lot, of that Hiccup was sure), the Dragon Witch was a young woman. Every tale of accused witches they—including Hiccup—had heard of, were mostly of young women; rarely boys. Even Hiccup would have thought someone accused of witchcraft was a woman.

And honestly? Hiccup didn't mind. Sure, having "WITCH" bellowed at him every time they arrived to rain hell upon them wasn't particularly charming (The men. The blood. The fires.), but he relished in the idea of being seen as a woman, the part of himself that he had hidden for most of his life. It distanced him from Hiccup the Useless.

But the past quickly caught up to him.

The leader of the hunters had enough. Sure, he was intrigued by the mystery of one who could speak to dragons, or so he heard. And who could blame him for sending men to interrogate every trader that came to their base, intimidating them to give up any information they had about the witch from up-north.

Viggo Grimborn smiled, his expression growing smug when two of his men yank a lone merchant inside of his private tent. Satisfied, he told the hunters to rest, they had done a good job. He circled the trembling merchant reeking of fish. She looked liked she was loose lipped. She'd do well.

"Tell me." He leaned backwards onto his desk, crossing his arms. "What do you know about the witch from Berk? The one that speaks to dragons?"

"Nothing, mister—or sir—er- lord…?" She squeaked, face shrinking into itself as the Hunter Chief arched an eyebrow. "Only that he was the son of the Chief—"

"He?" Now this was interesting.

"Ah yes! Chief Stoick it was! Oh great Thor, it's been so long I've visited old Berk." The merchant rambled on, taking the Hunter Chief's interest as encouragement. "Cursed, that boy. Always making a mess and being useless, could never kill a dragon like his old man."

"Is that so?"

"Yes! If you ask me, it's a good thing that boy got branded. In fact, they should've burnt him when they had the chance! Now he's off terrorizing poor hunters trying to make a living with those dragons of his—and actually, I heard the boy fucks them—"

The woman cackled, before stopping abruptly when she caught his unimpressed stare.

Viggo was silent, filtering away the unimportant blabbering. When she stopped the irritating chattering, he hummed noncommittally. But inside, a coordinated storm of plans and traps was forming, his mind moving miles a second, plotting the pesky witch's downfall.

"Very well. You may go now."

The merchant's face lit up as she stumbled to her feet, almost running towards the tent's exit.

"Actually…"

She halted, chills running down her spine. What more could he possibly want?

"His name. The witch's, that is." Viggo asked, having turned around to face the maces and talons board placed primly on his desk. "What's his name?"

Phew.

"His name? Uh…Oh yes! Hiccup! Hiccup, it was. Pitiful name, isn't it? I suppose it's a fitting name for a worthless, dragon-loving runt like him…" The woman exhaled, awkwardly laughing to herself.

Viggo payed her idle prattle no mind, focused only on the necessary information she gave him. Hiccup. What an unusual name. Nothing like he'd ever heard before. Viggo wondered how the name would roll off on his tongue. He liked it.

"Was that all…sir?"

Viggo hummed, a deep, melodic sound.

"That is all." he said lightly, not sparing her a glance. "Thank you for your…compliance."

Even tough his back was towards her, the merchant bowed with an intensity that made her look like a bumbling fool, grateful for the surprisingly non-violent interrogation. "Thank you, sir!"

"Have a pleasant night, Miss." Viggo called after her, huffing amusedly as the opening of the tent flapped open, then fell closed. The pitter-patter of her footsteps faded away into nothing.

As pleasant as being thrown into a pit of hungry dragons could be.

No loose ends and all that.

For so long, he had wanted to meet this…Hiccup. The one who had set plenty of holes into his business as of late, leading to him loosing gold and having to cut corners to make ends meet for his village. She—or well, he who was rumored to be able to speak with those beasts, and was aptly named Dragon Witch.

And now, he had the perfect arrow to shoot him down with. Once and for all.

Hiding behind a tarp, the Hunter Chief watched with marvel in his eyes as the witch and his Night Fury moved alongside the cages with such quietness and agility that impressed him. It looked like he had loaned the Night Fury's scales and used it as an armor, the black gleaming in the moonlight. A sturdy mask covered where his face should have been, leaving Viggo guessing on what color his eyes were. Ocean blue? Somber brown, like his?

Along the way, they unlocked the ones containing startled dragons, letting them escape into the night.

Witch and dragon snuck stealthily, freeing every dragon they passed by as quietly as they could, before stopping dead at the last one.

"Last one, bud." the witch gleefully notified the Night Fury, who gave a quiet, but satisfied snort in response.

What they found was the furthest thing from a dragon.

"My dear, it's been too long." Viggo confessed as he rose from his crouched position. "We should have been introduced by now!"

Without giving them time to react, Viggo jumped out shot a poison dart at the Night Fury, who fell to the ground, rendering him unconscious.

At his best friend's groan, Hiccup snapped out of his frozen state. He unsheathed Inferno, the blazing sword roaring to life, disturbing the fragile silence. With a shout, he started swinging, aiming to disarm the hunter.

"Viggo!" Hiccup was enraged. This man had done so much damage to so many dragons; and now, that included his best friend. He couldn't let that go.

Said hunter unsheathed his own sword, and they were now clashing weapons after so many months of battling with wits.

"I must admit, I've been looking forward to finally seeing you!" Viggo shouted at the witch, as he ducked under a whirl of fire. He didn't worry about how loud they were being and of alerting his men.

They were under strict instruction to stay out of this.

"Though I'm not sure what I expected of the renowned 'Witch of Berk'." And the witch had surprised him. Although Viggo knew that he was just a boy when he was banished, he didn't expect how rough the voice snarling his name sounded.

When he saw the witch flinch at the mention of his old home, Viggo continued. "Or, should i say 'Witch from Berk'?" Viggo smirked when he saw the witch flinch even harder at that, almost getting slashed by the sword jabbing at his side. Almost.

"Seeing as you're not welcome there anymore?"

The witch's grip on his fiery sword slackened, giving Viggo the opportunity to shove him towards the wall of a cage, trapping him between the green metal and his sword. In the distance, the Night Fury—still under the effect of the poison dart—howled, indignant at the way his rider was treated. Still, it was fruitless. The witch was under his control now.

The sword extinguished when it hit the gravel. 'I'd like one of those for myself' Viggo absently thought as he kicked it away.

Then he zeroed in on his catch, looming over him like a predator. "Can you imagine?" He whispered into the witch's ear. "Spending so many years being useless, only to be branded a witch by your own father?"

