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knight-hiccup · 12 days ago

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𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁₂

- 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝟏 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥

This is Chapter 12 Final to book 1 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 18k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 12 - FINAL OF BOOK 1

A/N: Content Advisory: This chapter is intended exclusively for a mature audience. It may contain explicit and graphic depictions of severe injuries sustained in a realistic war setting, including detailed gore, nudity, and the death of characters. Strong, offensive language is also present. Reader discretion is strongly advised. You’re responsible for what you read.

The sky had shed its shroud of terror and ash, revealing a bruised, twilight expanse where stars flickered like the eyes of Valhalla's fallen, watching the scarred earth below. The dragons' nest lay in ruin, a wasteland of powdered soot that coated every surface—black sand, shattered longships, the Red Death's colossal corpse and its foul smell—like a mournful snow, inescapable and heavy with the weight of loss.

The air carried the acrid bite of charred bone and sulfur, mingled with the iron tang of blood that refused to leave, a relentless reminder of the slaughter that had carved its mark into the shore. Corpses littered the ground, Viking warriors broken beyond repair—Lifeless eyes reflecting the ghostly-hour's dim light. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint groans of the wounded and the crunch of boots on ash, a requiem for the war now etched into Berk's heart.

In the hour of ghosts, when the ash had settled into a fragile stillness, Stoick's strength returned, the chieftain's fire rekindled as he stood over the wreckage, Hiccup cradled in his arms, alive against all odds. His voice thundered, a war drum rallying the survivors, barking orders with the authority of Odin's chosen.

"Gather the lost!" he commanded, his bloodied beard trembling with resolve. "Lay them down together, far from the shore—tend to them later. The wounded come first!"

Vikings with faces gaunt, obeyed, dragging the dead to a clearing—limbs and all. Their bodies lay together like offerings to Freya, while others scoured the debris for those still clinging to life. Stoick and Gobber had stanched the bleeding from Hiccup's severed left leg, the wound a deep ruin where Toothless had grabbed to save him, now bound tightly with leather straps to halt the crimson from flowing.

They laid him on a clean plank, its surface smoothed by Viking hands, and entrusted him to your care. You sat beside him, his hand clasped close to your heart, its faint warmth a lifeline amidst the cold of the nest's aftermath. Toothless lay nearby, his obsidian scales dulled and covered by ash, too exhausted to move, his slow breaths a quiet hymn to survival.

Camp took shape around you, a fragile haven carved from heavy quick work—fires crackling all around in every direction, their smoke curling into the dark, casting flickering shadows on Toothless' weary form. Stoick and Gobber stood apart, their voices low as they conferred with the warrior-healers, grizzled bonesetters whose hands bore the scars of countless battles. Their words drifted to you, heavy with the weight of Hiccup's fate.

"The leg's gone below the knee," Gobber muttered, his axe hand gesturing toward the wound, his face etched with worry. "We've stopped the bleeding, but the flesh is torn—needs cauterizing, heavy stitching, if it don't rot."

The bonesetter, a weathered woman with ginger braids down to her knees—streaked with gray, nodded grimly. "We'll burn the wound clean, pack it with yarrow and honey if we've any left. He'll have a peg leg for the rest of his life, if he lives through the fever."

Her voice was matter-of-fact, devoid of ease on comforts, rooted in the brutal pragmatism of Viking healing—fire, herbs, and hope, the only tools against death's grasp. You listened, your gaze fixed on Hiccup, his gentle breaths a fragile thread tying him to life, your fingers tracing soft, repetitive strokes through his auburn hair, now cleansed of ash and blood.

You had tended him with care, your hands trembling as you wiped the soot from his face, arms, and legs, ensuring the bonesetters could work on clean flesh. The dirt had clung stubbornly, a grim tattoo of the battle, but you'd washed it away with water scavenged from a warrior's flask, your touch soft and reverent, as if each stroke could will him back to you.

His breathing had steadied, no longer shallow, but his pallor lingered, his skin pale as the white that dusted around you, a ghost of the vibrant boy who'd tamed dragons and stolen your heart. You admired him in the firelight, the sharp lines of his face softened in sleep, the freckles faint beneath the pallor, and your chest ached with a love that had endured so much.

"Stay with me. . ." His words echoed in your mind.

His hand, clasped in yours, was like a silent promise that you'd stay with him like he asked, as he had fought for Berk. The clamor of the camp—the anguished groans of the wounded, the rhythmic clank of axes carving through debris, the hushed deliberations of bonesetters—dissolved into a distant hum—faded. Your world contracted to the cadence of Hiccup's breathing, the fragile rise and fall of his chest, and the tenuous hope that he would stir to greet the dawn, praying he would beat the fever's cruel grasp.

Beyond the camp, the nest bore the scars of war's aftermath. Vikings worked grimly, piling the dead in a clearing, their bodies wrapped in tattered cloaks, faces covered to spare the living their vacant stares. One warrior's corpse, dragged from the shore, bore a gutted torso, entrails spilling like a grim tapestry, his armor shredded to reveal the cost of his final stand.

The wounded lay scattered, tended by healers with bloodied hands, their cries piercing the twilight as bones were set and wounds packed with moss and herbs. A young warrior screamed as a bonesetter cauterized his gashed arm, the sizzle of flesh mingling with the stench of burning skin, his curses, "Fucking dragon!" echoing until he passed out.

Only the work of stitches existed here, with fire, knives, and the crude wisdom of survival, a testament to Viking resilience in the face of death's shadow. Stoick's voice rose occasionally, directing the salvage of weapons and supplies, his chieftain's duty a shield against his fear for Hiccup, while Gobber's gruff encouragement steadied the weary.

You remained at Hiccup's side, your fingers never stilling in his hair, the rhythmic motion a prayer to Freya for his strength. The plank beneath him was stained with his blood, the leather straps around his stump taut, a crude barrier against the wound's wrath. Toothless stirred faintly, his eyes half-open, watching you with a loyalty that mirrored your own, his tail twitching in the ash.

Menace lay nestled beneath Toothless' wing, her small form rising and falling in peaceful slumber—a rare tranquility that Toothless, for once, did not begrudge but seemed to cherish, her presence a quiet comfort in the aftermath of pain.

Before the perilous descent upon the Red Death, you had entrusted the tiny dragon to Astrid, tucked away in her leather carrier sling with care. When you reunited, long after the battle's end, Menace had leapt from Astrid's arms into yours, her trembling frame burrowing against you, fear etching her delicate features.

Gobber's voice boomed with astonishment. "Oi! Ain't that the wee Menace that slipped the—You!" His weathered finger jabbed toward you, his eyes wide with mock accusation. Laughter rippled through the group, a fleeting balm amidst the scars of the day. Something you could all use more.

Now, the firelight danced across Hiccup's face, casting shadows that deepened the hollows of his cheeks, and you whispered to him, words too soft for others to hear, that you were by him through fever, pain, or anything come what may. Stoick's gaze met your hunched over form across the camp, a silent acknowledgment of your shared vigil, and he smiled knowing very well his son was in good care.

The camp's fires crackled in the dark, their smoke curling like wraiths, and the groans of the wounded wove a mournful hymn through the twilight when a few warrior-healers approached, their hands now washed clean of blood, their faces etched with the grim resolve of those who'd wrestled death countless times.

They carried crude tools—iron knives, a cauterizing brand, pouches of yarrow and moss—their methods rooted in Viking pragmatism, far from the clean precision in Berk. You tightened your grip on Hiccup's hand, your heart lurching as they knelt beside his severed leg, the stump bound in leather, its jagged flesh a testament to the bite. You wanted to stay, to shield him through the pain to come, but Gobber's hand found your shoulder, firm yet gentle, pulling you to your feet.

"No, lass," he said, his voice low, his eyes trailing over your dried, soot-tear-streaked face.

You protested, your voice cracking, "I can't leave him, Gobber—not now."

He held you steady, his grip a father's hold, and looked into your dry, ash-streaked face with tender care. "Hiccup'll be fine, you hear me? Trust in him, trust in the healers. I lost me own leg—and an arm! To a beast not half as fierce, and look at me—expert at hobblin' now, ain't I?"

His gruff jest coaxed a faint smile, but his tone grew solemn. "The survivors need you, lass. Help gather the lost—whatever's left. Scavenge supplies. We don't leave a soul behind, not in this hell."

His words carried weight, a call to duty that stirred your resolve. You sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion, and nodded, your eyes lingering on Hiccup's sleeping form. Before you could turn, Gobber pulled you back, his hand steady on your arm.

"One more thing," he said, his voice thick with pride, his eye glinting in the firelight. "I've never been prouder of you than I am right now, lass—I saw you up there on that mighty beast—We all did. You fought like Thor himself, and you held Hiccup's heart through it all."

The words struck deep, a balm to your battered soul, and a real smile broke through your grief, warm and unguarded. You threw your arms around him, and he hugged you back with a chuckle, his embrace fierce—the axe at his side grazing your cloak that Stoick had placed on you—as he held you like kin—like his daughter. The moment lingered, a spark of light in this messy darkness, before you pulled away—it made your heart steady by his faith—and made your way through the camp, the crunching of rock beneath your boots creating a somber rhythm.

The camp was a tableau of survival and loss—Vikings hauling bodies to a clearing, their faces frozen in death's grip; healers cauterizing wounds, more sizzling of flesh mingling with screams and curses; axes chopping driftwood for fires, their strikes echoing like war drums.

You wove through it, your cloak—stained dry with ichor—flapping like a tattered banner, until you spotted Tuffnut perched alone on a smooth boulder, his usual mischievous-self gone, his face pale beneath a mask of ash. You sat beside him, the stone cold against your thighs, and shared a look that spoke a thousand sagas—grief, exhaustion, the weight of a war that had stripped you both bare. For the first time, Tuffnut was quiet, his silence a wound deeper than any blade.

"I've never seen so much blood," he said at last, his voice low, stripped of its usual jest, the words trembling as he stared at the horizon. "Not in a fun way either! You know? This. . .this battle, it drained me dry. Took everything."

His admission, so out of character, hit you like a gale, and you placed a hand on his shoulder, your touch steady, grounding. He offered a faint smile, his eyes meeting yours, a flicker of the old Tuffnut buried beneath the weight. Before you could respond, a Viking's voice cut through, firm but kind.

"Up, you two—no time to lose. The dead need gathering, supplies need finding."

You nodded, rising with Tuffnut, the task a grim tether to purpose. You joined Ruffnut and Snotlout at the water's edge, where they waded through the shallows, salvaging weapons and gear from the wreckage. Ruffnut's braid was singed, her hands bloodied from hauling a dented shield, while Snotlout curses rang out, "Wretched sea, hiding everything!"

They masked a weariness that mirrored your own. Astrid and Fishlegs arrived soon after, their faces gaunt, Astrid's axe notched at her back, Fishlegs clutching a salvaged rope, his eyes haunted by the battle's toll.

You all worked in silence as you held your torches tightly, the aftermath pressing down like a stone on your chests. The water lapped at your bare feet, cold and heavy with blood, carrying fragments of longships and the occasional limb—a hand, a foot, bobbing in the crimson tide.

A Viking's corpse floated nearby—a warrior's throat torn open, another's legs charred to bone, their nudity a stark reminder of death's indifference. The camp's fires flickered in the distance, where healers labored, one packing a wound with moss as the warrior screamed, another cauterizing a gash, the stench of burning flesh sharp in the air as many lost their limbs.

You scavenged in quiet unity, the gang's usual banter silenced, each of you carrying the weight of the lost, the wounded, and the boy who'd changed everything, lying pale on a plank, his fate in the hands of healers and gods. The twilight had long deepened into a black canvas, and what sky there was the stars shined in patches—promising anew change, and you pressed on, your heart tethered to Hiccup, praying his fire would burn through the night.

