Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The year Jackson was born, the most beautiful person in the world was a young native girl living in the great North American Interior. She had perfectly tanned skin, flowing black braids, and the most melodious voice ever heard upon those plains. As she came of age, it did not take long for her tribe to realize they had someone extraordinary living among them. Unfortunately, this was after the Conquest(most recorded American history is) and the tribe and the girl were enslaved and put to work in mines. Her tanned skin grew pale, her braids were cut short, and her voice was ruined by the dust of the mines.

The year Jackson turned ten, the most beautiful person in the world was a little boy living in the countryside of what would become France(this was before France). He had golden hair and rosy cheeks, an all agreed that he was the closest approximation of an angel one could see without approaching the pearly gates. The boy was thirteen years old when puberty hit, turning his rosy cheeks to pimple-dotted plains and his hair oily and greasy. While he eventually recovered, as most do after puberty strikes, the angel had fallen.

When Jackson was fifteen, the most beautiful creature was easily a young woman living in Rome(this was after Rome, everything is, even roads). She so far outpaced any other competitors that it seemed inevitable that she would be the most beautiful for many many years to come. But it happened one day that one of her many suitors(she had 327) remarked that she was surely the most perfect creature to ever walk the face of the earth(which was not far off actually, she was fifth in that respect). The Roman girl, flattered, began to ponder the truth of this statement. She spent fourteen and a half hours looking in a mirror(this was after mirrors), inspecting each of her features in succession before she came to the conclusion that the young woman had been correct, she was perfect. In that moment, she was the happiest she had ever been, and she ran through the streets of Rome, thinking joyously, ‘How lucky I am to be perfect. To be rich and kind and beautiful and young-’ and then an awful thought occurred to her. She would not always be young. Of course she would not always be young, but if she was not young, how would she stay perfect? And if she were not perfect, what else was there? She frowned at this, the first time in her life she had cause to do so, and immediately rushed to her mirror, horrified that she might have somehow caused permanent damage. She had not, but now she had begun to worry. The first worry lines appeared within a fortnight, wrinkles within a month, and by the end of a year, bags and creases abounded. Shortly after, she married the self same woman who accused her of perfection, and gave her merry hell for many years.

Jackson at fifteen knew none of this of course, and even of he had, he would have found it ridiculous. Why would anyone care how beautiful they were, much less where they ranked on such a scale? What difference would it make if you were third or sixth?(Jackson was nowhere near this high, being barely in the top twenty, and primarily on potential. Have you ever met a teenage boy who takes particularly good care of themselves? I didn't think so, and Jackson was worse than most. He hated to wash his face, never combed his hair, avoided bathing whenever possible, and walked around barefoot.) For you see, there were precious few things Jackson liked, let alone loved, and being clean or considered beautiful were nowhere on those lists.

In all the world, Jackson Overland loved precisely five things, no more, no less. The first was the thing-I should say person-who he loved more than anyone else in the world, even the precious few other things he loved. This was his baby sister Emma Overland. Of course, she was not a baby anymore, but she had been when they met, so she was eternally a child in her older brother’s eyes. They were best friends, co-conspirators, troublemakers extraordinaire, sharing everything and rarely leaving each other's side. Jackson considered it his mission to protect her from all the evil in the world, and he rather would have died than seen the smile fall from her face.