The witch was breathing heavily now, puffing out feisty, hot breaths from his nose. If he was a dragon, he certainly would have burnt the Hunter Chief's face clean off.

The idea only made Viggo's smirk widen, a roll of self-satisfaction whirled through him as he felt the witch grab at his sword. He leaned in close.

"The feeling of betrayal must be so bitter." Viggo felt his angry breaths against his cheek, cold from the night air. He moved his hand towards the mask covering his face, pressing his sword harder into his neck when the witch tried to move away. Nine fingers, he noted.

"Isn't that right," He searched for the clasps, not stopping to admire the craftsmanship. When he finally found them, he clicked them loose, before grabbing at the bottom of the mask—and pulling. "My dear Hiccup?"

The mask fell to the ground. He wasted no time in facing his only equal in intellect—his most admirable adversary, looking for the hideous sight he had heard so much of, and…And…

Oh Freyja.

Behind his sword, stood the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

Wild, tousled hair framed his face, its color and texture reminding him of a mouse. Viggo wondered if it would be soft to touch. His cheeks were rosy, no doubt from the biting cold. His jaw was tight, teeth clenched and bared, showing of sharp white. Hiccup was glaring daggers at him—his eyes indignant. Enraged at his captor.

Ivy green. That's what his eyes were.

Of course he knew that attraction mattered. He himself knew that he was quite handsome—what with the amount of men that had warmed his bed. Sex was nothing but a way to gain power for him: he was not afraid to admit he had spent many cold nights with a meaningless lover under him.

But love?

Viggo laughed in the face of love. There was nothing so liable and weak as love. He had seen bigger men fall to their knees when their wives fell ill and died, young star-crossed lovers wilting like dead flowers when they were not allowed to court one another. Viggo had no interest in getting his heart broken, reduced to nothing but a fragile husk of a man when his dearest decided to leave him.

Besides, he preferred his cunning plans and schemes, attempting and succeeding in gaining riches and land, the intensity and satisfaction of his inconveniences at his feet—Now that lasted.

Certainly, he had something that were something akin to brotherly love for Ryker; but he would have to think twice—maybe thrice—to sacrifice himself for his brother. He had never understood when sailors or skalds when they raved on and on about dearly beloved, how much they yearned to reunite with them. Someone they'd sail savage seas for, someone they'd fight a whole armada for, someone they'd give the whole world to if that is what they wished for.

Their "true" love.

But of course, Ryker was his brother; maybe it would be different with someone he was in love with?

Oh, but true love never came his way. After 30 years, and nothing. Not even a fleeting crush. As years passed on and his peers started to fall in love, some even madly, he was left with…nothing. Only lust. Quick, flaming desire that extinguished just as fast as it came when he realized how shallow the short-lasting bond with his lover was. If one could even call it a "bond".

It was with mirth and an odd feeling of grief that he realized; He would never be in love.

He was far to superior for such…such…vulnerability. This was a blessing! He didn't have to worry about ensnarement or silly traps. His mind could stay cold, calculating. Perfect for the ruthless chief who had a village to feed. No distractions. It was for the better.

So he forged his heart into iron. Hard and unyielding. Wrapped it up in solid locks and tough chains wrung tightly, padding it with armor that covered his chest. Just to be sure.

And despite his council's badgering, and nagging, and pestering, and fucking imposing, Viggo did not yield. After all, what use was going through all those elaborate hoops to get a loyal consort when he could fuck a pretty little thing that were willing?

But it was not just carnal desire that attracted him to the man beneath.

It's him.

He heard a snap.

Really, Freyja?

Then some more.

The Dragon Witch of all people?

In the speed of lightning, all the chains around his heart dissolved into ashes and dust. The locks fell and shattered. Even the armor that clung to his chest was pointless against the witch's magic. In just a moment, he was…vulnerable.

He couldn't handle this.

The way his auburn hair was windswept, no doubt from the amount of flying he did. The heavy breaths that tickled Viggo's face, so alike the dragons he befriended. The sweet freckles that adorned his face—specks of brown that he so wanted to taste.

The key to the last and final lock clicked into place.

He knew that behind all of that, was a brain. An intelligent mind that had tangled him into this song and dance of theirs that had lasted them the better part of the year. This game of (hopefully) never-ending maces and talons, in which neither knew just who would win. Such genius behind those pretty ivy eyes.

Perhaps that was why he was so enamored? Why his iron heart finally melted.

Sensing a gap, Hiccup took the opportunity. With a shout, he took hold of the sword against his neck and shoved. Strangely, the Hunter Chief did not push back, stumbling backwards as if in a trance.

Huh?

Whatever. Hiccup wouldn't waste the advantage he had just gotten, even though he was curious about what the hell was wrong with this guy.

With a more forceful push, Hiccup managed to overpower Viggo, pinning him successfully to the ground. Oddly enough, his enemy relented, letting himself be manhandled against the dirt. The sword flew off somewhere, clattering to the ground. He gave it a sparse look, making sure it was out of Viggo's reach.

Again, the hunter's inaction left him confused. Was he having a stroke or something?

But Hiccup was far too enraged. And then he brought up his past, talking about it—as if—as if it was some trivial conversation like the weather or what he wanted for dinner. Mocking him as if it was his fault that the people who were supposed to protect him did anything but.

How dare he!?

"You!" Hiccup screamed into his face. "You bastard!"

His hands wrapped around Viggo's neck, squeezing almost all of the air out. Hiccup saw him through blurry eyes, breathing in through his nose, then out with his mouth—trying in vain to compose his fury. But how could he?

This man had snatched, and hurt, and killed so many dragons—for his own gain! He had hurt Toothless, and he had hurt him. This evil little-

"I'll kill you…" Hiccup's voice was a whisper at first. Then, as his resolve grew, so did the volume. "I'll kill you!"

"Beautiful."

The deep voice was croaky, thin on air. But still, it was heard. In shock, the hands around his neck loosened a tad.

"What…" Hiccup exhaled shakily, still breathing heavily, perplexed at what his supposed enemy had just said. "…What?"

"You…You're beautiful."

Hiccup's mind had stopped short when Viggo had spoken the first time, but at the second admission, his brain miraculously started working again. His first thought…

'What the hell is wrong with this guy?!'

His grip was fully lax now, more like holding than choking. Wait, why was he letting his guard down? Viggo Grimborn was still dangerous. This could all be just a ruse, a cleverly designed ruse planned to confuse Hiccup—just a stunt to throw him off his game.