The sky hung low as the third night began to descend on the volcanic island and it was currently high tide with the winds brewing. You all had been on that cursed rock for three days now and you were quickly running out of supplies. It was a cause of concern, definitely for Stoick, the injured were priority, but all mouths needed to be fed. And with only jerky, pickled herring and moldy bread to go by, things were turning upside down quickly.

Firewood had grown scarce, every splinter now requisitioned to patch the three remaining longboats—fragile vessels that could never bear the weight of three hundred Vikings across the unforgiving sea. Yet Gobber, ever resourceful, devised a solution: the camp would huddle near the smoldering crater left by the Red Death, its latent heat rendering further wood unnecessary, a grim gift from the beast's ruin.

The heavens, so often shrouded in relentless cloud, parted briefly that night, a rare benediction. Stars glimmered faintly through a haze tinged with sulfur and sea salt that made one dizzy, but it was a stark improvement over the acrid pall that had choked the air in the battle's wake. The camp thrummed with a weary resolve—fires hissed and snapped, their embers painting fleeting portraits of light across the weathered faces of Vikings, their wounds swathed in moss and leather, their gazes heavy with the toll of endurance.

A warrior limped past, his arm wrapped in bloodied cloth, a cauterized gash seeping beneath, while another sat by a fire, her leg splinted with driftwood, her face taut as she gritted her teeth against the pain. The air hummed with the low moans of the injured, the clink of axes shaping salvaged timbers to repair.

A chorus of distant dragon cries pierced the night, snapping every head toward the darkened horizon. The dragons, once scattered from their ravaged nest, were returning—a sight that kindled dread among the weary Vikings, their strength too depleted for another clash. The unexpected resurgence set nerves alight, a spark threatening to ignite the camp's fragile calm.

Above, a vast host of Gronckles, Nadders, Monstrous Nightmares, and Zipplebacks wheeled through the sky, their scales catching the faint moonlight as they converged on the volcano's cavern, driven by an primal urge to reclaim their hatchlings and eggs. The sight of Vikings bristling, hands gripping weapons in defiance, stirred unease within you. Determined to quell the rising tension, you and your companions stepped before Stoick, your voices resolute yet tempered, urging the wary to see the dragons' intent.

"They've come for their young," you declared, exhaustion heavy in your bones but resolve unwavering. "Let them pass, and they'll leave us in peace."

Convincing the clan was no swift task. Though Stoick and Gobber lent their trust to your words, the others clung to fear, their instincts honed by bloodshed. Hours of steadfast assurances passed before your truth took root. The dragons, as you foretold, paid the camp no heed, their focus fixed on the volcano's depths. Some lingered at the crater's edge, nudging the broken forms of fallen kin, their low, mournful keens weaving an elegy that mirrored the quiet grief in your own heart.

As even more days pressed on, the camp apportioned its waning strength with grim resolve. The wounded were gathered in a makeshift shelter, where warrior-healers worked with quiet tenacity, dressing gashes with yarrow and honey, their hands unwavering despite the anguished cries that filled the air.

At the shore, another cadre toiled, salvaging the longships—their hulls scarred yet salvageable. Vikings wielded axes with practiced rhythm, hewing fresh planks from the scant remnants of wood, their grunts blending with the ceaseless churn of the sea.

In time, Stoick delivered his somber reckoning. . .of Berk's three-hundred and eighty-eight warriors, fifty-seven had fallen to the Red Death—with one-hundred and thirty injured. Their bodies, save one claimed by the beast's merciless jaws, lay in a clearing, shrouded in tattered wool. The loss cut deep, a wound that seared the clan's collective heart.

It was not Berk's heaviest loss, but the weight of each name—carved into memory, soon to be etched on runestones—pressed down, a silent tale of sacrifice. Hiccup had survived the healers' brutal work, his fever breaking days after they cauterized his severed leg, the stump bound tightly, showing no signs of rot.

Yet he remained locked in a deep sleep, a Viking's term for the slumber that held him beyond reach, his chest rising steadily but his eyes unopened, as if Odin himself cradled his soul in a liminal realm. You sat beside him on the clean plank, your body aching, your heart tethered to his faint warmth, taking a break from the camp's endless demands.

Marta had sent you to Hiccup's side, her voice soft but firm as she stirred a pot of stew, the meager rations of fish and roots simmering over a fire.

"You've done enough, lass," she said, her eyes softened by kindness despite the weariness etched into her face. "You've hauled wood, tended wounds, scavenged till your hands bled. Go to the boy—he needs you, and you need him. Rest, if only for a moment."

Her words, a mother's gentle command, had stirred a gratitude that warmed your chest, and you'd nodded, too tired to argue, your steps heavy as you returned to the plank. Sinking beside Hiccup, your hand sought his, its calloused warmth a soothing salve to your frayed spirit.

Toothless settled nearby, his massive form curled protectively, Menace slumbering atop his back. His great head rested in your lap, scales cool beneath your gentle pats, emerald eyes half-lidded in unspoken trust. Your other hand traced Hiccup's auburn hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers as you gazed at the boy who held your heart.

They were yours—Hiccup, Toothless, and little Menace—your family. And in a hushed prayer, you whispered thanks to Freya, your voice barely stirring the air, gratitude swelling for their lives spared through the crucible of war, their presence a fragile miracle amid the nest's enduring scars.

Exhaustion gnawed at you, your body heavy from scant sleep—three hours snatched in fitful catnaps, stolen between tasks and haunted by nightmares. Each time your eyes closed, the war roared back—screams of the fallen, the Red Death's bellows, Hiccup's lifeless form in a dozen cruel scenarios, each dream waking you in a cold sweat, your heart racing as you pinched your arm to prove he still breathed.

Dark circles shadowed your eyes, a map of sleepless nights, your face gaunt in the firelight, but Hiccup's forehead, warm beneath your palm, was a lifeline. You pinched yourself again, the sting sharp, confirming he was no dream, his breath steady, his dragon curled close.

The camp stirred around you—Vikings hammering ship timbers, their blows ringing like Thor's anvil; healers murmuring as they changed a warrior's bloodied bandage, his groan sharp; dragons keening softly outside the volcano, their wings rustling as they mourned.

The stew's faint aroma drifted, mingling with the sea's briny tang, but you stayed rooted, your fingers tracing Hiccup's hair, Toothless' head heavy in your lap. Astrid's voice called faintly, organizing supplies, while Snotlout's grumble and Tuffnut's half-hearted jest echoed, signs of the gang's survival, though their wounds—physical and unseen—lingered.

You leaned closer to Hiccup, your whisper barely audible, a vow to him and Toothless. "You're still here," you said, your voice trembling with love and fear, "and I'll wait as long as it takes."

The plank beneath him was worn, its edges smoothed by Viking hands, a crude bed for the boy who'd reshaped Berk's fate and saved them all.

After a while—Your eyes, robbed of sleep, fluttered closed, surrendering briefly to a fragile slumber. Yet even in repose, the war's anguished screams and visions of Hiccup's false imagined demise haunted you, weaving a restless thoughts of dread.

The heavy tread of Stoick's footsteps jolted you from sleep, shattering the nightmare's grip. His broad shadow fell across the pallet as he drew near, his voice a low growl of frustration.

"Blasted supplies—half the ropes are frayed, and we've scarce enough timber to mend the ships!"

His words pierced the fog of your exhaustion, and you blinked, raising your gaze to meet his. The chieftain's bearded visage softened, his fiery exasperation yielding to a father's quiet dread as his eyes shifted from you to Hiccup.

"Any sign of him stirring?" he asked, his tone hushed, threaded with a fragile hope that wavered beneath his stoic facade. "Has he moved at all?"

You shook your head, throat constricting, your fingers stilling in Hiccup's auburn hair. "Nothing yet," you whispered, voice brittle yet resolute. "His breath is steady, but... he's still so far from us."

Stoick nodded, his jaw tightening, and knelt beside his son, his massive hand hovering over Hiccup's left leg. The stump, wrapped in coarse fabrics dotted with faint blood, bore the marks of the healers' brutal work—dead flesh cut away, the wound cauterized with fire to seal it, the bleeding now a mere seep, a testament to their skill and Hiccup's resilience. Stoick's fingers traced the air above the bandage, careful not to touch, his eyes shadowed with a father's anguish.

"We need to get him and the others back to Berk soon," Stoick said, sinking onto a nearby rock with a heavy sigh, his hands rubbing his face, smearing ash across his weathered skin. "The injured won't last in this weather—cold nights, damp air. Their wounds'll fester if we linger."

His voice carried the weight of command, but beneath it lay a tremor of fear for his son, for the clan teetering on the edge of survival. You bit your lip, your gaze dropping to Hiccup, his soft snores a quiet defiance against the nest's harsh reality.

Toothless stirred, his head nudging your thigh, his emerald eye glinting with a curious spark as he met your stare. You held his gaze, the dragon's silent question stirring something within you, a flicker of clarity piercing the fog of exhaustion.

"The dragons. . ." you whispered, the words barely audible, a seed of a plan taking root.

Stoick hummed, leaning forward, his brow furrowing. "What was that, lass?" he asked, his voice sharp with curiosity, missing your murmured revelation.

You turned to him, your eyes widening with sudden conviction, the idea blazing like a beacon in the dark. "The dragons!" you said, your voice rising, firm and clear. "We can ride the dragons home."

Stoick's eyes narrowed, then widened, the weight of your words sinking in, a spark of hope kindling in his gaze. You both look up to dragons gliding above, their wings rustling as they guarded the volcano's heart.

Your focus remained on Stoick, on the plan that could save Hiccup and the wounded. Toothless rumbled softly, his tail twitching in the soot, as if sensing the shift, his loyalty to Hiccup a mirror to your own.

Even if exhaustion etched deep in the shadowed hollows beneath your eyes, the ache receded as a daring plan blazed to life within you, kindled by the dragons' soaring silhouettes and Toothless' gentle nudge. Stoick sat opposite, his earlier vexation over frayed ropes and scant timber fading as he inspected Hiccup's wound, a silent prayer to Odin for his son's awakening lingering in his furrowed brow.

"It can work," you declared, your voice cutting through the camp's muted drone, steady and resolute as you held Stoick's gaze.

His weathered face shifted—skepticism warring with curiosity, then yielding to a glimmer of hope—as he tracked the dragons' flight, their wings carving the sky like tempered steel.

"Hiccup taught us," you pressed on, rising to your feet, your words gaining strength. "Me, Astrid, Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruff and Tuff—we learned to ride, to bond. We can teach the others. The three longboats can't carry all, but the dragons can bear those the ships cannot hold."

You gestured to the sky, where a Nadder banked gracefully, its spines catching the firelight. "The injured, the frail—they'll take the boats. Anyone strong enough can pair with a dragon. There are enough for every Viking here—then some."

Your plan, bold as a war cry, hung in the air, a spark of defiance against the nest's despair. Stoick leaned forward, his beard grazed by calloused fingers, elbow braced on his knee as he stared at the soot-dusted rocks, his thoughts churning like the restless sea. Gobber's peg leg crunched the sand as he approached, his axe glinting in the firelight, gruff voice breaking the silence after overhearing your words.

"That's a wild idea, lass, grand as any plan," he said, his eyes narrowing with skepticism. "But these Vikings? Gettin' friendly with these beasts? I don't see it, not like you and your lot."

His words carried the weight of experience, a warrior's caution tempered by the memory of his own lost limb. Stoick sighed, sitting upright, his massive frame casting a shadow across the plank, his gaze flickering between you and the dragons above. Doubt lingered in his eyes, but so did a spark of possibility, kindled by your conviction.