The second thing he loved-again a person, or people in this case-was his parents. Now for some people, their siblings and parents would be loved equally. Not so for Jackson. Obviously he loved his parents, but they had certain qualities that occasionally impeded on Emma's safety or happiness, so they were relegated to second place. North was the name of his father, we'll actually it was Nikolas, but no one ever called him that. As a young man, North had been convinced that they key to his fortune lay somewhere in the North, and the moment he was able, he set off North to find it. And find it he did, working as an unsurpassed craftsman in a distant Northern city. Unfortunately for him, he found not only his fortune, but also a love of gambling. Within a year he had gambled away his fortune-for a love for an activity does not guarantee success at it-and lumbered his way back South, where he settled down with Jackson’s mother, some brandy, and weekly card games, where he always lost a little more money than he could afford. The village never let him forget his Northern obsession though, hence the name North, which he carried till the end of his days. Tooth was the name of his mother, well actually it was Isla, but no one called her that. As a young woman, Isla had the most beautiful smile in the eastern half of Potin(this of course is where the Overlands lived). Two perfectly straight rows of pearly whites that were absolutely dazzling when turned on you. Once a young nobleman caught sight of her famous smile from his carriage window and was so taken with the young woman that he asked for her hand in marriage. The nobleman’s betrothed did not take kindly to this, and secretly arranged for an accident. Within two days, the marriage offer was snatched back faster than you can say scram, the nobleman gained a healthy fear of his betrothed, and Isla was missing one of her front teeth. The most beautiful smile in the eastern half of Potin now had a gaping hole and crooked whites, courtesy of a donkey kick. A year after her downfall, she settled down with Jackson’s father and her memories of perfect teeth, which hereafter became a slight obsession of hers. The village never let her forget her once-perfect smile though, hence the ironic name Tooth, which she carried till the end of her days.

Now this description may paint the picture that North and Tooth were bad parents, which is not true. They were good, decent people who cared for their children and worked fairly hard and were overall rather average. They had their faults obviously, and squabbled often, occasionally to the point where people wondered how they had produced children, but overall they were rather ordinary people with big dreams who had been forced to settle, as many have before and since. How they produced Jackson was beyond them, but they were there when he was born, and that was enough for them to accept it as a happy accident.

The third thing Jackson loved was his horse. The young man was an accomplished rider, and rode Wind-for that was the horse’s name-with all the force of a hurricane. Any who saw them ride would swear that they were flying, so hard and fast did Wind run with her rider. Jackson loved that horse more than almost everything else in the world for the chief reason that Wind was his best(and only) friend other than Emma, and the horse enabled his freedom. When he rode, he was not a farmer’s son, but a spirit of wind and winter, free to go wherever he wished and never settle down. Which brings us to the fourth thing Jackson loved; winter itself. Jackson’s village was cursed every year with one of the harshest winters you could find outside of the Arctic Circle. But he saw foot upon foot of snow as a blessing instead of a dangerous nuisance. He never grew cold(even if he did he would never admit it), never grew tired, never ceased to see every snowflake as the most miraculous thing to ever grace the world with existence. The coldest season made a dervish of him as he spread trouble, started play fights, and built grand fantasies out of snow and ice. While the village was covered in white, it was easy to pretend that it was a distant land of snow and magic and miracles instead of the dull brown mud hole(not to insult mud holes) that it really was.

To be quite honest, Wind and winter were tied for third place of things he loved. He would give both up for the sake of his family, but would be hard pressed to choose one over the other. Both meant freedom from everyday life, a brief taste of the adventure he so craved. There was only one thing about ordinary life that Jackson enjoyed at all, which happens to be the fifth and final thing he loved. Tormenting the Farm Boy.

The Farm Boy was more of a young man now, but he had been a boy when he started working for Jackson’s family. If he had a name, it had long since been forgotten by the Overlands, save for North, but he was often too drunk to remember it when the topic came up. So Farm Boy remained Farm Boy. Jackson was extremely fond of ordering him around,“Go get that for me Farm Boy.” or “Farm Boy, you smell, have you taken a bath in your entire life?” or other things of that nature.

“As you wish.” Was always the answer, even to the nastiest comments. Even when Jackson would later apologize for the more mean-spirited things(Because he was a nice boy at heart, just a bit of a trouble maker), “I’m sorry Farm Boy, please forgive me.” All he would receive was “As you wish.” Beyond that, the two often worked together on farm chores, and when the day was done, Jackson would say “Good night Farm Boy, sweet dreams.” and the Farm Boy would reply “As you wish.” and go to his little shed near the animals. According to Tooth, he kept it clean and read when he had candles.