Beautiful? Funny.

Behind him, Hiccup heard Toothless groaning, slowly waking up and fighting off the remaining effects of the poison dart. Good. At least he's fine.

But there was something about Viggo's gaze, his rough voice, the way he said the word. Beautiful. Somehow, it sounded earnest. Sincere. True.

As if he meant it.

Viggo's eyes darted up and down, as if he was studying him—no, as if he was bewitched.

A spontaneous, downright stupid idea popped into his mind, one that Toothless would surely screech at him about later.

'Maybe there's something in the air?' Hiccup pondered, nearly hysterical.

No. It wasn't the air. It was him. He couldn't kill Viggo. It wasn't him.

But he could cause some chaos.

"You're coming with me."

Grabbing Viggo's hair, Hiccup unsheathed the dagger hidden in his boot. He lifted his head high enough for him to punch the back with the hilt of the dagger, knocking the hunter unconscious.

Flicking Viggo's eyelids a few times, Hiccup confirmed that he was definitely fast asleep. He called out to Toothless with a "C'mere bud!", whilst dragging the heavy body towards the Night Fury. Toothless's face contorted, nose wrinkling when Hiccup lifted Viggo onto the dragon's back with a grunt.

Toothless, ever the suspicious dragon, stared at him as if he was crazy—but all he got from his rider was a meaningful look. Trust me. In the corner of his eyes, Hiccup saw several hunters running towards them, armed with swords and bows. They were running out of time.

Toothless harrumphed as Hiccup jumped up on the saddle, making sure Viggo was secure behind him. Not too careful tough; the Hunter Chief deserved more than a few aches and bruises.

The hunters gained ground, surrounding them, ready to fight and get back their chief from the wretched Dragon Witch.

They wanted witch? He'd show them witch.

In a minute, the hunters fled from the scene, truly knowing the righteous fury of the witch. Arrows and plasma blasts shot in their direction, making sure everywhere they turned, there was fire and disarray. The remaining dragons who until recently were under their control didn't help them either. Dragons were known to hold a grudge. Or at least, they made sure the hunters knew.

Deciding that they had done enough damage for the night, Hiccup and Toothless flew back to Dragon's Edge, with a chief hanging limply behind. When they arrived, he made sure that Viggo was tied up nice and tight, leaving him no wiggle-room to escape. He wasn't that stupid.

After a few hours, Viggo finally woke up from his nap.

The Hunter Chief…was not what Hiccup expected.

Viggo was besotted, true, but that didn't stop him from bickering with Hiccup, picking at his mind as if they were comrades, rather than foes. He was just more…sappy, than he thought. A hopeless romantic. (Really, Hiccup never thought he was that type of man. But then again, he had been proved wrong before. Take dragons for example.)

Hiccup's guards had lowered long ago. When he realized that the man had no intention to hurt him or run (swim) back to his village, he unbound the ropes. He kept a close eye on him, making sure that he didn't lay one finger on any dragon that stayed on the island—whether they were natives or visiting temporarily.

Over time, he even let him accompany him when a hurt dragon was in need of his help. All of them were wary at first, sometimes even growing hostile. But in the end, they trusted that Hiccup knew what he was doing.

Hiccup was frozen in astonishment when Viggo did the thing. An upset Gronckle, irate at the deep wound on his side. He was angry. He was scared. But still, Viggo reached out his hands and pet the Gronckle, whispering assurances, gently coaxing the dragon into calmness.

It left Hiccup in awe, flabbergasted at how much this man had changed. Even Toothless crooned curiously. Viggo had changed.

Viggo was the first one that had seen what he saw. Viggo also saw the intelligence and beauty in their eyes. Maybe his iron heart too, could melt?

Hiccup wasn't afraid of the remaining hunters finding Dragon's Edge. Viggo assured him that they wouldn't be able to track them—they were helpless without his command. When asked why the chief hadn't left yet, he simply said that Ryker could handle a little chiefing.

"Why? Hiccup asked one late evening, the sun sinking lazily behind the horizon. It had been months since their first meeting.

"Why what, darling?"

Hiccup took a second to think. "Why did you hunt them?"

Viggo shifted from his spot. The comfortable silence they had earlier turned serious. Hiccup could almost feel the air shift, the wind turning colder, even if it was mid-spring. They were sitting outside his hut, enjoying the sunset. Was enjoying.

"What do you think, my love?"

Hiccup shot him an unimpressed glare.

"Answer the question, sweetheart." Hiccup said through gritted teeth. But he wasn't all that disgruntled, not really.

Viggo sighed, keeping his head forward, choosing to gaze at the sea instead of Hiccup.

"For a long time, our tribe suffered from famine. You see, our lands were not fit for farming or raising live-stock." Viggo glanced sideways, making sure Hiccup was following along. "We had nothing."

"That was, until my grandfather's father decided to do something about it. He gathered the bravest men and women, trained them into hunters, and set off to the nearest dragon den."

"We lost many capable warriors, darling." Viggo huffed, smiling humorously. "But we learned. Oh, how we learned. Our reputation grew, and so did our trades and connections. The more dragons we sold, the more gold we gained. And the more gold we gained, the more food we got. No longer were the coming generations starved. We finally had food."

"But I still remember the day my grandfather sat me down. He put his hands on my shoulders, told me of the horrors he saw when he was a boy. The bodies on the streets gathering flies and vermin. The mothers wailing as they failed to feed their children. Malnourished men clawing at each other, brawling wildly for what little scrap they had managed to produce in that hell-hole. "

Viggo's voice turned sour, nose flaring as he recalled the memory. Those feelings were just as strong, even though many winters had passed and his grandfather had long sailed to Odin's hall. Or the goddess Hel's region. Depended on how benevolent the gods were feeling the day he died.

"He looked at me and said," Viggo was breathing heavily now. His instincts took over as Hiccup clutched his arm gently, but the former hunter's eyebrows stayed clenched. "Boy, if you let that happen. If you fail our legacy, then your children and their children will become just. like. them. Corpses."

Then, with a deep breath, his hunched shoulders slackened, the venom drained from his face. "His words still haunt me…to this very day."

Toothless watched Viggo uneasily as he lumbered closer, sensing the man's turmoil.

"If only they knew what magnificent creatures dragons truly are." Viggo muttered as he gently stroke Toothless's hide. "Maybe we wouldn't hunt them. Maybe we'd find another way."

The obvious remained unspoken.

"But it was all we had."