You stepped forward, more awake than you'd been in days, your exhaustion burned away by the fire of your plan. Toothless rose beside you, his tail lashing with excitement, his low rumble a chorus to your resolve, while Menace, the Terrible Terror perched nearby, leapt into your arms, her tiny claws gripping your cloak as she chirped in sync with your fervor.

"We have to try!" you urged, your voice rising. "What choice do we have? Three longboats, ferrying back and forth to Berk—it'll take weeks, months even, to get everyone home—and that's with no food for a time. The injured won't survive that long, not in this cold, not with wounds festering."

You pointed to a warrior nearby, his bandaged leg trembling as he leaned on a comrade.

"We flew here in less than four days on those dragons, with only short stops to rest. They're faster, stronger than any ship. We can do this."

Your words carried Hiccup's spirit, his vision of harmony between Vikings and dragons—It reminded him so much of Valka. . .And that struck Stoick like Mjölnir. He rose, his eyes narrowing, then softening as he looked at his son, still locked in deep sleep, then back to you.

"You're right," he said at last, his voice low but resolute, a chieftain's decree. "It's a mad plan, yes, but it's Hiccup's madness through you. If he were awake, he'd be the first to climb a dragon's back." A faint smile tugged at his lips, tinged with pride and pain. "We'll try it. For him." For her.

Gobber chuckled, shaking his head, his axe gesturing to the sky. "Well, Thor's beard, we're really doing this."

His jest broke the tension, drawing a reluctant grin from Stoick, who clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm with trust. "You and your friends—start with the willing," he said. "Show 'em how it's done. I'll rally the clan—I'll convince them with you lot."

His voice carried the weight of command, but his eyes held gratitude, a father's thanks for the hope you'd kindled. Toothless nudged your side, his gummy smile flashing, and Menace chirped in your arms, their excitement mirroring your own.

The volcanic island glowed faintly under the smoldering orange of its own heat, the sun obscured by a shroud of ashen clouds that cast a muted gray pall over the landscape. Soot-streaked sands, trampled by the relentless tread of Viking boots, glistened wet and black, reverting to their primal hue.

The air hung heavy with the briny tang of the sea, mingled with the acrid stench of decaying dragon flesh and the distant, mournful keens of dragons, their wings carving the brightening horizon as they circled the volcano's rim, vigilant guardians of their hatchlings. One by one, the clan gathered, their eyes fixed on their chief, awaiting his words on the path to survival.

Stoick ascended a fire-scorched boulder, its smooth surface a stark pedestal beneath the gray-orange sky. His towering figure stood as a bastion of authority, unwavering before the gathered Hairy Hooligans. His voice roared forth, a resonant war drum that quelled the camp's murmurs, drawing every gaze under the sun's relentless stare.

"Hear me, Berk!" he began, his blood-streaked beard trembling with conviction. "We stand on a razed earth, our ships broken, our kin wounded, our survival hanging by a thread. Three longboats remain—four, if we mend the last—but they cannot carry us all. This island, a volcano's heart, offers no sustenance, no shelter. We've scoured its depths these past days and found naught but ash and stone. To ferry our people home on ships alone would take months, back and forth, with half our fleet gone."

He took a moment to look at them, "The wounded—my son among them—will not survive the cold, the hunger, the rot. We face a choice: cling to old ways and perish, or forge a new path, one Hiccup carved with his courage."

He gestured to the dragons above, their scales flashing like polished steel in the daylight. "We ride the dragons home. They'll carry those the ships cannot, swift as the winds of Njord, to Berk in days, not months nor weeks. This is the only way."

A ripple of unease swept the clan, voices rising in protest, their Viking pride clashing with the audacity of your plan under the harsh scrutiny. A burly warrior, his arm bound in bloodied cloth, stepped forward, squinting against the glare.

"Ride dragons?" he barked, his voice thick with scorn. "They burned our kin, Stoick! You'd have us trust beasts that brought us to this hell?"

A woman, her face scarred from a cauterized gash, joined him, her tone sharp. "I'd sooner swim to Berk than climb a fire-breather's back! What if they turn on us?"

Another Viking, leaning on a crutch, muttered, "It's madness—Hiccup's folly, not ours."

The murmurs grew, a storm of doubt threatening to drown Stoick's words, their fear rooted in generations of dragon-slaying, a legacy harder to shift than the volcano itself. Yet Stoick pressed on, his voice unwavering, echoing your argument with a chieftain's gravitas.

"Three ships, four at best, leave half our clan behind. Starvation, fever, death—that's what awaits if we stay. Hiccup flew here in days on a dragon's wings, with his lot who followed. They're our salvation, if we dare to trust them."

His words quelled some, their heads bowing under the weight of truth, but others stood defiant, their fists clenched. "I'll take my chances with the sea," growled a grizzled warrior, his bandaged hand gripping a sword hilt.

"Dragons ain't our kin."

The clan teetered, divided between fear and necessity, their stubbornness a wall your plan struggled to breach. You felt the moment slipping, the hope you'd kindled for Hiccup's sake flickering in the face of their doubt. Toothless nudged you, his warm snout pressing against your side, a joyful croon rumbling from his throat, as if urging you to act.

Your heart surged, Hiccup's courage a fire in your veins, and you stepped forward, the crowd parting like a tide, their eyes widening as you took the center pushing past, your cloak trailing behind. The veiled sunlight bathed your face, your exhaustion carved into dark circles, but your voice rose, clear and commanding, a valkyrie's call that stilled the clan.

"Listen to me!" you declared, your words cutting through the murmurs like a seax through fog. "You stand here, doubting, fearing, while Hiccup lies there in a deep sleep, fighting to live because he had more courage than any of you!"

You pointed to the plank behind you, where Hiccup slept, his pale face a testament to his sacrifice, softened by the sun's glow. "A boy you scorned, mocked, called weak your whole lives—he climbed atop a Night Fury and faced the Red Death, a dragon greater than any our ancestors ever knew. A beast that dwarfed mountains, with fire to burn the heavens, and Hiccup brought it down!"

Your voice trembled with pride, with love, but held firm, each word a hammer forging their guilt. "He didn't do it alone. Toothless, this dragon—," you knelt, petting his head, his scales warm as he leaned into you, crooning happily, "fought beside him, saved him, saved us all. Toothless is why you can trust dragons."

"Those dragons." You rose, pointing to Astrid's Nadder, its spines glinting as it perched nearby, then to the twins' Zippleback, its twin heads alert, to Fishlegs's Gronckle, stout and steadfast, and Snotlout's Monstrous Nightmare, its flames dim but proud.

"These dragons flew into battle, not just for their own, but for us. They were afraid, just like you, and they lost kin, just like us." Your words struck deep, the clan's gazes dropping, guilt shadowing their faces as they glanced at the dragons, their defiance softening.

"Hiccup, a boy you doubted, changed everything," you continued, your voice rising, a clarion call to their pride. "He saw what you couldn't—a future where Vikings and dragons stand as one. If he could face death on a dragon's wings, why can't you? Why can't you honor him by trusting what he fought for? The future of this clan—Chiefs' son."

The crowd stirred, a loud mumble rippling through, voices clashing—some defiant, others swayed, their whispers a tide of shifting hearts. Toothless pressed closer, his croon a warm echo of your resolve, and you stood tall, your eyes sweeping the clan, daring them to rise to Hiccup's legacy.

The grizzled warrior from before, his bandaged hand flexing, stepped forward slowly, his scowl fading to a weary resolve. He met your gaze, his voice gruff but steady.

"Alright, lass," he said, the words heavy with surrender. "Show us how to train a dragon."

A murmur of agreement spread, tentative but growing, the clan's doubt yielding to the spark you'd ignited. Stoick's eyes gleamed with pride, his nod a chieftain's blessing, while Gobber chuckled, his axe raised in salute—a gleam of pride casting upon his own expression.

"Thor's beard. . ." he said, his grin wide.

Your heart hammered as you nodded toward that Viking, with more coming up to you. The camp stirred—Vikings adjusting bandages; axes pausing as warriors turned to watch; dragons gliding closer, their eyes curious.

Your words crashed like a war hammer forged in their hearts, shattering the clan's brittle doubts and coaxing a fierce hope from the smoldering embers of despair. The Hairy Hooligans, once tethered by dread's icy chains, now gazed upon Stoick as a chieftain sculpted from Thor's own thunderous resolve, daring to blaze a trail no ancestor's foot had dared to tread.

Your ode to Hiccup—his valor, his selfless sacrifice—ignited like a bolt of lightning, its white-hot arc searing every soul, leaving hearts scorched and spirits alight again. The gang felt the blaze most fiercely, their resolve rekindled like a hearth stoked to roaring life, their eyes gleaming with the untamed fire that had driven them into the crucible of battle.

Astrid strode forward, her braid, scorched and frayed like a battle-worn banner, swinging with defiance, her gaze a piercing blue of purpose. Fishlegs, gripping a weathered rope coiled like a serpent in his scholar's hands, stood with a heart now clad in iron resolve. Snotlout, his bravado reborn, burned with a flare that rivaled the sun's fierce glow.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut, their usual whirlwind of chaos tempered from exhaust had returned. And they stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces etched with a grin, steely reverence and mischief anew, like twin oaks unbowed by the gale.

Even Stoick, a colossus against the molten horizon, bore the weight of your words, his pride in his son a silent, sacred oath, etched deep as runes in stone, to honor the boy who had reshaped their world's very marrow. The clan stirred, a restless tide of motion—hands calloused and scarred reaching for purpose, voices low but thrumming with resolve, like the distant rumble of an approaching herd.

They were ready, at last, to weave bonds with the dragons they had once sworn to slay, as strange as it was for them. Their silhouettes stark against the volcano's fiery glow, while wings sliced the dusk like blades of obsidian.

You led the way, the gang at your side, their presence a shield as you taught the clan to bridge the chasm between warrior and dragon. The Vikings clung to their weapons, their hands tight on swords etched with Tiwaz runes, their pride a fortress against trust.

"Set them down," you said, your voice a blade, standing before a red Gronckle, its stout form snuffling the ash. "These are not foes, but allies, bound by Hiccup's vision."

The gang echoed your call, their voices a chorus of conviction—Astrid kneeling beside her Nadder, its spines softened as she murmured to a wary Viking; Fishlegs guiding another to his Gronckle, his words steady as stone; Snotlout, with newfound patience, showing a warrior the Monstrous Nightmare's proud gaze; the twins, their jests silenced, helping a Viking face a Zippleback's twin heads.

The clan resisted, their warrior hearts battling fear, but the grizzled warrior who'd first protested stepped forward, his bandaged hand trembling, his scowl a mask for doubt. You moved with Hiccup's grace, recalling his lessons in the arena, and guided the warrior's hand to the Gronckle's snout, your voice soft as a saga's whisper.

"Feel his breathing, the fire beneath his scales, his beating heart like war drums—his trust," you said, your hand steadying his.

The dragon's eyes closed, its rumble a warm vow, and the warrior's breath caught, his defiance melting into reverence as the bond took root—and he gleamed at the dragon with a new look of excitement.

One by one, the clan followed, their weapons sinking into the sand, a surrender to hope. You and the gang moved among them, guiding hands, soothing fears, your voices weaving a new thread in Berk's tapestry. Astrid paired a scarred woman with a Nadder, its quick steps matched by her resolve; Fishlegs taught a young warrior to meet a Gronckle's gaze, his facts easing terror; Snotlout and the twins worked in tandem, their dragons' loyalty a mirror to your own.