“I’ll leave the boy an acre in my will,” North was fond of saying(They had acres then.)

“You’ll spoil him.” Tooth would reply.
“He’s worked hard for years, he deserves something.” Then, rather than continuing the argument(they had arguments then too), the two would turn on Jackson.

“You didn’t bathe.” His mother would accuse.

“I did too.”

“Not well then, you smell of Wind.” His father would join in.

“I was riding.”

“Well, you better go wash again, no one will want to marry you if you smell of stables.”

“Oh, come on! Who cares about marriage?” Jackson exploded. “I don't need anyone, I've got Emma and Wind and that's perfectly fine.”

This was a common argument in the Overland household. Truth be told, North and Tooth quite missed the days of little children in the house, and were eagerly waiting for the day their children would settle down and make them grandparents. Their oldest child was not exactly on board with these plans.

But whether Jackson liked it or not, things were beginning to change. Now Jackson was barely in the top twenty of most beautiful, and that primarily on potential. Nonetheless, he was still in the top twenty, and that was more than enough to turn heads. Shortly before his sixteenth birthday, Jackson realized that it had been over a month since any of the village youths had spoken to him. While this was not precisely uncommon, as Jackson avoided most people’s company, it was odd to not even receive a nod as he rode through town making milk deliveries. He finally cornered a young boy named Jamie one morning in the market.

“What's going on?” He asks simply. He hoped that it was something easily fixed. He did not like being invisible much.

“Don't play dumb, you know what you've done.”

“I really don't Jamie, just tell me!”

“You’ve stolen them.” His tone left no room for argument as he pranced away, but Jackson already had his answer. Them. He'd stolen the village youths. There were many youths approaching marriageable age, and the most popular all had their eyes on Jackson. Girl's would walk with him as he made deliveries, fawning over his strength, “It's not very hard, the Farm Boy lifts more.”; boys would offer to brush Wind, “No thank you, the Farm Boy does that.” And they all asked to accompany him on his rides and adventures with Emma, to which he always replied, “No thank you, we prefer to go alone.” “You think you're too good for anyone, don't you?” “No, it's just more fun with Emma.” Which was true. Around his family  he was troublesome, full of laughter and light, but outside that, he really did prefer to be alone.

As time went on, the youths stopped following him around, instead talking about him where he could hear them but do nothing. They would whisper in alleys as he walked by or gather outside his window at night, spreading rumors, “I hear he wears a mask to cover horrible sores.” “I hear he’s simple, and doesn’t have a single thought in his head.” “I hear he spread his legs for-” When the taunts grew too terrible the Farm Boy would emerge from his shed and thrash some of them, sending them fleeing for at least a few days. Jackson never failed to thank him when he did this, bandaging up his wounds afterwards. (The boy tried, but he was only sixteen, and rather noodlely, so he rarely escaped his fights unscathed.) Jackson would apologize and thank him, but all he would ever hear in return was “As you wish.” So that was the way things went throughout Jackson’s sixteenth year, the only change being the addition of the Farm Boy to Jackson and Emma’s rides, which made Jackson happy for some reason he could not place. Tooth would just smile knowingly and make a comment about the Farm Boy’s teeth( She really did have an obsession).

All those involved will tell you that things truly began to happen the day the Count came to visit, but really it began about three weeks before that, shortly after Jackson’s seventeenth birthday, when he encountered a man on one of his many rides. The man commented on his beauty, which in itself was not unusual, as no matter what your opinion of Jackson was, you had to concede he was rather beautiful. But what made this encounter special was that this was the first nobleman to notice him, and it is this man, whose name has been lost to time, that first mentioned Jackson to the Count.