With pain, Hiccup was reminded of Berk. How they had lost mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters—so many people who could have live—to the devils that infiltrated their island and scorched their homes. And in return, they slaughtered any who came their way, paying no mind for why these beasts were attacking them. Just like his…his former chief.

Hiccup would be a hypocrite—no better than his former tribespeople—if he didn't consider Viggo's perspective.

So they talked. They talked and talked.

And after so many hours of discussing, bantering, and ranting, somehow…Hiccup also fell.

They spoke endlessly, until finally, they agreed on a truce. A truce forged out of genuine understanding and—not so surprisingly—love. Their perspectives had shifted; they each had gotten a glimpse into the other's world.

They agreed; dragon hunting would end. For good. Instead, they would profit off of the dragons—without hurting them. There were so many ways! And Hiccup would show Viggo and his tribe all of them. No longer would they hunt dragons. No longer would they have to worry about famine devastating them again.

With the Dragon Witch's help, of course. Viggo had faith in his ideas. (Though he was probably biased. Poor fool.)

His people would listen to Hiccup. He'd make sure of it.

Besides, it was quite funny when he met his future brother-in-law, not as his arch-nemesis, but as his brother's lover.

Ryker would have started a mutiny, if he wasn't so busy trying not to have a seizure. Oh, but he came around. Because, well, Viggo was his brother. What more was there to it?

Because it was Viggo that saw him for who he was—not the hideous Dragon Witch with too many burns, scars and a missing finger, or the disgraced heir and outcast of Berk—but as Hiccup. And still, he accepted what he had seen. Loved it, even.

Because of Viggo they had accomplished the unimaginable. Together, they had proven that man and dragon could live harmoniously.

In just two years they had started a business together; Viggo sent a group of adequate people, those who were not aggressive enough for warring, rather they were kind and soft-hearted. They were sent to Dragon's Edge to learn about dragons, and under Dragon Witch's guidance, they would collect the scales that they naturally shed and make Gronckle Iron in ways that didn't hurt the dragons. They they would ship the gain off to Viggo's island, where they could trade it for food.

And after two years, business was booming! The tribe were no longer reliant on dragon hunting, the earnings of the dragon-friendly products paid them more than killing them off. Even Viggo had gotten his own dragon! A Skrill, no less—much to Hiccup's wonder.

The caretakers got to know Hiccup and the dragons on Dragon's Edge and was tasked with different chores—which included healing their wounds, feeding, bathing and grooming them. Some were not as receptive (read: howling and batting at the caretakers with their wings).

But over time, they got comfortable with the new people, though they were still wary of letting them ride (and bathe) them.

Fortunately for him, Toothless liked baths. Then again, he liked any activities that had to do with spending time with his human. Except for the more dangerous ones. Those, Toothless didn't like as much.

Toothless whipped his head around—somehow knowing that Hiccup was thinking about bathing—and started panting in excitement.

"Not yet bud." He was answered by a disappointed whine.

Hiccup stretched in his chair, rubbing at his aching neck. He'd been at this for hours already, ignoring sleep in favor of sitting at his desk and looking at a piece of jewelry. Or rather, a sketch of a piece of jewelry.

Granted, it wasn't just any piece of jewelry.

For the last couple of months, Hiccup had herded Viggo through multiple jewelry stands, trying to gauge what it was he liked. Although he liked to show of when it came to weapons, preferring to deck his sword in diamonds and rubies—but when it came to adornments, he always went for something simpler.

So Hiccup decided on a golden bracelet, the prefect size for Viggo's wrist. The metal was designed to look like a Skrill, its head seeming to be eating its own tail, whilst the body would twist into a braid. Though the inside would be smooth, with the engravings 'ᛗᛁᚾ ᛖᛚᛋᚳᚪᚦᛁ'.

My Beloved.

Hiccup hoped it was good enough for Viggo. It was—after all—his betrothal gift for him. He'd been planning his proposal for around a month now. It took while to prepare himself, but with Viggo's patience and telling him "I'm ready when you are, my dear.", Hiccup didn't need a lot more encouragement than that.

And he was ready, but still…

The thought of "settling down" had made thoughts accumulate in his head. Feelings he had—or thought he had—shoved deep, deep down swell up to the surface. The past that he wanted to forget, but just couldn't. A long-lasting feeling of loss that he just…couldn't quite place.

Berk. It was Berk.

Or more—the people. The very same who had cast him out.

What if—what if Viggo's people did that? What if they saw what Berk saw, and decided he was more trouble than he was worth? Hiccup the Useless. He'd always be that, wouldn't he?

What if what they did, the new people would do to him? Again? Hiccup still remembered it so clearly. How could he forget? The way they grabbed any and every part of him that they could. They way they shouted and cheered at his agony. The hot blood oozing from his finger stinging as it felt the wind. The fires. Gods, the screams.

He couldn't go through that again. He just couldn't. He'd die before that happened.

Hiccup groaned, banging his head on the desk before him, making a painful thud. Tears gathered in his eyes, only partially because of the throbbing on his forehead. Toothless looked up in alarm, but he simply shook his head, signaling that it was nothing.

Toothless, the ever great, overprotective, melodramatic lizard, jumped off his stone and planted his head right in Hiccup's lap. Hiccup flicked the top of the drama queen's head, but still reveled in the comfort it brought him. Silly dragon.

But Viggo…Viggo was different.

He'd never let them hurt him.

And he had said so himself, the people had changed. They were happy. No longer were they scared of their spouses dying to vicious dragons. And they were more prosperous than ever!

He could trust Viggo. His beloved had proved that to him.

Hiccup took a deep breath in. He could do this.

Sure of his rider's well-being, Toothless sank down to the floor.

He yawned, realizing that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't have woken up before the crack of dawn just to stare at the proposal bracelet. He'd have to get ready soon, much to his dismay; his shift started in an hour.

But unfortunately, his thoughts had their own plan. His brain had something against him today, making him overthink everything.

Would he say yes? Oh gods, Thor above, Hiccup hoped he'd say yes.

Wait, of course he'd say yes—who was he kidding? Viggo had been ready for marriage for months by now, leaving it to Hiccup to come to him when he felt comfortable, if he ever felt comfortable. Telling him that he would be there when Hiccup was ready. He wouldn't leave him. He couldn't leave him.

Such a romantic, that man. Hiccup wanted to throttle him.

And also, if Viggo did decline, he'd just die of mortification on the spot. Certainly solved that problem. Hiccup had absolutely nothing to worry about.

Hiccup hadn't even realized that he was sighing like a love-sick teenage girl. He certainly felt like one these days.