Dragons descended, drawn by the shift in the air—Gronckles, Nadders, Nightmares, their eyes bright with curiosity, some choosing Vikings unbidden. A Nadder nudged a limping warrior until he smiled, his crutch forgotten; a Nightmares tail curled around a woman's leg, its chirp drawing a smile.

By day's end, one-hundred and twelve Vikings had bonded with dragons, their voices mingling with croons, a chorus of trust rising over the nest. Eighty-nine remained unpaired, including eighten healers and bonesetters bound for the longboats to tend the injured, among them Hiccup, who would sail with you, Stoick, Gobber, Menace and Toothless—the three of you also unpaired.

The camp thrummed with a fragile hope—The stew's warmth wove through the sea's chill, and a rare sunbeam broke the clouds, gilding Toothless' scales as he pressed against you, his joyful croon a spark in the gray light.

The clan's progress was a miracle forged in Hiccup's name. Thirty-five more Vikings had bonded with dragons by morning, their voices mingling with rumbles and chirps, leaving only thirty-three unpaired, the healers and bonesetters among them bound for the longboats.

The Vikings, once hardened dragon-slayers, now moved with a cautious reverence, their hands learning the language of trust—stroking scales, offering murmurs, mirroring the lessons you'd taught. Their fates were clear in their resolve—Astrid led with quiet strength, her commands sharp; Fishlegs offered wisdom, easing fears; Snotlout, showed off but worked tirelessly; the twins, with their chaos, guided with surprising care.

Together, you'd worked to make everyone feel at ease—including the dragons, kindling a future Hiccup had dreamed, and the clan followed, their steps steadier under Stoick's strong gaze.

You rested your head beside Hiccup's arm, his hand cradled against your cheek, the faint rhythm of his snores a lullaby that tethered you to hope. Your thoughts drifted, heavy with longing, wishing he could witness the clan's transformation—the Vikings laughing with Gronckles, the dragons soaring with new riders, the nest alive with a harmony he'd built.

Your exhaustion, etched into the dark circles beneath your eyes, pressed down, but his warmth kept you anchored, a silent vow to see his dream through. Behind you, Stoick and Gobber sat by a fire, their voices low as they ate stew, the clink of their spoons a soft counterpoint to the camp's hum. Stoick's tone carried a chieftain's weight, discussing ship repairs, while Gobber's gruff jests lightened the air.

You didn't notice their gazes turn to you, their smiles soft and knowing, mistaking your bowed head for sleep, a tender moment they chose not to disturb. Stoick rose, his heavy steps crunching the sand as he moved to check on the clan, his silhouette a titan against the veiled sun. Gobber remained, his peg leg propped on a rock, his hand picking at his beard as he hummed an old tune.

You stirred, lifting your head to shift, and Gobber's sharp eye caught you. "Oi, lass," he said, his voice warm but laced with mischief, "thought you'd drifted to Niflheim on us."

You blinked, a faint smile tugging at your lips, the weight of sleepless nights heavy in your voice. "I was, near enough," you murmured, your gaze drifting to Hiccup. "Best rest I've had in days, truth be told."

Gobber chuckled, leaning forward, his eye glinting with a teasing spark. "Aye, and no wonder, with you frettin' over your boyfriend there," he said, his grin widening as he tugged at his beard, carefree as a skald spinning a tale.

"Can't sleep proper when you're moonin' over Hiccup, givin' him those love-lorn looks, battin' your lashes like a lass in love."

The words struck like a spark, heat flaring from your neck to your face, a fire that rivaled Muspelheim's flames. Your head snapped up, eyes darting to ensure no one else heard, your voice a sharp whisper. "Gobber!"

He laughed, a deep, rolling sound that shook his frame, his hand waving dismissively. "Don't you 'Gobber' me, lass! I've seen how you gaze at him, all soft and starry, like he's hung the moon and stars. I know a fancy when I see one, and you're smitten as they come."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping, conspiratorial but warm. "Mind you, he's half as bad, the way he lights up when you're near. Lad's got no sense for hidin' it."

Your face burned hotter, your heart stuttering, but you couldn't muster a denial—at least on your part—the truth too plain in your trembling hands, you weren't sure about Hiccup.

Gobber's grin softened, his tone turning earnest. "Besides, you've got my blessin', you two. Hiccup's a good lad, and you're the fire to his forge or whatever and all that yak. He'd be a fool not to see it."

You sputtered, the heat in your cheeks now a blaze, your voice rising in flustered protest. "Blessing? Gobber, we're not—we're not betrothed or some such nonsense!"

He raised a bushy brow, unperturbed. "Not yet, maybe, but I've seen enough to know where this one's headed. You mark my words, lass."

Before you could retort, a shadow loomed, and Toothless bounded into the clearing—jumping over people to get to you earning groans in the process—his energy a stark contrast to the camp's somber weight. He leaped around you, fully healed, his obsidian scales shimmering with dew, his joyful warble echoing like a song as he pranced.

Without warning, his tongue swiped from shoulder to face, a long, slow, slobbery strip that coated you in warm saliva, the scent faintly fishy. You stood, groaning, wiping your face with your cloak, your flustered heart giving way to exasperated laughter.

"Toothless!" you chided, but he was already darting away, his tail lashing as he pounced toward Menace, the Terrible Terror chirping wildly and prancing along. The two dragons tumbled in the sand, joined by others—Nadders, Gronckles, a Zippleback—their playful roars a hymn to life amidst the nest's scars. You shook your head, your smile lingering, the warmth of Gobber's words and Toothless' antics a fleeting balm to your weary soul.

You sank back beside Hiccup, your hand finding his, your heart heavy with longing for his awakening, yet buoyed by the clan's progress forgetting Gobbers tease. And Gobber watched, his grin soft, as Toothless' distant warbles carried over.

A heavy tread broke the evening's murmur between you, Stoick's towering silhouette carving through the firelit haze like a drakkar slicing fog, his broad frame a bulwark against the twilight's chill. His weathered face bore the widest grin you'd ever seen, a chieftain's pride tempered by a father's joy.

His hands were planted firmly on his hips as he turned to face you and Gobber, who lounged by the fire lazily, his peg leg propped on a rock, his free hand picking at a steaming bowl of seaweed stew. The fire's glow caught the silver in Stoick's beard, his eyes alight with a warmth that rivaled Sól's radiance, as if Thor himself had kindled a spark in his heart.

"By the gods' own forge, I've not seen Berk this alive since we crushed the allied clans at the Regatta last year, with our mighty sails blazing with Tiwaz runes and Berk banners all alike!" Stoick's voice thundered, a war drum of glee that stilled nearby Vikings, their heads turning, axes pausing mid-strike.

He jabbed a massive finger toward you, his grin widening as he strode closer, his boots crunching the soot-dusted sand with the weight of each step. "You!" Before you could brace, his hand clapped your back, a hearty blow that nearly pitched you forward, your cloak flapping as you caught your balance on the plank's edge, the force a testament to his unbridled vigor, a chieftain's gratitude unbound by the nest's grim shadow.

Gobber's laughter erupted, a deep, rolling tide that shook his frame, his axe glinting as he waved it dismissively, his stew sloshing precariously.

"Thor's hairy backside, Stoick, ye'll send the lass to Niflheim with a pat like that!" he roared, his eye glinting with mischief and laughter as he leaned forward, ignoring the warrior nearby who muttered sleepily about "Gobber's blasted noise" while napping.

Stoick's grin held firm, undeterred, his voice rich with reverence as he steadied you with a gentler hand, his gaze sweeping the camp—the Vikings laughing with Gronckles, a Nadder nudging a warrior's shield, the Zippleback's twin heads weaving playfully around the twins.

"My son is blessed by Freyr's bounty to have you at his side," he said, his tone spoken to Odin's hall, each word weighted with the gravitas of a chieftain's pride.

"I stood on the edge of despair, my heart heavy as Ymir's bones, this cursed shore threatening to break us. But you—you kindled a fire in our souls, lass, pulled this old chief through the dark with a plan bold as Thor's hammer!"

He gestured broadly, encompassing the camp's renewed vigor—the smiths hammering ship timbers, the dragons' wings rustling like war banners, the healers murmuring over wounds with yarrow-soaked hands.

"Now, we sail home at dawn, back to Berk's hearth!"

Your face lifted, eyes widening in a rush of astonishment, the words catching in your throat like a carved tree snatched by the wind.

"Tomorrow?" you asked, voice sharp with disbelief, the prospect of leaving the nest's shadow a spark that flared in your weary chest, warming your bones against the evening's chill.

Stoick nodded, his hand sweeping toward the shore where four longships bobbed in the tide, their hulls patched with salvaged oak, their prows scarred but proud.

"Aye, tomorrow!" he declared, his voice a clarion call that drew nods from nearby Vikings, their faces brightening. "The smiths such as Gobber o'course swore to me—the fourth boat's mended, sturdy enough to brave Njord's seas back to Berk. It'll hold, by the gods' grace!"

Gobber's chuckle deepened, his eye glinting as he leaned forward, stew forgotten. "By Freya's tears, Stoick, ye've the luck of a selkie in a storm!" he said, his axe jabbing the air for emphasis, nearly toppling a nearby warrior's water flask, who shot him a glare before returning to his bandage.

Stoick's laughter rumbled, a deep quake that shook his massive frame, his hand clapping Gobber's shoulder with a force that made the older Viking wince. "Luck or no, Gobber, we've a path home!"

Stoick continued, his voice steady with command, his gaze returning to you, softened with a father's gratitude. "The thirty yet to bond with dragons—those unpaired—will sail with the healers and wounded on the boats. No soul lingers here, not one. We leave at first light, home to Berk's fires."

A smile broke across your face, bright as a sunbeam piercing Jotunheim's frost, the weight of days on this cursed rock lifting like a longship's sail catching Njord's breath. The thought of Berk—its thatched roofs dusted with snow, the forge's clang echoing through the cliffs, the warmth of mead in the Great Hall—stirred a longing deep in your marrow—how you missed cooking. . .

It was a fire kindled by the promise of rest and Hiccup's awakening beneath familiar skies. You glanced at him, his soft snores a quiet defiance against the nest's scars, and your heart swelled, tethered to the hope of seeing his green eyes spark with life once more.

Stoick's hand rested briefly on your shoulder, a chieftain's thanks unspoken but heavy as Mjölnir's head, before he turned to rally the clan, his voice thundering across the camp like a storm over the sea.

"Prepare the ships! We sail at dawn!" Vikings stirred, their feet pausing as they nodded before carrying on work to load the boats, a renewed vigor in their steps, their faces lit with purpose under the light. The dragons above crooned, their silhouettes weaving through the heavens.

You sank back beside Hiccup, your hand tightening around his as Toothless rumbled softly, his tail curling closer, Menace chirping faintly in her sleep. But before you could settle into the vigil, a commotion erupted near the shore, drawing every eye.

Snotlout, his broad frame swaggering as ever, stood atop a salvaged longship prow, his Monstrous Nightmare at his side, its scales glinting like molten iron.

"Oi, you lot!" he bellowed, his voice carrying over the camp, a grin splitting his soot-streaked face. "Who's ready for a proper Viking send-off before we sail? A race—dragons against the best of us!"

The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, materialized from the shadows, their Zippleback's twin heads hissing playfully as they shoved each other, their laughter a chaotic peal that cut through the evening's weight.

"You're on, Snotlout!" Ruffnut shouted, her singed braid swinging as she vaulted onto the Zippleback's gas head.

"We'll smoke you before you can say 'Loki's knickers'!" Tuffnut, not to be outdone, scrambled onto the spark head, nearly toppling over as he brandished a salvaged spear.