The land of Potin was settled between where Sweden and Scotland would eventually reside(this was before Europe). In theory it was ruled by King Mani and Queen Stella. But in reality, the king was barely hanging onto life, could barely tell day from night, and spent most of his time muttering and the rest drooling. He was very old, most of his organs has long since betrayed him, and many of his important decisions had an arbitrary quality that rather bothered the leading citizens of Potin.

Prince Kotzmozis actually ran things. If there had been a Europe, he would have been the most powerful man in it. Even as it was, no one within a thousand miles wanted to mess with him. He was a competent leader, to be sure, but anyone who had ever met him would agree that the man was absolutely terrifying. This nightmare’s right-hand man was the Count. His name was Alvin the Treacherous, a nasty name for a nasty creature. How he’d gained the name Treacherous, no one really knew, and no one wanted to find out. Everyone unlucky enough to meet him simply addressed him as the Count, as he was the only Count in the land, the title given to him as a reward from the Prince for completing a particularly nasty job, or so the rumors went. It was whispered that even the Prince did not trust him, and had given him the job to keep an eye on him. The Countess was not the Count’s wife(as no sane woman would ever marry a Treacherous), but his mother Excellinor(who had married a Treacherous, let that say what it will about her sanity). She was a nasty creature, just like her son, but with impeccable taste(this was just after taste, so she was the only woman in all of Potin to have any any, so no wonder it was considered impeccable) and the elegance of a far younger woman. In sum, these two comprised the whole of the nobility of Potin, were the second most powerful people in the land and had been for many years.

“That man must have lovely teeth.” Tooth remarked dreamily one morning after breakfast. Emma wandered over to the window to see what her mother was staring at, looking for the focus of her comment. Then she let out a great shout,

“Da! Jack!”(I should add that there was exactly one person in the world who did not call Jackson by his given name, and that was his sister, who called him Jack, which suited him far better than Jackson. She was the only one allowed to call him that, however). The two came racing over from the breakfast table, and were met with a grand sight.

“The Count’s carriage,” North breathed. “The workmanship is absolutely flawless.”

“How lucky we are to have seen it.” Replied Tooth absentmindedly, and Emma rolled her eyes as Jack snorted. Neither of them really approved of their parent’s near worship of the nobility.  Secretly though, they both wished they could see the carriage a bit closer, if only to see if it really was as great as it seemed. As if in response to their unspoken wish, the grand carriage suddenly turned down the road to the farm. Tooth wheeled on her husband,

“What did you do!? Did you pay your taxes?!”(This was after taxes, everything is).

North flung his hands up in panic, “I did, I did! Even if I didn’t why would they send all that to collect taxes?!” he yelled, wildly pointing at the carriage. As their parents squabbled, Jack pulled Emma aside.

“Hey, I don’t know what’s going on, but if something bad happens, go get Wind and get far away, you hear me?”

Emma pretended to think this over, “Okay...but only if you come with me.”

“No, if you get the chance, you go, okay? I can take care of myself.” By that time, the carriage was outside their front door, and the adults trooped outside to meet their fate, whatever that may be. Trembling, North and Tooth approached the carriage and politely inquired as to what the Count wanted with them.

“Cows,” the great terrible Treacherous said from inside his golden carriage, face darkened my shadow. “I would like to talk about your cows.”

“My cows?” North said.

“Yes, you see, I’m thinking of starting a little dairy of my own for the holiday season, and since your cows are known throughout the land as being Potin’s finest, I thought I might pry your secrets from you.”

“My cows.” North repeated, hoping he was not going mad. He may have been a drunkard and a gambler, but he was no fool. His cows were terrible. If there were any competition from the village, he would have gone out of business immediately. Granted, things had improved since the Farm Boy came to work for him, but that did not make his cows the finest in this or any land. But he knew better than to argue with the count. “What would you say my secret is my dear?” he stalled, turning to Tooth.

“Oh, there are so many.” She fibbed, for she was not a fool either, especially not concerning their livestock.

“You two are childless then?” The count asked, hoping to hurry this along.

“No sir.” Tooth answered.