A heavy weight landed on him, making him grunt. While deep in his thoughts, the so called "offspring of lightning and death" had snuck up on him and thrown his whole upper body at him, smushing him into the chair.

"Ugh, Toothless!"

The dragon slinked down, sniffling and looking up at Hiccup, bearing the expression of an (Hiccup cringed) equally love-sick puppy. The difference was that this one was also jealous. Toothless mewled angrily at him, scratching Hiccup's lap with his claws. 'Tch, have to cut those soon…' he thought.

"Stop that." he chided gently, wagging his fingers from left to right. "You'll tear holes in my pants. They're new."

Toothless whined even louder at that, pupils growing so big that Hiccup almost couldn't see his mesmerizing green irises.

"Awe, poor baby," he cooed as one would with a newborn. "Are you jealous? Yeah?"

Sighing theatrically, Hiccup relented and planted a loud and overexaggerated kiss on the Night Fury's forehead. The dragon beamed, delighted at the attention, tail swishing back and forth, back and forth.

The unholy offspring of light and death, huh?

Running a hand mindlessly trough his unkempt hair, Hiccup accidentally undid the small braids. He clicked his tongue and huffed air up towards his hair, blowing the bangs gently upwards.

He quite liked those braids. They made him feel pretty, even though they were usually hidden behind his mask when he was on his excursions. Like a little secret.

Viggo also happened to like them, which was always a plus in Hiccup's book.

Hiccup looked out the window, eying the sun. He had time.

First he had to check up on the others, see if everything was alright, and after, he'd go to the forge and start working on the bracelet.

In just a week, he would visit Viggo on his island Írodrekar, and after a romantic dinner and a nice flight, he would propose to him under the moonlit sky.

Then they'd get married, the tribe would welcome him with open arms, and they'd live happily ever after. 'Everything is going to be OK, Hiccup.' he reassured himself.

But that was in week.

Today, right now, he had a lot of work to do. What with the Monstrous Nightmares (Hiccup felt his heart constrict—no. He didn't want to think about that) that had a some issues with producing its gel, and on top of that he had to finish the betrothal gift in under a week.

And it needed to be perfect.

Tilting Toothless's head up to get his attention, Hiccup asked him softly, "You know where my brush is, yeah?"

﹏𓊝﹏

"My! Stoick, is that you, old boy?"

A loud, rambunctious voice echoed from the other side of the tavern, followed by heavy tramping that stopped right beside him. Stoick prepared for the smack on the back that was sure to come.

Surely enough, a powerful clap was heard, muffled by his thick fur cape.

"If it isn't Asbjørn the Burly." Stoick turned around to greet his old friend, one that used to live on Berk, but moved to his spouse's island.

"It's been too long!" Asbjørn roared, making a few patrons peer at them puzzledly at them. When they realized that it was just some old friends reuniting, they swiftly lost interest. The patrons didn't mind the noise either; they were viking. They were used to it. "What in Thor's hammer are you doing here instead of good ol' Berk?"

"Can't an old man go on vacation?" Stoick jested.

"Old Stoick? On vacation? Hah!" The other man cuffed his knee, already taken a seat beside him. "And old you are, old friend! Your hair's more gray than it's red!"

"Har har." Stoick made sure his face remained terrifyingly calm, not a beard-hair twitching out of place. "Very funny, Asbjørn."

"I'm only joking." Said viking raised his hands in a plating motion. He meant no harm after all. "But really, what are you doing here? Meeting someone?"

"No, no, I'm only stopping by. I'm setting sail and will be long gone by the 'morrow."

"Chief business?" he asked inquisitively.

"No, Asbjørn." Stoick said, his energy dimming. "Not anymore."

Asbjørn frowned, leaning in closer."Oh?"

"I've retired. I'm no chief no more."

"WHAT?!"

The burly viking's voice became intense, attracting the other patrons—again—because of the volume. Stoick arched his eyebrows, glaring at Asbjørn with a certain disapproving look. The one he used what felt like daily when he was a chief, making his friend squirm in his seat. Old habits die hard, or so it seems.

"Ah, sorry. Sorry." Asbjørn had the decency to look a little abashed. He looked around, apologizing to both Stoick and the customers around them. The tavernkeeper were currently scowling at them. He made sure that his voice was quieter. "Whatever happened?"

"Like I said. I've retired." Stoick bluntly replied.

"But why?" Asbjørn had trouble comprehending just why his old friend had quit chiefing. He seemed like too much of a workaholic to resign.

Sighing, Stoick began to explain. "I'm an old man now." And he was. He was old. He felt it in every aching bone he had, in every laborious step he took. Time was running out for him. It was a wonder he had even lived this long, despite all the hardships that had been thrown his way. "I've been the chief of Berk for so long. Been there my whole life. Now…I want to explore what's out there."

"But you love Berk?" Asbjørn questioned. And before, that would be a statement.

"I did, yes." Again, Asbjørn eyed him patiently, silently nudging him to explain further. He had not overlooked the 'did'. "But people change, and so have I."

Disliking the way this conversation was going, Stoick decided to change the subject.

"Besides, Berk is in good hands. Astrid will make a great Chieftess."

"Ah yes, because…"

Asbjørn didn't need to continue. Stoick knew all to well what he was talking about. So much for changing the subject.

After a moment of grim stillness, Stoick felt a warm hand rest on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Stoick. About your…"

More silence followed, until…

"Aye." What else could he say?

Viking liked gossip. Loved them. Despite the vast seas separating each tribe from tribe, it didn't take long for people to learn of his boy's fate. Of what had become of him. What his people had done to him.

Traders came and they went. Visitors too. There was nothing Stoick could do to stop them from spreading their tales, however inaccurate and full of lies they were. Even if he wanted to crush their skulls and cut off their air supply. He almost did so, once or twice.

In only six years, the tale of the infamous Dragon Witch had crossed oceans and lands, simple villagers both feared and cursed her name, and stronger hunters set out to finish the job.

As the years went on, the story changed and went as follows; A young girl, small and weak, too un-vikingly to be a shieldmaiden. Too bothersome to take on as a wife. In unfair anger, she had decided to cross her tribesmen, and captured a dragon. A Night Fury.

When the tribesmen found out her little secret, they rightfully held trial for her, as any sensible viking would. There were no room for cursed witches who spoke to dragons in their village. In fact, it was her curse that killed her mother. She, when only a babe, had sacked the beast that took the poor woman out of her home and to her death. It was because of her that Stoick the Vast no longer held a wife.