"Yeah, and I'm the spark that'll light your sorry hide ablaze!" he crowed, earning a groan from Fishlegs, who stood nearby, clutching a bundle of cloaks, his Gronckle snoring at his feet.

Astrid, ever the voice of reason, strode forward, her axe glinting at her hip, her Nadder preening behind her. "You idiots," she snapped, though her lips twitched with a suppressed grin, her blue eyes catching the firelight. "We're leaving at dawn, and you want to race now? You'll exhaust the dragons—or yourselves!"

Snotlout waved her off, his chest puffing out like a bellows. "Exhaust? Me? I'm forged in Freyr's fires, Astrid!? My Nightmare'll leave your Nadder choking on ash!"

The camp erupted in laughter shaking their heads, Vikings pausing their tasks to watch the spectacle, their weary faces brightening at the gang's antics. Even Stoick, standing near a fire with a bowl of stew, chuckled, his massive hand wiping broth from his beard as he shook his head.

"Let 'em have their fun, Astrid," he called, his voice warm with indulgence. "A bit of spirit'll do us good before the wind claims us!"

Gobber, still lounging by his rock, raised his hand in mock salute. "Aye, but if Snotlout falls on his arse, I'm claimin' his share of bread back in Berk!"

The jest drew another roar of laughter, the camp's tension easing. You couldn't help but smile, the warmth of the moment seeping into your chest, a fleeting balm to the exhaustion that weighed your limbs.

Toothless stirred, his emerald eyes glinting with curiosity as he watched Snotlout and the twins bicker, his tail thumping the sand, rousing Menace, who chirped indignantly before scampering toward the commotion. The little Terror darted between Snotlout's legs, nearly tripping him, her tiny jaws snapping at a stray rope as if claiming it for her hoard.

"Oi, you menace!" Snotlout yelped, stumbling back as the Nightmare snorted, its flames flaring briefly, singeing the edge of his cloak.

Vikings clutching their sides, their laughter a hymn. Menace, undeterred, pranced toward you, dropping the rope at your feet with a triumphant chirp in offering, her yellow eyes gleaming as if she'd slain a jotunn. You scooped her up, your laughter soft but genuine, her warmth a spark in your hands as you scratched her chin, her purr vibrating against your fingers.

Stoick's gaze found you, his grin softening as he watched Menace's antics, his voice carrying over the camp's din. "That little beast's got more fire than half my warriors!" he said, striding closer, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

"You've a knack for taming the wild ones, lass—dragons and Hiccup alike."

His jest was gentle, but his eyes held a knowing glint, echoing Gobber's earlier tease about your bond with his son. Your face warmed, a flush creeping up your neck, but you met his gaze, your smile steady despite the flutter in your chest.

"Someone's got to keep them in line," you replied, your voice light but firm, earning a chuckle from Stoick and a nod from Gobber, who raised his stew bowl in salute.

"Aye, and ye do it better than any skald!" Gobber said, his axewaving as he nearly spilled his meal again, drawing a groan from a nearby healer tending a warrior's gashed arm.

The camp settled back into its routine, the group's lively chatter echoing as they debated who'd win their race. Before long, night fell, and the whole camp rested for dawn.

The dawn broke over the volcanic shore with a tentative glow, as if Sól herself hesitated to cast light upon the scarred husk of the dragons' nest, its black sands glistening wet under a sky streaked with the pale fire of morning.

The air was heavy with the briny tang of the sea, laced with the lingering reek of charred bone and sulfur, a mournful shroud that clung to the ruins and the Red Death's colossal corpse, its scales cracked and oozing green ichor, a overwhelming stench you all wouldn't miss.

The camp stirred with a somber rhythm, Vikings moving like wraiths in the half-light, their faces gaunt with exhaustion but etched with a resolute hope created in Hiccup's name. Fires smoldered low or put out, their embers casting fleeting shadows across the wounded, their wounds bound in yarrow-soaked leather, and the dragons, their wings rustling like war banners as they perched along the volcano's rim—keening ready to leave.

The clan's newfound bonds with these once-feared beasts thrummed through the morning. You stood on the shore, your cloak flapping in the dawn's sharp breeze, your heart heavy with the weight of the fallen and the hope of home. The four longships bobbed in the tide, their oak hulls patched with salvaged timber, their prows scarred but proud, etched with new Algiz runes for protection.

The loading had begun at first light, a grim procession guided by Stoick's unyielding command. The injured were hoisted aboard first, their groans piercing the quiet as healers steadied them on beds of furs—tattered cloaks, their wounds packed with moss to fend off rot.

Hiccup, still locked in his deep sleep, was carried gently by Stoick and Gobber, his severed leg bound tightly and healing quickly, the leather straps taut against the stump, his pallid face serene yet distant, as if Odin still cradled him in a realm beyond Midgard's reach. The healers followed, their hands bloodied but steady, carrying only their pouches, their faces etched with the pragmatism.

The thirty Vikings yet to bond with dragons—those too wary or weary to claim a rider's mantle—boarded next, their steps heavy with the weight of survival, their eyes darting to the dragons above, a mix of fear and reluctant trust. The fallen, fifty-seven souls claimed by the Red Death, were laid in the final ship, their bodies shrouded in tattered wool, faces covered to spare the living their vacant stares, their sacrifice a silent tale to be carved into Berk's runestones.

You had boarded one of the larger longships, its deck creaking under the weight of warriors and supplies, and settled beside Toothless who protected Hiccup, who lay quietly, his obsidian scales dull with new ash but his emerald eyes calm, a steadfast guardian at your side. His massive form curled protectively, his tail twitching faintly, behaving with a dignity that belied the chaos he'd endured, as if sensing the gravity of the journey ahead.

Stoick remained on the shore, his towering silhouette a bulwark against the dawn's chill, his blood-streaked beard trembling as he barked orders, ensuring no soul was left behind. His voice rolled like thunder over the waves, directing Vikings to secure the last of the supplies—almost empty barrels of pickled herring, moldy rye loaves for last minute resource, and dwindling strips of jerky, rations stretched thin by days on this cursed rock.

He paced the sand, his boots crunching through soot, his eyes scanning the camp's remnants—scattered weapons that couldn't fit on the boats, broken shields, the faint glow of the volcano's crater—to confirm every warrior, living or dead, was accounted for one final time.

The camp lay empty now, its fires doused, its tents collapsed, the only trace of life was the dragons perched all around, their scales glinting like polished steel in the morning light. As the final Viking boarded, Stoick's gaze swept the shore one last time, his hand resting on his sword hilt, a chieftain's vigil unbroken until he was certain none remained.

Then, with a nod to the helmsman, he strode aboard the lead ship, his heavy tread shaking the deck, and a horn's deep bellow shattered the dawn's hush, its mournful note echoing off the volcano's rim like a call to Valhalla. The longships kicked off from the shore, oars dipping into the tide with a steady cadence, their prows slicing through the waves as the clan sailed away from the cursed island, leaving its scars to fade into the mist.

You stood at the ship's rail, your hands gripping the weathered oak, the sea's cold spray misting your face as the island receded, its jagged silhouette shrinking against the horizon. From this new distance, the devastation was stark—a wasteland of black sand and splintered stone, the volcano's crater glowing faintly, a wound in Midgard's flesh.

The Red Death's corpse loomed, the sole monument to the war, its massive form untouched by scavengers, its maw frozen in a silent roar, abandoned to rot in solitude. Even the warrior it had swallowed had been retrieved, his body laid among the fallen, ensuring no soul was left to the beast's claim.

The island could keep its desolation, its ash and ruin—good riddance, you thought, your heart heavy but resolute, the weight of the lost pressing like a stone in your chest. The clan sailed in silence, a collective vigil for the fifty-seven Vikings and countless dragons who had no choice but to fall, their sacrifice etched in blood and fire.

You glanced at Hiccup, lying on a fur-lined bed nearby, his breathing steady but his eyes still closed, and your fingers tightened on the rail, a silent prayer to Freya for their souls and his awakening. Toothless rumbled softly at your side, his head resting on oak, his gaze fixed on the fading island, as if bidding it farewell and good riddance too.

The veil of Helheim's Gate, that churning wall of fog that had shrouded the nest, closed over the horizon, swallowing the island whole, its gray tendrils the last you'd ever see of that cursed rock, a final curtain drawn by the Norns themselves.

The longships pressed onward, guided by Toothless' keen instincts, his low croons a beacon through the fog as he sensed the path home, his bond with Hiccup a compass for the clan. After an hour of sailing through—The veil broke at last, parting like a torn sail to reveal a vast, glistening sea, its blue expanse shimmering under the first true sun in a week and three days, a radiant gift from Sól that warmed your ash-streaked face.

Sighs of relief rippled across the four ships, Vikings shielding their eyes against the brilliance, their weary voices rising in murmurs of gratitude to the Allfather. The light cast away the nest's shadow, bathing the decks in a golden glow that gleamed off the sea's cresting waves, each ripple a promise of Berk's cliffs drawing nearer.

Some Vikings seized the moment, leaning over the rails to scoop seawater in their hands, scrubbing desperately at the volcanic ash that clung to their skin like a grim tattoo. The water ran black with soot, trailing from their faces and arms, a cleansing ritual born of necessity, their laughter—hoarse but genuine—echoing over the tide as they shook off the nest's weight.

One warrior, his beard caked with ash, dunked his entire head into a bucket, emerging with a sputter and a grin, his curse of "Freyja's mercy, that's better!" drawing chuckles from his comrades. The act was a small defiance, a reclaiming of life amidst the sea's endless hymn, and you watched, your heart lifting slightly, the clan's spirit stirring like a hearth rekindled.

You moved toward the ship's prow, where Stoick stood, his massive frame steady against the wind, his bloodied cloak flapping like a war banner etched with Eihwaz for resilience. Toothless sat nearby, his head raised, his emerald eyes scanning the horizon, his presence a quiet anchor for the chieftain.

The sea stretched boundless before you, its waves glinting like the scales of Jörmungandr, and in the distance, the dragons and their riders soared miles ahead, their silhouettes a shadow of a great flock, wings cutting the sky like blades forged in Valhalla's fires.

The sight stirred a smile, warm and unbidden, curling your lips as you imagined the shock awaiting Berk's remnant souls—those left behind, expecting longships, only to see their kin return astride fire-breathers. A soft laugh escaped you, bright against the sea's roar, the thought of their wide-eyed disbelief a spark of joy in your weary chest.

Gobber, hobbling closer on his peg leg, his axe glinting as he balanced, caught the sound, his bushy brow arching.

"What's got ye chuckling, lass?" he asked, his voice gruff but laced with curiosity, as he leaned against the rail.

You turned, your smile widening, the wind tugging at your cloak. "It's just—imagine the faces back home," you said, your tone light but warm, "their loved ones returning, not on ships, but soaring down on dragons, like a tale come to life."

Gobber's eyes twinkled, his grin splitting his beard. "Aye, they might think it's a raid!" he quipped, his hand waving for emphasis, nearly toppling into the sea.

Stoick, turning from the prow, his gaze softened by the sun's glow, joined in, his voice a deep rumble. "They will—until they see our riders atop those dragons, proud as Thor in his chariot."

His words carried a chieftain's pride, his eyes drifting to Hiccup's still form, a silent prayer to Odin lingering in his gaze.

The conversation faded, the sea's hymn reclaiming the air, its ceaseless rhythm a counterpoint to the creak of oars and the flap of sails dyed with runes of protection. You stood with Stoick and Toothless, your eyes fixed on the dragons' distant flock, their wings a promise of Berk's new dawn, your heart buoyed by the thought of home.