“Well, go fetch him then,  perhaps he will be quicker with his answers than his parents.” Tooth went off to get Jackson while North wondered,

“How did you know we had a son?”

“Well,” the Count snapped, “I guessed. I assumed it had to be one or the other. Some days I’m luckier-” He simply stopped talking then. Because Jackson had emerged from the house. Now, it has to be said that the Count didn’t even like men. Quite the womanizer actually. And it has to be remembered that Jackson was barely in the top twenty; his hair was uncombed, his skin dirty, clothes ratty and smelling of horse, and still a child, barely seventeen, with the remnants of baby fat. Nothing had been done to him. Nothing was there but potential. And yet the Count could not look away.

“The Count would like to know the secrets behind our cows darling.” Tooth said gently. The Count nodded along, still staring, open mouthed. It was quite rude actually. Even North noticed a certain tension in the air. Jackson was even less of a fool than his parents, he knew that whatever this was about, it was certainly not cows.

“Ask the Farm Boy then, he tends them.”

“And is that the Farm Boy?!” A shrill voice erupts from the carriage, and the Countess's face appeared at the window. It seemed impossible that she was the mother of the large dark count. For one, she was thin as a whip, and small, dwarfed by the carriage. Second, she looked younger than the Count, younger even than Jackson’s mother. Smooth skin painted in pale pinks and luscious reds, sparkling jewels hung around her neck, not a wrinkle to be found. Her dress had more colors than had ever been seen in the small village. Jackson wanted to shield his eyes from the brilliance. It seemed as if the rumors of witchcraft were true.

North was the first to recover, glancing at the figure peering around the corner of the farmhouse. “It is.” A strange feeling was growing in Jackson’s stomach, and he cut in,

“He is not dressed properly for such an occasion.”

“I have seen bare chests before, now bring him here,” the Countess replied. Then she called out sharply, “You!” She pointed a perfect finger at the Farm Boy. “Come here,” she snapped her fingers impatiently, “Here!” The Farm Boy did as he was told, head bowed in shame. Jackson had a point, he really did not seem fit to meet the splendor of the noble couple.

He was clad only in old blue jeans(blue jeans were invented considerably before most people suppose) and worn boots. His hands and arms were dirty, and his hair was askew and sweat-slicked to his forehead. The strange feeling spread from Jackson’s stomach to his lungs, and he had trouble breathing for a moment.

“What is your name boy?”

“Hiccup, your Grace.”

“Well Hiccup , maybe you can help us with our little problem. You see, my son would very much like to learn about the cows you tend to. We are simply dying with the desire to learn the secrets behind the success of these cows, and desperately need your assistance. Now what is it that you do that makes these cows the finest in all of Potin?”

“I just feed them, your Grace.”

“Well then, the magic must be in your feeding, show me how you do it then Hiccup.”

“You want me to feed the cows? While you watch?”

“Bright lad.”

“Umm...okay then…”

“Now if you please.”

“Oh yeah, ah, this way I guess-wait.”

“What?” The Countess snaps.

“Your dress’ll get dirty.”

“That’s no matter, I only ever wear them once anyway. Now,” she sticks out her arm, “lead me to these cows.” So Hiccup grabed her elbow and led the Countess to the cowshed, group in tow. And as they watched the Farm Boy feed the cows, no one actually watched the cows. North and Tooth were watching the Count, who was watching Jackson, who was watching the Countess. Who was watching Hiccup.

The Countess was still staring at Hiccup. Jackson lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, the Countess was still staring at Hiccup. He got up and paced his room. The Countess was still staring at Hiccup. He crept down the stairs, went to the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water. The Countess was still staring at Hiccup. He practically threw his glass into the sink(sinks were also invented considerably before most people suppose), stormed back upstairs, and collapsed on his bed. The Countess was still staring at Hiccup.

A knock came at his door, and Emma poked her head in.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s with all the banging?”