(Stoick almost chopped a skald's head clean off for his mockery of a "rendition". He almost chopped everyone's head clean off whenever he asked about where he could find the Dragon Witch in his four months of faring. They either laughed at him or looked at him like he was mad. Stoick couldn't care less about what they did. As long as they had actual and reliable information, he could take some judgment. Six years had given him the patience he never had before.)

(But if he walloped the skalds outside of the tavern, giving them a good concussion he wouldn't soon forget, well, that was his business and nobody else's.)

Because there was one thick-headed mistake they made during their stories (scratch that—they made plenty more than just one), it was that they left out the truth.

They left out the part where Hiccup had sacrificed himself for them. Where he, with his—albeit odd—genius inventions, revolutionized their tribe. The hole that was left gaping in Stoick's heart.

Now, Stoick wasn't exactly sure how the Dragon Witch had become a "she". Had they found out? No, that couldn't be. The Night Fury would rip whoever dared to hurt and humiliate his son into pieces. There had to be another reason. There just had to.

"But what are you doing out here, so far from Berk?" Asbjørn asked him, returning Stoick's focus to the conversation at hand. "We're nearly outside of the archipelago…" he trailed off as it came to him.

"You're not telling me—" he cut himself off as he processed the implications. "Are you—?"

Stoick's silence was the only answer he needed.

"Oh Stoick."

His old friend tilted his head, eyed him with pity, frowning with despondency. A sting of irritation pricked inside of Stoick, but he forced himself to push it down and not take offense. Calm down, Stoick. He's only worried.

Despite the tavern's pleasantly lively atmosphere, the air surrounding the two men was anything but.

But Stoick was here for a reason. He had faced bigger adversaries than an awkward conversation. 'As if it didn't feel like climbing a cliff every time I tried to talk with Hiccup' Stoick thought ashamedly.

"Tell me Asbjørn." Stoick said, gruff and serious. "Have you heard anything?"

Asbjørn hesitated, but as he caught Stoick's eyes, he relented as a shiver crawled up his spine. He definitely did not miss his former chief's icy glare.

He lowered his voice and leaned his head closer to Stoick's, looking around to make sure that no one was spying on them.

"They say…that the Dragon Witch resides outside the archipelago, on an island where she—ah—he takes care of them dragons." he quickly corrected himself, far too used to the fabricated tales. They were quite well-known now, inside of their archipelago. "I've also heard that he has allies now. A group of dragon hunters that reformed. Has a close relationship with their leader, Grimborn. Rumor say that together, they hunt down any fleet that traps dragons. Like Hiccup used to do by himself."

"Is that so?"

Allies? Hmm.

"Oh, I know that look, Stoick the Vast. You ought to be careful, old boy." Asbjørn clasped his shoulders yet again as he warned him. "These waters be dangerous. Seen a lot of trouble nowadays, more than before."

"I will be." Stoick said, though he wasn't being too truthful. "Can't die yet, can I?"

Asbjørn sighed, amused in a worried way. He let out another sigh.

"Well, before you go, fancy sharing a barrel with me? Just like the ol' days, hah?" Asbjørn joked, his smile tired, but understanding. He may not have a child. But love and loss? That, he understood.

The burly viking raised his hands, signaling for the bartender.

"Aye." Stoick assured him. "That I can do, old friend."

As the bartender and Asbjørn talked, Stoick let his thoughts wonder. It tended to do so these days, what with the four months of sailing with no company. And usually, those thoughts always lead to one place—or rather, one person. Hiccup.

Never a day went pass without Stoick thinking of him. Even in Valhalla, he would think of him. But now, his imagination and ponderings surrounded one topic.

What would he do when he finally reunited with Hiccup?

He hadn't seen his son in over six years. Would he be left speechless, too grief-stricken and full of shame to say anything? Would he leap towards him, catch him in a warm embrace, never letting him go again? Would he fall to his knees, beg his only child for his forgiveness, express the poisonous regret he felt every single day? What could he say?

And how would Hiccup react?

Would he stand still, wondering if he was seeing a ghost from his past? Would he share Stoick's joy and relief, and leap into his arms like he used to do when he was just a boy. Would he shout, scream, command him to leave and never come back? Strike him for his failure in protecting him? Would he be so spiteful, so full of betrayal that he would…that he would kill him? His own father?

If he even saw him as his father, that is.

But it didn't matter. Whether Stoick lived or died, it didn't matter. Whatever would happen to Stoick, it didn't matter.

Hiccup needed to know. About every warrior that could finally take a breath, not having to worry about the burning homes and stolen stock. About every child who could grow up without the fear of monsters looming over their head. About how much Stoick had loved and missed him and all of his Hiccup-ness.

Only then could he rest in piece.

﹏𓊝﹏

The flame of lanterns flickered in the darkness, casting little circles of light throughout the hall. Queen Saga preferred the darkness, much more than the warmth of light. She felt a sort of sinister solidarity with its coldness and uncaring. In all her years, it seemed that only the shadows had ever known what it was like to be her.

It also kept the dragon heads mounted on the walls from rotting.

It was late spring. Her fields were blooming and becoming bountiful, the sun a perfect light for the fishermen to get a mighty catch. Despite that, she still decided to don a hefty cape. Not just any cape, of course.

The fabric was not soft to the touch, nor was it comfortable to bear. It sat heavy around her shoulder, draping downwards and only barely touched the ground. Purple scales shimmered into a deep bronze as the orange light hit it. Long ago, the tailors had washed of the blood, cut the rough skin up perfectly, making sure it was for no one but royalty.

Unfortunately, it was old. Very old.

It was her father's before her, of which she had inherited after his untimely death. But it was not it's physical traits that she disliked. It still held it's color and form, the thread still in tact and edges sharp (they only commissioned the best of the best after all). And the scales still shone in the firelight like it always had.

No, it was the knowledge of it's age she hated. How it had been worn by her father for so many years. How it wasn't hers. By the gods, how pitiful.

And still, it was the newest one she had.

She should have had her own cape by now—no. Long ago.

All because of that cursed witch.

He who had decimated her troops, and haunted her nightmares whilst being nothing but a babe.

Before her sovereignty became isolated ever since they stopped trading for dragons, far-fetched tales and convincing rumors still reached. And tales they got, bountiful and plenty. It was only when she caught whiff of the name "Dragon Witch", that she immediately became intrigued. She urgently ordered her general to gather all the information they could squeeze out of the Dragon Hunters that came to deliver their dragons.