The longships sailed on, their course steady under Stoicks guidance, the veil of the dragons' nest a fading memory swallowed by the horizon. The journey would stretch two weeks, the ships trailing the dragons and their riders, who'd reach Berk days ahead before you, bearing tales of war and harmony to prepare the village for Stoick's return.

The sun climbed higher, its light gilding the waves, and you leaned against the rail, your hand brushing Toothless' scales, his warmth a quiet vow to see Hiccup through. The clan sailed in silence, their thoughts with the fallen, their hopes with the boy who'd reshaped their world, the sea carrying you all toward Berk's hearth, where dragons would soar free and Hiccup's dream would rise from the ashes.

The sea stretched boundless beneath a dawn sky kissed by Sól's first light, its waves glinting like the scales of Jörmungandr as the four longships carved their path through the tide, their oars dipping in a steady cadence that echoed the clan's unyielding resolve. Two weeks had bled into a relentless voyage, the memory of the dragons' nest fading into a shadowed saga, its ash and ruin swallowed by the horizon's veil.

The air carried the briny tang of the sea, mingled with the faint musk of dragon breath from the flock that had soared ahead days ago, their riders bearing tales of war and harmony to prepare Berk for your return.

A cry shattered the morning's hush, sharp as a raven's call over a battlefield. "Berk ahead!" The shout, raw with glee, came from a massive warrior at the ship's bow, his bandaged hand raised against the dawn's glare, as his voice a spark that ignited the clan.

Cheers erupted across the four ships, a thunderous roar that drowned the sea's hymn, Vikings leaping to their feet, their faces alight with a joy that rivaled Freyr's golden fields. You turned, your heart surging as Berk's silhouette rose from the horizon, its jagged cliffs crowned with snow, its thatched roofs dusted white, a comfort of home more radiant than any place could ever weave.

The sight was a balm to your weary soul, its beauty sharper than you'd dared remember—no volcanoes spewing Hel's wrath, no dragons the size of mountains blotting the sky, but a haven forged in frost, earth and fire, its hearths calling you back.

Yet, even as you'd expected the change, the vista stunned you, a jolt to the marrow that widened your eyes. From this distance, hundreds of dragons—Gronckles, Nadders, Nightmares, Zipplebacks and more—swirled through Berk's skies, their wings weaving patterns unmarred by arrows or axes.

They soared openly, unchained—unharmed, their roars a chorus of freedom that echoed off the cliffs. The clan gaped, their cheers faltering into awestruck murmurs, hands shielding eyes against the sun to witness a Berk reborn, where dragons danced with the wind, no longer foes but kin.

Stoick's voice boomed from the prow, his massive frame steady against the ship's sway, his beard trembling with laughter. "Well, then!" he bellowed, his brows rising in satisfaction. "Seems they've convinced the lot back home!"

His laughter rolled like thunder, deep and unrestrained, shaking his broad shoulders as he clapped a hand on the rail, the sound infectious. The clan joined him, their laughter a tide that swept the ships, Vikings slapping each other's backs, their weary faces brightening under the sun's glow.

Gobber, hobbling closer on his peg leg, his axe hand glinting as he held a crust of moldy rye—looked at it then back at Berk—and tossed it over the boat, chuckling hoarsely.

"Aye, Stoick, they've turned Berk into a dragon's roost!" he quipped.

You grinned, the warmth of their mirth seeping into your chest. Toothless rumbled softly, his head lifting to watch the distant flock, his tail thumping the deck, as if sensing Berk's transformation. The longships pressed onward, their sails catching Njord's breath as fast as they can, the sea's rhythm a steady pulse beneath the clan's renewed vigor, their eyes fixed on the cliffs that promised rest and rebirth.

The longships made land with a grinding crunch, their prows kissing Berk's rocky-sandy shore as the tide lapped hungrily at the hulls, the waves glinting ever so bright under the morning sun. The clan's cheers swelled anew, a war cry of relief that echoed off the cliffs, Vikings leaping from the decks before the ships fully settled, their boots splashing into the shallows with sighs of deliverance.

One fell to the sand kissing it and a dozen of the warriors plunged into the sea, their ash-caked faces breaking into grins as they shed ruined tunics and leathers, the fabric blackened with soot and blood, and dove into the waves, scrubbing desperately at the volcanic grime that clung like a grim curse.

"Free at last!" one bellowed, a burly Viking with a cauterized gash across his arm, his voice thick with glee as he stripped to his breeches and submerged, the water running black with ash as he surfaced with a sputter.

Others followed, their laughter hoarse but unbridled, diving and splashing like selkies reborn, the sea's cold embrace a cleansing ritual that washed away everything. The shore thrummed with life, Vikings hauling supplies saved—empty barrels, bundles of furs—while healers guided the wounded to solid ground, their groans softened by the promise of Berk's hearths and a warm bed.

You climbed from the longship, your boots sinking into the wet sand, your body aching but your spirit soaring as you stretched, arms wide to embrace the crisp air, the familiar scent of pine and rain a balm to your weary soul—how you missed it.

"Home at last!" Gobber groaned nearby, his peg leg wobbling as he vaulted onto the shore, his axe-hand unstrapped and tossed carelessly into the sand, the iron glinting with a thud.

"I miss my hook and brush!" he declared angrily, as he scratched his beard, earning a laugh from a nearby warrior who dodged the flying prosthetic with a curse.

Toothless, ever eager, erupted into motion, his massive form bounding from the ship with a joyful warble that shook the deck, his talons splashing through the shallows as he leapt from one Viking to another, nearly toppling a healer who yelped, "Oi, you overgrown lizard!"

The Night Fury ignored the protest, his gummy smile flashing as he pranced toward the docks, his tail lashing with unrestrained glee, darting down the beach and out of sight, his roars echoing.

You laughed, the sound bright against the clan's clamor, your smile lifting at his exuberance, a mirror to the relief flooding through you. The docks bustled with Vikings unloading the fallen, their shrouded forms carried with reverence to a clearing, while dragons swooped overhead, their wings casting fleeting shadows, their riders waving from above.

You stretched again, your cloak falling loose, with Menace close in your arms, the weight of the nest's scars easing with each breath of Berk's air, the cliffs towering like sentinels of Freya's grace.

The clan's voices rose, a chorus of homecoming—warriors embracing kin, healers calling for herbs and supplies ready, dragons crooning to their riders. You glanced at Hiccup, carried gently by Stoick to the shore, his face serene in sleep, and your smile held, in hope that he'd wake soon to this reborn Berk, where dragons soared free.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, growing into a chorus of welcomes as Berk's remnant souls—those who'd stayed behind—poured down the winding paths from the village, their furs flapping, their faces alight with joy and awe. Men and women, elders and children, wove through the docks, their arms wide to embrace kin, their voices rising in greetings that drowned the sea's whisper.

Dragons descended, their wings stirring the air, landing among the newcomers with curious chirps, their riders dismounting to join the throng, their tales of the nest's war already legends among the hearths. The clan parted reverently as Stoick carried Hiccup ashore, his massive arms gentle, his beard trembling with a father's pride and sorrow.

The Vikings fell silent, a solemn honor for the boy who'd faced the Red Death and reshaped their way, their eyes tracing his pale face, his severed leg bound in leather, a testament to his sacrifice. Carefully, they took him—placed on a fur stretcher—a group of warriors and healers moving with precision, their hands steady as they bore him up the vast wooden climb to Berk's village, their steps a quiet drumbeat against the planks.

The wounded followed, carried on other prepared stretchers or leaning on comrades, their groans softened by the promise of care. Gothi, the village elder, awaited above, her gnarled staff tapping the earth, her sharp eyes scanning the procession. She'd prepared for the injured, her hut brimming with herbs—yarrow, comfrey, honey and so much more—her apprentices ready with clean cloths and cauldrons of boiled water, ensuring every warrior would be tended, their wounds cleansed of the nest's grim taint.

A sudden blur of motion jolted you from the procession's weight, your breath catching as Toothless bounded back from the beach, his obsidian scales gleaming, his gummy smile and tongue flashing with unbridled joy. Before you could react, his massive head dipped, lifting you in a swift, fluid motion, his jaws gentle but firm as he hoisted you onto his back, his warmth seeping through you.

Laughter spilled from you, bright and unrestrained, bubbling like a spring in Vanaheim as you scratched his chin, his purr vibrating beneath your fingers, a song of reunion that lightened your heart.

"Toothless!" you chided, your voice warm with affection, but he was already moving, his talons digging into the sand as he surged forward, following Hiccup's scent up the wooden climb.

The Night Fury's speed was a whirlwind, his massive form weaving through the procession with reckless grace, climbing over Vikings who grunted and yelped, their balance faltering as his tail swiped their legs.

"Oi, watch it!" one warrior bellowed, nearly toppling into a comrade, while another groaned, "Freyja's mercy, he's worse than a storm!"

You clung to Toothless' back, Menace doing the same to your shoulders, your hands gripping his scales, your laughter a wild peal that rang through the morning, hanging on for dear life as he leapt over railings and dodged outstretched hands, his joy a mirror to your own.

The climb blurred past, the planks creaking under his weight, the village's rooftops rising as the dragon's boundless spirit went after the boy he chased. Toothless caught up to Hiccup's bearers in moments, his speed outstripping the solemn march, his warble echoing as he skidded to a halt in the village's heart, the central square alive with Berk's soul.

The clan waited, a sea of faces—warriors, smiths, children, elders—their voices rising in a thunderous cheer, chanting Hiccup's name despite his slumber, their fists pounding the air in a rhythm that shook the earth like Thor's anvil.

"Hiccup! Hiccup!" they roared, honoring the boy who'd slain a titan and forged peace with dragons.

The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, stood atop a barrel, their singed braids swinging as they hurled makeshift confetti into the air—clumps of what you suspected was green dragon dung, its earthy stench drawing groans and shouts from older Vikings.

"Oi, you daft Thorstons, that's no confetti!" an elder bellowed, swatting at the falling debris, while another coughed, "On Loki's silver tongue, it's filth!"

The twins cackled, undeterred, their Zippleback hissing playfully behind them, its twin heads snapping at stray clumps, adding to the chaos. The crowd's laughter mingled with the cheers, a tapestry of joy and irreverence, Berk's spirit unbroken by war's scars. Dragons soared above, their roars a triumphant chorus.

The bearers carried Hiccup to his home, a sturdy hall of oak and stone, its roof thatched with a snow-dusted roof. You slid from Toothless' back, your boots thudding on the packed earth, and followed them inside—Toothless right behind you, the air thick with the scent of pine and hearth-smoke, a stark contrast to the nest's sulfurous pall.

The warriors laid Hiccup on his bed, its furs soft and worn, their hands gentle as they arranged his limp form, his auburn hair fanning across the pillow, his face serene under the dawn's light filtering through the shutters. You stepped forward, your voice soft but steady, a quiet hymn to their care.

"Thank you," you said, your eyes meeting theirs, gratitude swelling in your chest for their reverence, their silence a shield around the boy who'd saved them all.

Stoick entered, his massive frame filling the doorway, his cloak flapping as he nodded to the bearers, his voice a low rumble of thanks. "My thanks, all of you," he said, his tone heavy, his hand resting on the doorframe as if to anchor himself.

The warriors bowed their heads, their steps retreating as they left, granting privacy to the homes' quiet sanctuary. Outside, the clan's celebration swelled—voices chanting, axes clanging, dragons roaring. The mourning lingered, a shadow for the fallen, but the joy of homecoming burned brighter for them for they went to Valhalla, and a fire kindled by Hiccup's courage and the dragons' newfound place among Berk's hearths seemed a good thing.

You stood by Hiccup's bed, your hand brushing his, the calloused warmth a lifeline in the homes' stillness, Toothless curling nearby, his head resting on the floor, his emerald eyes half-lidded but vigilant.