“It’s nothing.” Jack had a habit of lying to his sister when he was upset. Didn’t want her to get upset too, you see. Unfortunately(or maybe fortunately) for him, she had picked up on that years ago, so instead of leaving, she sat down on the edge of his bed.

“What are you doing? Go back to sleep, I’ll be quiet.”

“What’s going on Jack?”

“Nothing! I told you nothing is going on!” Emma raises an eyebrow.

“ Really? I would have thought it was something about the Count’s visit today.” Emma Overland was the least foolish member of the family. She knew exactly what had happened earlier, even if the rest of the family did not. She knew the reason for the Count’s visit, the Countess’s interest, and Jack’s sleeplessness. Now she just had to help Jack figure it out for himself.

“It was a very strange visit,” she wheedled with the finesse of a master. “Why do you think they were interested in cows of all things?”

“They say they were interested in cows,” Jack explained, with the air of someone telling a secret to a dullard(Emma had to keep herself from rolling her eyes), “But all she really did was stare at Hic-the Farm Boy.” He said hurriedly.

“Really?” Emma pressed, with wide innocent eyes.

“Really. And she couldn't stop... touching him.”

“Interesting-”

“Why!” Jack exploded a little bit, and Emma knew she was on the verge of a breakthrough, “Why would the perfect woman, the most perfect woman in the entire country, be interested in Hiccu-the Farm Boy? Because believe me, she was interested. There is no other way of explaining that look .” He flopped backwards onto the bed, arms spread dramatically.

“Why do you think? I mean, if she was looking at him like that , something about him had to interest her. Facts are facts.” Emma was perhaps enjoying this a little more than she should have.

“Well, what could it be?  I mean, he does have nice hair, all sort of red, sort of bleached brown. But anyone would have hair like that if they worked in the sun all day. And he does have cute teeth, I guess, with that little gap, but who cares about teeth besides Mom? Yeah sure, he’s kinda tall and lean, but that’s just because he’s young. And I guess he’s got some muscle, but anyone would if they worked all day. And his skin is freckley and tan at the same time, I don’t know how, but it is, but anyone would have skin like that if they worked in the sun all day!” Then Jack sits straight up, “It must be his eyes. Hiccup does have nice eyes, I mean, you gotta give credit where credit is due. They’re all shiny and green like the forest in summer, and they sparkle when he’s excited about something, or after a really long fast horse ride. Did you ever notice that when he started tagging along on our rides? He doesn’t talk much, but he says a lot, ya know? It’s all in the eyes. I bet those eyes are what emeralds look like.” Jack hugs a pillow as he rambles.

Emma yawns. While she very much wants to witness the next few realizations, it’s late. Besides, Jack will never admit anything to himself if she’s there. So she makes to leave.

“You’ve never seen emeralds, Jack.”

“But I said I bet. Bet means I’m guessing, that’s probably what emeralds look like-you know what? Go back to bed, okay? We’ll talk more in the morning. I already feel a little better. We figured it out, the Countess was interested in Hiccup because of his eyes.”

“Ok then big brother. I’ll see you in the morning.” She gives him a peck on the forehead, then leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

Jack tries to settle down to sleep, and is just about to drift off when his eyes snap open. People don’t look at people the way the Countess was looking at Hiccup just because of their eyes.  

“Oh no.” Jack gasped as a terrible scene unfolded in his mind’s eye. Now Hiccup was staring back at the Countess . He was feeding the cows, tan skin slick with sweat the way it always was and Jack was watching as Hiccup looked, for the first time, deep into the Countess’s eyes. Jack jumps out of bed and begins to pace his room again. How could he? Oh, it was alright if Hiccup looked at her, but he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at her .