That proved to be quite easy, what with the closest ally they had were also the enemy of the Dragon Witch.

At first, it was hard to sift out the untrue, sailors tended to exaggerate. But if they dug deep, sure enough, valuable and useful information was found.

But good things don't last.

It was only after the Grimborn Empire cut their trading-deals and allyship with them, that the rumors came at a stand-still. By some miraculous—unbelievable means, the Dragon Witch and the Hunter Chief had formed a truce. And then a partnership. Against the better good, Grimborn had betrayed her and cast away their long-lived treaty.

Not only did they lose the dragons they depended on the Dragon Hunters for—which wasn't even of luxurious quality! They didn't even get any special dragons, only Terrible Terrors and Speed Stingers, maybe the occasional Gronckle. It was mortifying.

And now, their flow of necessary details on how to hunt down and capture the Dragon Witch had also stopped.

After firing some incompetent soldiers, Saga set out a plan. She had to find out how to conquer the Dragon Witch. All her troubles would vanish, and their sovereignty would be prosperous and respected for their dragon collection once more.

And she'd finally get a new cape.

So she had her general send out scouts.

Innocent looking men and women, ones who the average viking wouldn't find suspicious, sailed to different islands, frequenting bars and taverns. There, they conversed with the guests, asked them to recount any of their tales, any rumor they had heard, anything about the Dragon Witch.

And if they got something noteworthy, they'd report back to the general with their findings. Unfortunately, it took a while. That is to say, two years. Two long years of nothing.

Until one day, a scout came back with significant, wonderful news. Or rather, a distinct, but not forgotten word.

Berk.

She had been right all along. Of course she was. That cursed babe and the Dragon Witch was the same Thor-forsaken creature all along.

This was the perfect arrow to shoot him with.

Berk. Another betrayal.

One she could actually use this time. She'd break the witch down, by all his fault. Because now, she knew exactly what to hit him with.

Berk.

His mother.

His curse.

The Dragon Witch would never see it coming.

To everyone, the sovereignty of blóðbyggð were weak after their loss of allies. No longer were they seen as the noble people who feasted on dragons and their bloods, the richest and most traditional dragon-collecting tribe there ever was. Now they were feeble and unworthy. Not powerful anymore.

Of course, they were still powerful. The world just didn't know that yet.

"Queen Saga." A stable voice interrupted. From behind Saga, a creak emitted from the recently closed door. What a shame. "Your council is ready for you."

Of course her general would interrupt her now.

At least it was night. Her mood would ruin even more if she was met with sunlight.

"Now, now." Saga turned around, keeping her eyes on the dragon skull resting on her right hand, her left one behind her back. "Don't make me rush."

Gently, she placed the skull down inside its showcase, right back where it belonged. She finally set her eyes on her constantly composed general. Her cool demeanor always succeeded in amusing her. Unless she was in a bad mood, that was.

"I am still their queen, aren't I?" Saga questioned her general, already knowing the answer. "And I am yours too, yes?" She already knew the answer to that question too.

"Of course, my Queen." her general returned with a respectful nod, eyes cast downwards. The reply came instantly, without another beat or thought. 'Good,' Saga thought, as pleased as she could be. 'She shouldn't have to think twice."

Her general looked up again, finally gaining eye contact with her queen. She gestures towards the exit with her hand.

"Right this way."

"Yes, yes." Saga made sure her voice sounded trivial. "I know my around my own castle."

The general nodded again, and followed her towards the hall-door. As they stepped out of the hall, quiet enveloped them. Unfortunately, peace only lasted so long for Saga.

"Do you…" Her general asked her softly, unsure for once. "…Do you think it will work?" She hesitantly added. "…My Queen?"

"Will what work?" Saga asked, though she did not actually wonder.

"…Getting the Dragon Witch to work for us?"

…

"I only mean, he is quite dangerous. How do you know that the collectors will succeed in capturing him?"

Her general rambled on.

"And he is a friend of dragons. How will you convince him to hunt them for u—you?"

How strange.

Saga stopped walking and turned her head slightly. Just enough to make her squirm. It succeeded, as the general ceased her nonsense.

"You doubt me?" Her voice was soft, almost pleasant, but the general still felt the cold sharpness slit into her skin. Saga still had her back turned. "Hilda?"

"No, of course not—"

"Then why do you ask?"

"I—" Hilda stuttered. She knew why, but there was something about the Queen that made her thoughts scatter, gut-feeling telling her to shut the hell up. But if she tried hard enough, maybe she could form a coherent sentence and actually question her queen for once. Instead, she chose to follow her instincts.

"My deepest apologies, Queen." Hilda apologized, bowing deeply with her eyes closed. She did not rise until her queen would allow it.

…

"Hm."

Saga took a step forward, before stopping once more.

"You want to know how we will get the Dragon Witch, yes?"

She did not have to look at her to know that she was hesitantly nodding. Always thirsted for knowledge, that girl. She should have nipped it in the bud.

"Everyone has a weakness, Hilda." Slowly, Saga turned and walked towards her general. She captured Hilda's chin between her thumb and index finger, making her look down. At her level. "Everyone."

Her general stayed silent. Good.

"If we have the witch's weakness…" She lifted her other hand, letting the palm stay open. "…We have him."

She curled her hand into a fist, further emphasizing her wisdom.

With her chin still tucked in Saga's, Hilda nodded for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Good. That meant she understood.

The Queen did not say another word as she continued towards the council. Hilda stood behind for a moment, before she pulled herself together and hastened her step to follow after.

When they arrived before the council chamber, the general reached forward to open the tall doors.

Thirteen elders sat in their marble stools, waiting for their queen. Some who had fidgeted nervously, jumped slightly out of their chair, startled by their queen's arrival. Some kept their face firm, refusing to show any fragility in their mask. But the more they tried to hide, the more they clawed at the skin around their nail, the more it was obvious it was; They were all petrified. Of her.

With her ever loyal general behind her, Saga lead the way towards the center of the chamber. She looked around, ensuring that each and every elder were here. Though she did not have to worry too much. It was in their laws.

If she asked for council, then council she would receive.

Satisfied, she addressed the elders.

"Dearest council." Saga started, voice strong and clear, making sure it reached every ear. After years of politics, she had long perfected the art of being heard. "I believe we are ready."

Not muttering was heard, but the eyes of the council-members darting to each other were loud enough. Confusion filled the air, making everyone in the room except for the Queen tense.