The clan's voices filtered through the walls, a distant chorus of life, but your world narrowed to Hiccup's steady breaths, the faint rise of his chest, and the hope that he'd wake to this reborn Berk. Stoick lingered by the door, his gaze soft on his son, the weight of war and homecoming a mantle he bore with strength.

Hiccup's home stood as a quiet sanctuary, its oak beams etched with the weight of countless winters, their surfaces worn smooth by the hands of Berk's forebears, each knot and grain a silent saga of resilience. Dawn's light filtered through the shutters, casting golden threads across the floor, where dust motes danced like wraiths, the air thick with the scent of pine, hearth-smoke, and the faint musk of furs.

The fire pit at the room's heart crackled, its flames kindled by some unseen hand before your arrival, their warmth pushing back the morning's chill, painting the walls with flickering shadows that seemed to whisper of Hiccup's enduring might. Outside, the village pulsed with life—Berk's clan chanting Hiccup's name even now, their voices a thunderous hymn that shook the cliffs.

The celebration was vibrant, woven from joy and mourning, the clan's axes clanging, children laughing, and the twins' chaotic antics drawing groans, yet within these walls, the world shrank to a stillness, a sacred pause where only you, Hiccup, and his dragon dwelled. You stood by his bed, stiff, hand rested on his, his calloused fingers warm but limp.

Stoick loomed beside you, his massive frame a bulwark against the light, his ginger beard catching the fire's glow, his eyes softened. He gazed down at Hiccup, lying still on the fur-lined bed, his auburn hair fanned across the pillow, his face pale but serene, locked in the deep sleep that held him like a thrall to Odin's liminal realm fighting for his soul. He turned to you, his gaze steady, and placed a massive hand on your shoulder, its weight of trust, warm through your tunics' worn fibers.

"Watch over him, lass," he said, his voice low, a rumble tempered with gratitude, each word carrying the gravitas of a saga's vow. "I'll see that someone brings you food, and the healers will come to tend Hiccup soon."

His eyes held yours, a flicker of hope kindling beneath the sorrow, and you nodded, a smile breaking through your exhaustion. The promise of care, of home, was a spark of joy amidst the ache of Hiccup's stillness, and you inclined your head, your voice soft but resolute.

"I will, Stoick," you said, the words a quiet oath, binding you to Hiccup's side.

Stoick's hand lingered a moment, his grip tightening briefly, a father's thanks unspoken but heavy as Mjölnir's head, before he turned, his cloak flapping as he strode to the door, his boots thudding on the oak floor before leaving and shutting it. The hall's stillness reclaimed the space as he left, the fire's crackle a steady hymn, its light gilding Hiccup's face, softening the gaunt hollows carved by fever and war.

You sank onto the bed beside him, the furs yielding under your weight, your movements gentle to avoid stirring his rest. Your fingers brushed his hair, the soft strands slipping like silk, and you swept them from his eyes, revealing the faint freckles that dusted his cheeks, a map of the boy who'd stolen your heart. Leaning closer, you pressed a kiss just below his eye, your lips lingering on the warm skin, a tender moment woven in the quiet.

"We're home," you whispered, your voice barely stirring the air, a fragile thread laced with love and longing, as if your words could coax him from the Norns' grasp.

Toothless, curled nearby, his obsidian scales glinting in the firelight, lifted his head, his emerald eyes gleaming with a knowing spark. He warbled a soft coo, a melody of agreement that vibrated through the hall, his tail thumping the floor gently.

From the sack slung at your back, Menace stirred, her tiny form rustling as she poked her head out, her yellow eyes blinking sleepily. She chirped, a high, bright note that echoed Toothless' call, her claws gripping the leather as she scrambled to perch on your shoulder, her warmth a spark against the morning's chill.

Toothless settled closer, his head resting near the bed, his purr a low hymn, while Menace's chirps softened, her tiny form curling against your neck. The world beyond the hall thrummed with life, but here, time stretched thin, a quiet eternity where hope and love held sway, your gaze fixed on Hiccup's face, willing his eyes to open and see the dawn of a reborn Berk, where dragons and Vikings stood as one.

Five days had bled into a relentless vigil since the longships carved their path to Berk's shore, the dawn's golden light now a distant memory swallowed by the gray pall of worry that cloaked the village. The hall of Hiccup's home, its oak beams etched with the scars of winters past, stood as a solemn refuge, its fire pit crackling with a warmth that failed to pierce the chill in your heart.

In that short time, Gobber had crafted a temporary peg leg for Hiccup and a new saddle for Toothless, which would do until Hiccup, with your help, could build a better one, just like you both had made the last one together.

Toothless was so thrilled that he knocked Gobber over and licked him, much to the hook-handed man's grumbling. You and Gobber also planned to build dragon nests for perching and a large fish storage area for their meals. Berk now looked like a dragon haven.

Currently, the air was thick with the scent of pine, the hearth's glow casting trembling shadows across the walls, as if the spirits of the fallen lingered, whispering from Valhalla's halls—creeping in on Hiccup.

Outside, Berk calmed down and thrummed with a muted pulse—dragons soaring freely, their roars a hymn to Hiccup's dream, while the clan's voices rose in laughter and labor here and there, rebuilding, forging, and making bonds with their new kin. Yet within these walls, time stretched into a cruel eternity, each hour a weight heavier than Ymir's bones, as Hiccup remained locked in a deep sleep, his face pale as Niflheim's frost, his chest rising with breaths too faint to promise life.

Nearly four weeks had passed since the Red Death's fall, and the silence of his slumber gnawed at you, Stoick, and the clan, held a specter of dread that whispered of a loss too vast to bear. Your cloak, hung loose about your shoulders, and your hands, calloused from days of tending him, trembled with a fear that Odin's will might claim him yet.

The clan had honored the fallen in the days since your return, their bodies prepared with reverence on small longships draped in wool and flowers, etched with Eihwaz runes for resilience. The traditional Viking send-off had been a somber rite, the boats set ablaze as they drifted into the sea, their flames a guide for fifty-seven souls to Valhalla's gates.

The clan had stood on the shore, their voices raised in a mournful chant, axes clanging against shields, while dragons circled all around, their keens weaving a requiem that tore at your soul. You'd slipped away as the fires faded, your heart too raw to join the clan's mourning, and returned to Hiccup's side, the hall's stillness a shield against the world.

Alone, with no eyes to witness, you'd wept, tears falling like rain, each sob a plea to Freya that Hiccup would not join the fallen, that his fire would burn through the Norns' cruel thread. You'd vowed never to leave him, forsaking the duties of the Great Hall—its hearths, its feasts, its clamor—for the quiet vigil at his bed.

Stoick, his eyes heavy with a father's grief, had granted you leave, his voice soft with the respect he bore you, as if you were a daughter bound to his son by more than loyalty. The clan's tasks carried on without you, their hands tending the wounded, mending ships, and learning the dragons' ways—Marta had help from others, so, while you remained, a sentinel rooted by love, your world narrowed to the faint rhythm of Hiccup's breathing.

It was the sixth day, the morning light filtering through the hall's shutters, casting pale veins across the furs that cradled Hiccup's still form, his auburn hair fanned across the pillow, his freckles faint beneath a pallor that cut like a seax.

You sat beside him as usual, your fingers carving a small circle of wood with a blade, its edges smoothed into the shape of Toothless' curled sleek form, a black chain threaded through it, a necklace to gift him when he woke—a talisman to tether him to the dragon who'd saved him, and a quiet labor to fill the hours that stretched like Hel's shadow.

The knife trembled in your hand, your eyes heavy with sleepless nights, a map of grief and hope entwined. Toothless lay curled by the bed, his obsidian scales glinting in the firelight, his emerald eyes half-lidded but watchful, his tail twitching faintly as Menace, nestled in her sack at your side, chirped softly, her tiny claws gripping the leather.

A sigh from Hiccup jolted you, your head snapping up, the knife slipping as your heart leapt, certain he was stirring due to his movement—only to see his chest rise in a steady breath, his face unchanged, the sound a cruel echo of life without awakening. Your shoulders sagged, the ache in your chest deepening, and you reached out, brushing the hair from his eyes, the soft strands slipping like silk under your fingers.

Leaning closer, you pressed a kiss to his cheek then another to his forehead, your lips lingering on the warm skin, a silent prayer to the Allfather, and rested your own forehead against his, the contact a fragile bridge to the boy you feared might slip away. Tears brimmed, hot, spilling down your cheeks as you drew back, your voice breaking in a whisper that trembled with the weight of a heart laid bare.

"Please, Hiccup, wake up," you said, the words a raw plea, each syllable cracking like ice. "I miss you—so much it hurts, like a wound that won't close."

Your head sank to his shoulder, your tears soaking into his tunic, the fabric muffling your voice as you spoke into its folds, barely above a breath, the confession tearing free for the first time, a truth that had simmered in your soul through war and loss.

"I love you. . .Hiccup. Please, come back to me." Wherever you are, is where home is.

The words hung in the hall's stillness, heavy as a runestone's oath, their echo a wound and a vow, baring the love that had grown in stolen moments—aurora flights, cliffside laughter, the nest's crucible—now spoken aloud, a desperate offering to Freya to tether his spirit to Midgard.

You clung to him, your sobs muffled, each one a shard of glass carving deeper, the fear that he might fade like the fallen a blade twisting in your gut. The fire's crackle was your only answer, its warmth a faint comfort against the cold dread that gripped you, Toothless' soft warble a distant hymn, Menace's chirp a fragile echo, as if they, too, mourned the silence of the boy who'd bound you all.

Minutes stretched, an eternity of grief, until the door creaked open, its hinges groaning like a draugr's lament, and Stoick's broad silhouette filled the frame, his cloak dusted with snow, his beard catching the fire's glow. He paused, his eyes softening as they fell on you, your head resting on Hiccup's shoulder, tears glistening on your cheeks, but a smile curled beneath his beard, a quiet pretense that he hadn't seen the depth of your sorrow.

He strode to the fire pit, his boots thudding on the oak floor, and knelt to stoke the flames, his massive hands deft as he added a log, ensuring the hall's warmth held against the morning's chill. You lifted your head, wiping your tears with the back of your hand, uncaring if he saw the raw grief in your eyes, your face a map of love and fear laid bare. Stoick rose, his gaze flickering to Hiccup, then back to you, his voice low but steady, a command softened by care.

"Gobber's asking for you, lass—just for a moment. Something about the dragons and the forge. Won't keep you long." His tone held a gentle urging, a nudge to draw you from the weight you carried, though his eyes lingered on his son, a flicker of shared worry beneath his resolve.

You hesitated, your hand tightening on Hiccup's, the necklace half-carved in your lap, the thought of leaving him a stone in your chest. But you nodded, your voice barely a whisper.

"I'll be right back," you said, turning to Hiccup, your eyes tracing his still face.

You rose—picking up the knife and necklace, Menace chirping softly as you slung her sack over your shoulder, and walked to the door, Stoick's heavy steps following. The door shut behind you, its thud a final note in the hall's quiet, leaving Toothless and Hiccup to the fire's vigil, your heart tethered to the hope of his awakening as you stepped into Berk's clamor.

Now, you trudged through the village, your cloak trailing over the packed earth, the sea's briny tang mingling with the scent of pine and smoke. Menace chirped softly from her sack, her tiny claws gripping the leather, a small comfort as you made your way to the forge where Gobber waited, his summons pulling you reluctantly from Hiccup's side.