“She’s so old,” Jack mutters under his breath, “and stupid.” She had to be, to get something as priceless as that dress all dirty, or to focus on Hiccup’s eyes when there were so many other perfectly nice things about him. Like those little braids in his hair that looked like they would be fun to play with. Or the careful way he tended all the animals, even the ones that had bitten him, and most of them had bitten him at some point. Jack knew, he’d been bandaging him up for years, which had seemed like an annoyance at the time, but now just seemed like a missed opportunity to talk to him. Jack had tried many times over the years to get him to talk, but Hiccup never had, so he’d given up after awhile. Then Hiccup has stopped getting bitten, or at least needing bandages, and the opportunities to talk had ceased altogether, which was a shame, he thought, because when Hiccup had spoken earlier today, he’d had a nice voice. Jack wondered what he would talk about. Would he talk about those little thingamawhatsits he built when he thought no one was looking? Would he tell jokes? Then a horrible thought occurred to him, what if Hiccup would talk about the Countess? And the horrible image was back in his mind, of them looking at each other, Hiccup and the disgustingly old Countess. She really was old, with little piggy eyes and too much face powder and her too big painted mouth and….and….and...Jack flailed and thrashed on his bed, throwing a pillow across the room. It hit the wall with a thud, and on the other side, Emma smiled as she drifted off to sleep. Jack had figured it out.

It was a very long night for Jack. There have been three great cases of jealousy in all of recorded history. This case was a very close fourth on the all-time list. He was outside Hiccup’s shed before dawn. He could hear him already awake, so he knocked. Waited. Hiccup appeared in the doorway. Behind him was a glimpse of bookshelves and candles and a tiny bed.  He waited. Jack looked at him, blue eyes meeting green. Then Jack looked away. He was too beautiful.

“I love you,” Jack began. “I know this may seem a bit crazy, ‘cause until recently all I’ve ever done is torment you, but I’ve known I loved you for a couple hours now, and I loved you for a long time before that, I just didn’t know it. I used to think I only loved teasing you, but then I realized that I hated it when you were sad. I realized I loved to see you smile, like when you smile after long rides or when you’re building something. And I really thought about it, really thought about it, and I realized you smiling makes me happier than the first snow of winter, and that’s saying something! You look free when you smile, when you’re happy, just like I am, just like we are on those rides, the long rides through the forest-your eyes are like that you know? Well, they are. And the more I thought about it, I realized that I would give up every single ride for the rest of my life if I could see that freedom in your eyes, that happiness. I love that about you, I love you, the passion you have for things, the way you help everyone, even me, especially when I didn’t deserve it. I love everything about you, and I hope you’ll let me prove it. I know I can’t possibly make up for every horrible thing I’ve done to you, but I’ll try my hardest. And I know I can’t possibly compare to the Countess in skills or smarts or looks, well, maybe in looks, but that’s not important, and I saw the way she looked at you. But she’s old and has other things to worry about, and I’m seventeen and only want you. Hiccup-I’ve never called you that before have I? Hiccup, Hiccup, Hiccup. Please tell me I have a chance.”

He was quite out of breath after that statement, and breathes heavily as the newfound silence stretches on. Hiccup just stares at him. The entire world is still, the silence deafening, Jack’s breathing the only sign that time is progressing at all. Then Hiccup raises his hand,

“I’m sorry-” Jack almost bursts into tears right there. Hiccup doesn’t love him back. Why would he? Jack backs away slowly, stammering, interrupting whatever heartbreaking words Hiccup would have said next.

“No, no, I’m...I’m sorry, sorry, I’ll...sorry.” Then he turns and runs, runs away from this terrible pain in his chest. Wind is standing near the barn, and he jumps on without a second thought. “Take me away, girl.” he whispers, and they’re off, flying across the fields. He doesn’t have a plan, no real thoughts as he sobs into Wind’s mane. Hiccup didn’t love him and that was that. Why had he even dared to hope?

“Wait!” A shout interrupts his thoughts, and he looks behind him to see Hiccup chasing after him on a horse. “Jack! Come back!” Something in his chest flutters at Hiccup calling him Jack, be he squashes it down and bends further over Wind’s neck, urging her on. Hiccup’s going to get his revenge, he thinks, revenge for years of torment. No matter that he would never actually do that, why else would he be chasing him?