"Ready for what...Queen Saga?" A brave elder asked, fumbling his robes with his hands. Saga threw a wolfish smile his way, making him wilt further into his clothes.

"Our destiny, of course. Of which I foresaw so many years ago."

…

Their fear was forgotten for just a moment.

"—You can't mean—!"

"—No—!"

"—We can not—!"

Outrage and disbelief exploded out of the council-members, hitting the wall and echoing back, leaving the chamber filled to the brim with noise. They all talked over each other, affronted at the queen's impossible claim.

Saga quickly grew tired of it.

With a wave of her hand, she signaled to her general. Hilda went into action, unsheathing her sword and raising it towards her shield. With a forceful swing, she hit, metal on metal clashing together. If they payed attention, they could see sparks bursting.

The harsh CLANG grew louder than the council's angry prattling, leaving them to clutch their ears and fall silent. Only after the ringing faded fully, did they open their eyes to look at the Queen warily.

"Are you quite finished?" Saga's eyes were wide, eyebrows raised so high they disappeared behind her hair. Her nose was scrunched and nostrils flared. It only took a fool's guess to see that she was annoyed at her time being wasted.

She inhaled pointedly, then exhaled, before continuing.

"As I was saying—"

"Saga."

She whirled furiously around, searching for whoever it was that dared to interrupt her. Her skin felt tight around her face as her lips drew back into a wrathful frown. The frown only deepened, her eyes darkening alongside it, as she found the source of her greatest peeve in life.

Silas—the oldest and most respected (Saga's teeth grinded at that) council-member—stood from his seat and looked directly at her. He always had something to say, and it was always against her.

Mangy old bat.

"You must realize, child, that we cannot be sure of what your…prophecy." The old man explained. It only made Saga even more furious at his audacity.

"The Dragon Witch is far too powerful. He will decimate our armadas." Silas looked to his fellow elders, convinced and unrelenting. "We have already lost so many men to dragons. We cannot lose any more."

He faced Saga again, staring into her soul as he delivered his speech.

"It is time that we face the truth, child. Our days of dining on their meat, and carving weapons out of their bones…"

Silas sighed, shaking his head in disappointment.

"…Those are over."

His eyes were sad, but Saga was no fool. He was not sad that her sovereignty was not as well-respected as her predecessors were. He was pitying her. It made her want to scratch his beard off with her bare hands. Her rage was this close to making her order her general to execute that thickheaded simpleton from where he stood. Just to make him shut up for once.

"Your prophecy will not give you the outcome you want."

Her rage almost erupted.

Suddenly, she was transported back to a time when she was just an unremarkable, little girl. Just a little girl.

She did not like this. She did not like this at all.

This could not stand. This would not stand.

Saga reared her fury back, projecting it to her voice. It came out booming and electric.

"Was it not I whom the gods chose to give their fortune and insights too?"

If Silas was shocked, he did not show it. He just stood, observing her grimly.

"Was it not I who foretold the great wave that would have devastated our lands, were it not for my intervention?"

No one but her spoke. They were too frightened to, frightened of just what she could do. Saga would lavish in their terror, were it not for the temper running through her veins.

"Was it not I who took up the mantle when my father died to those beasts?"

The chamber stayed quiet, save for the rebound of her voice. Not a single word was uttered.

"Then tell me, Silas," She said his name, but it was not just Silas she was speaking at. "Have I ever lead my people wrong?"

She raised her eyebrows, daring anyone to question her. But they didn't. None of them. She had proven herself when she took up the mantle after her father was defeated by the Dragon Master. They were all there.

Saga raises her hands and stretched them from her body, head trembling agitatedly—not because of the cold. Her conviction just too strong to put into words.

"The gods told me, long ago. It is that witch that has left us weak. He is the one who has reprieved us from our traditions and rituals. Our right to dragons. But not anymore."

At this, the elder moved—just slightly. They shifted forwards in their seat, simultaneously curious and alarmed. Finally, they were listening.

"Our esteemed dragon collectors shall go hunting—yes, once again. Not for dragons, but for a witch."

Despite already knowing what the topic of tonight's meeting, they gasped, clutching their open mouth. Even the idea of hunting for the infamous, menacing Dragon Witch was unfathomable for them. But still, they listened on.

"And when they catch him—for they will, we shall be prepared. We must do what it takes to become the most affluent, prosperous, the most valuable dragon-collecting tribe in all of Midgard!"

The louder her voice grew, the deeper they stepped into her spell. Her words were far too enchanting, too reliable. And paired with her conclusive voice? They had no chance.

"It is our destiny,"

She pounded her tight hand—that she had formed into a fist—into her chest. It rapped against her ribcage with a intense thud!

"Our duty,"

Thud! She looked around, making sure every single member was captivated at her. Everyone—except for Silas. She would have to deal with him later.

"Our honor,"

Thud! She roared to her crowd, somehow captivating them further.

"To burn the Dragon Witch and cast him back to Niflheim!"

With a final thud!, she let her hand rest against her heart. She ignored her aching chest. The pain was worth it. She knew when she saw the faces of her council. Finally.

"Only then will the dragons be ours once more!"

Sound exploded from the elders, but this time it was not out of outrage, nor was it disbelief. They cheered, fully trusting her promise. Good.

Because if there was one thing they had in common with the Queen was this; Greed.

"For the gods will it!"

The council members shouted with her, their voices thundering against any surface they touched.

Distracted, they did not notice Saga motion to her general with her hand, dusting her off like one would with clothes. For the last time, Hilda curtly nodded, and set off to find the Dragon Collectors. They had a witch to hunt.

"Fear not, council!" Saga raised her hand pacifically. "We shall feast on their meat and wear their skin, like the gods promised us!"

Her speech ended with powerful drumming of the council-members feet. It was almost deafening the way the boots smashed to the floor. Indeed, Saga was quite surprised at their enthusiasm. For such old people, they made quite the noise. Surprised, but not dissatisfied.

Only one elder did not share their glee.

Silas still stood, and his eyes had never left her. Not for a single second. He looked down on her, frowning in a way only an old man could. Disappointed.

Saga felt the gnawing anger rise back up again, but resolved to raise her head high, looking up at him behind her nose. She licked her lips as they curled into a sly smirk.

He would be dealt with. She'd make sure of it.

Instead, she focused on the triumph spreading inside of her, making her feel very close to what one would call "happiness".

Close.

No, she would only be happy when she had the Dragon Witch under her control, leading her to any and every dragon she could ever want.

How she would love a Night Fury in her collection.