The forge loomed ahead, its stone walls blackened with soot, the air thick with the tang of molten iron and charred wood, its open side glowing with the hearth's restless fire. Your steps were heavy, your eyes puffy from tears shed in secret, the carved Toothless necklace tucked in your pocket, a talisman for the moment you prayed would come.

Gobber stood by the anvil, his peg leg propped on a stool, his hook-hand gesturing at a tangle of leather and iron—Toothless' new saddle. His weathered face lit up as you entered, his voice booming with its usual gruff cheer.

"There ye are, lass! I need more help with this—this saddle needs a tweak before Hiccup's up and about. The tailfin's linkage is off, and I reckon you've got the knack to—"

He stopped short, his eye narrowing as he took in your face, the swollen of your eyes betraying the grief you'd tried to hide.

"Lass. . ." he said, his tone softening, worry creasing his brow as he limped toward you, his hook-hand hovering awkwardly before he pulled you into a fierce hug. You sank into his embrace, the rough wool of his tunic scratching your cheek, and clung to him, fighting the tears that threatened to spill again.

His arms, strong despite his years, held you like a father, and his voice dropped to a gentle rumble. "You've been cryin' again, haven't ye? Don't think I can't see it."

You nodded against his shoulder, your throat too tight to speak, the weight of Hiccup's silence pressing like a stone on your chest. Gobber's hand patted your back, clumsy but warm.

"Don't ye worry that pretty head of yours, lass. Hiccup's tougher than a Monstrous Nightmare's hide. He'll be wakin' soon, mark my words."

Before you could reply, a commotion erupted outside, a swell of voices that shook the forge's walls like a storm's first gust. A shout pierced the din, sharp and jubilant.

"It's Hiccup!"

Your eyes widened, your heart thumping wildly, a frantic drumbeat that drowned the forge's hiss. You got out of Gobbers grasp and spun toward the open side, where Hiccup's home stood atop the hill, its thatched roof glinting in the morning light. A gasp tore from you, hands flying to your mouth as the truth struck—Hiccup was awake, his green eyes open at last, a miracle wrested from the Norns' grasp.

Without a word, you bolted from the forge, Gobber's heavy steps pounding way ahead of you, his peg leg thumping the earth the fastest you'd ever seen him go. The village blurred past, Vikings parting as you ran, your cloak flapping, the hill's climb a desperate scramble.

You pushed through the crowd outside Hiccup's home, elbows jabbing, your breath ragged as you broke into the clearing, where Stoick stood beside his son, now propped against the doorframe, his face pale but alive, a shy smile curling his lips.

Stoick's voice boomed, pride radiating as he gestured broadly at Hiccup, his blood-streaked beard trembling with joy.

"Turns out all we needed was a bit more of. . .this!" he said, his hand sweeping over his son, a chieftain's grin lighting his face.

Hiccup, his auburn hair mussed, his frame fragile but unbowed, ducked his head, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "You just gestured to all of me," he said, his voice soft but warm, a spark of his old humor that drew a chuckle from Stoick, who nodded, his eyes gleaming.

Gobber, shoving through the crowd with you close behind, reached them first, his hook-hand waving as he boasted, "Well, most of ye, lad! That bit's my handiwork."

He pointed to Hiccup's new peg leg, a sturdy contraption of wood and iron, its craftsmanship evident despite the rough-hewn design.

"With a touch of Hiccup flair, mind ye. Think it'll do?"

Hiccup's gaze flicked to the leg, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I might make a few tweaks," he quipped, his voice steadier now, earning a roar of laughter from the crowd, their cheers a hymn to his return, Hiccup's own laugh mingling with theirs, a sound that warmed your aching heart.

You reached him at last, huffing from the run, your eyes locking with his, and the world seemed to still, the crowd's clamor fading to a distant hum. Your smile gleamed, bright as a sunbeam piercing a storm, and Hiccup's face lit up, his green eyes softening with a warmth that spoke of shared trials.

No words passed between you, but your faces told it all of their own—your eyes brimming with relief, love, and the ache of weeks spent fearing his loss, his gaze mirroring it with gratitude, longing, and a quiet promise that he'd returned to you and kept.

The crowd watched, their murmurs hushed, Stoick's knowing smile deepening, Gobber's eye glinting with unspoken approval, both men seeing the bond that tethered you, a love as fierce as any dragon's fire. The moment hung, fragile and radiant, when you started walking to him.

The spell shattered as Astrid stepped forward, her braid swinging, her fist connecting with Hiccup's arm in a sharp punch that made him flinch. "Ow!?" he yelped, rubbing the spot, his eyes wide with confusion.

"That's for scaring me," Astrid said, her tone sharp but her lips twitching with a grin, her blue eyes flashing with her usual fire.

Hiccup opened his mouth, stumbling over his words. "What? Is it always gonna be like this with you? 'Cause—"

Before he could finish, Astrid seized his collar, pulling him into a fierce kiss, her lips crashing against his, a bold claim that drew a loud "Ooo!" from the crowd, their cheers swelling with delight. Your smile vanished, your heart lurching as if struck by a sword, the warmth in your chest turning to ice.

Gobber's eyes widened, his hook pausing mid-air as he turned to you, but you were already gone, slipping through the crowd, your steps silent, your face a mask to hide the pain clawing at your soul. Stoick caught Gobber's eye, their shared glance heavy with confusion and worry, a silent question of where you'd fled, but neither moved to follow, unwilling to dim Hiccup's moment.

Gobber, his worry for you a nagging weight, stepped forward, gently handing Hiccup Toothless' new saddle gear you had made him, the leather and iron polished with extreme care.

"Welcome home, lad," he said, his voice warm but tinged with unease, his smile masking the concern for you. "She made that for you."

Hiccup took the gear, his fingers brushing the straps, but his gaze darted to the crowd, searching for you, a flicker of confusion crossing his face when he found you gone. Before he could speak, a shout had rang out.

"Night Fury!"

And Toothless burst from the door, his massive form leaping over Vikings, who grunted and stumbled, his talons thudding as he pounced toward Hiccup, his gummy smile flashing. The crowd laughed, their voices rising as the dragon tackled his rider, Hiccup's laughter mingling with the clan's cheers, a moment of joy that echoed through Berk's heart, even as your absence lingered like a shadow.

The village's clamor faded to a distant hum as you bit your lip, wiping the tears harshly that stung your eyes on repeat. Hiccup's awakening, a miracle you'd prayed for through weeks of dread, had unraveled into a wound sharper than any blade—Astrid's kiss, bold before you could, searing itself into your memory like a hot brand iron.

Your heart, so full of hope moments before, now throbbed with a quiet betrayal, the love you'd confessed in the hall's stillness mocked by the crowd's cheers. You pushed through Berk's winding paths, your cloak trailing over the earth, its hem snagging in its fibers as you climbed the hill toward the Great Hall.

The air was sharp with pine and the faint smoke of hearths, but you barely noticed, your steps driven by a need to flee, to outrun the ache that clawed at your chest. Past the hall you went, its towering doors a blur, the laughter and clanging within a world you couldn't care less about.

You crossed the wooden bridge to the woods, its planks creaking under your boots, the forest's shadowed embrace swallowing you whole. You kicked at the dirt, your breath hitching as you climbed hills and stumbled down slopes, the earth's uneven pulse mirroring your own.

The cove loomed ahead, its rocky cliffs jagged against the light, a place once sacred with Hiccup's laughter and Toothless' warbles. You stood at its edge, looking down with a scornful twist to face, the memories too raw, too tangled with the boy who'd slipped through your fingers. Turning away, you plunged deeper into the forest, its pines whispering secrets as the evening deepened, your heart a storm you couldn't outrun.

You'd been out there for hours uncaring. The forest turning to woods finally gave way to an unfamiliar shore, a hidden beach on some forgotten edge of Berk, where you collapsed, the late evening sky bruising into twilight.

You sat at the water's edge, knees drawn to your chin, your torn cloak splayed across the sand, its fibers knotted with twigs that matched the disarray of your hair. The beach was a vision of unearthly beauty, a majesty that seemed to mock your grief, yet held you in its spell.

The waters glowed with bioluminescent plankton, their ethereal light washing ashore in shimmering waves, each crest a cascade of sapphire and emerald that flickered like stars fallen to Midgard. The moon, newly risen, cast a silver veil over the sea, its glow weaving with the thousands of orange hues painted by the setting sun, their colors bleeding into the horizon like a tapestry.

The waves lapped gently, their touch just grazing your toes, a cool caress that stirred the sand into fleeting patterns, while fireflies blinked in the dunes, their golden pulses dancing with the rhythm of the tide.

The air was alive with the scent of salt and kelp, a crisp tang softened by the faint sweetness of blooming heather, carried on a breeze that whispered of secrets older than Berk's cliffs. You sat motionless, your face blank, the world's beauty a stark contrast to the void within, your eyes tracing the horizon where sea and sky melded into a dreamlike haze.

Your hand opened, revealing the necklace you'd carved for Hiccup, its wooden Toothless pendant gleaming faintly, the black chain coiled like a serpent in your palm. You stared at it, expressionless, the gift meant for his awakening now a relic of a hope shattered by the kiss.

Anger bubbled within, a slow boil that tightened your chest, and with a sudden motion, you stood, backing away from the water's edge. Your arm reared back, and you hurled the necklace into the sea, its arc a fleeting shadow against the glowing waves, the pendant sinking into the depths with a silent splash.

The act did nothing to quell the storm inside, your breath hitching as the anger gave way to a deeper ache, the love you'd whispered to Hiccup in the hall now adrift in the tide. A low rumble broke the silence, a vibration that stirred the sand beneath your feet, and before you could turn to find its source, the ground shifted, pitching you backward.

You landed with a gasp, your hands grasping something warm and hard, the surface scaly and alive. The sand erupted around you, a living tide that surged upward, higher and higher, as you clung desperately, your heart pounding. It was a tail, its fin broad and leathery, and as you squinted, you saw eyes—two glowing orbs on its tip, staring back with an eerie calm.

Panic seized you as you realized it was a wild dragon, its form hidden beneath the sand. You released the tail, dropping to the beach with a huff, only to land on its back, the scales rough under your hands. The dragon moved, sifting through the sand with a fluid grace, and a pair of mighty orange eyes emerged, blazing like twin suns through the cascading grains.

Sand fell like waterfalls around its massive wings as it rose, hovering above you, its form fully revealed—a creature of terrifying beauty, its body sleek and sinuous, its scales a mosaic of dun and amber that shimmered in the bioluminescent glow. Its wings, broad and veined like ancient parchment, pulsed faintly, stirring the air with a low hum, while its tail curled, the eyed fin twitching as if sizing you up.

You stared, fear and awe warring within, your breath shallow as the dragon's presence filled the beach, its majesty a mirror to the sea's radiant dance. Its eyes held you, unblinking, their orange, fiery depths flecked with gold, like embers in a dying fire, and you braced for a blast of flame as its jaws parted, the cavernous maw glowing faintly. But instead, it yawned, a cavernous gape that revealed rows of sharp teeth, and collapsed onto the sand, its head thudding beside you, eyes fluttering shut as it began to purr, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the beach.

You sat frozen, the glowing night wrapping around you, the fireflies' golden pulses weaving through the air, the moon's silver light mingling with the sun's fading orange hues, the plankton's shimmering waves lapping at the shore. The dragon's purr, steady and warm, filled the silence, a sound far from its native sands, yet perfectly at home in this hidden cove.

You stared at the creature, its terrifying beauty softened by sleep, and felt the anger in your chest ebb, replaced by a quiet wonder. The beach held you in its embrace, its majestic fleeting balm to the heartbreak that had driven you here, and as the dragon slept, you remained, a solitary figure in the glowing night, your story poised on the edge of a new dawn.