“Jack!” Hiccup shouts again. Jack keeps riding. No one can match him on a horse, no one. Wind pours on even more speed, fully expecting Hiccup to drop off any second. But he doesn’t. He keeps pace with Jack, still screaming for him to stop. What could he want? Jack steers Wind towards the forest, hoping to lose Hiccup in the trees, but the farm hand weaves through the greenery, only a step behind Jack. Before he realizes it, they’ve made it to the river, and Wind stops short. He practically flies off her back before he realizes they’ve stopped, and then he’s leaping off, trying to run. A hand grabs his wrist from behind with a desperate shout,

“Jack! Please, just, wait!” Hiccup’s breathing heavy, hair plastered to his forehead. “Why-why are you running?” He pants out.

“You don’t love me. Of course you don’t, but I told you I loved you and you don’t and I couldn't stand it because I’m so stupid for just blurting out I’m in love with you-”

“Jack!”

“What! I’m sorry, I’m trying to say I’m sorry-”

“Jack, I’m trying to say I love you too, you big drama king!”

Silence.

“W-wh-what?”

“I’m sorry, but your rambling is driving me craaaaazzzy, and if you could just listen for a second, I think everything would make a lot more sense.”

“Say it then.”

“I’m trying to!” His hands are flying wildly, “It’s-it’s just, it was your stupid smile okay! A few years ago when that massive snowstorm hit with the snowdrifts the size of North and you had a smile splitting your face that didn’t leave for a week and you hit me in the back with a snowball and we got in a fight and when we were done throwing snow at each other we just fell backwards into the snow and your hair was all covered in snow and,-” He takes a deep breath, slowly bringing his hands down, “You smiled. And I was a goner.” He pauses again, then continues quieter, “I started noticing things. Like, how nice you were to Emma, and how good a rider you were, and the way your eyes sparkle when the light hits them just right, and just….everything.” He slumps down, a weight lifted off his shoulders. The two stare at each other.

“You like my smile?” Jack offers bashfully, the slightest hint of one playing on his lips.

“That’s what you’re focusing on!?”

“It’s a lot of information to take in! And you still haven’t said it!”

“I’ve been saying it for years if you’d been listening!”

“How? How were you saying I love you?!”

“As you wish! Every single time I said that I meant ‘I love you’! I just couldn’t actually say it because I was scared!”

“Well I’m scared too! Every time I went on rides with you or threw a snowball I felt something! And I couldn’t figure out what it was, but now I know, and this is all very weird, but in a good way…” He trails off, running out of steam.

“It’s-it’s kinda a relief,” Hiccup starts quietly, “I mean, at least we know we feel the same way.” He ventures a smile, and Jack returns a cocky grin,

“You still haven’t said it you know.”

“Is that what’s bugging you? Fine, here it is, I Love You. Want me to spell it out? I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U, and I can do it backwards too, U-O-Y-”

“I get it, I get it!” Jack interrupts, struggling to smother a laugh, “Man, you’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”

“Oh,   I’m going to be a handful? Says Mr. Runs-away-before-anyone-can-get-a-word-in-edgewise.”

“I didn’t know what else to do!”

“Well I know what I want to do.”

“And what might that be?”

“Well-” Hiccup's bluster is gone, and he stares at some dirt on his boots.

“Hiccup?” Jack looks up, smiling, eyes shining.

“Do you have any idea how nice it is to hear you say my name?”

“Probably just as good as it feels hearing you say mine. Now, quit stalling, what do you want?”

“To kiss you.” He blurts out, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I?”

Jack smirks, “As you wish.”

Hiccup stops short, “You-you-” He stammers as Jack cackles, practically combusting with frustration, then he steps forward. They’re about the same height, so their noses brush as he leans in, and then they’re kissing.

There have been five great kisses since their invention(it may surprise you to know that, yes, there was a time before kisses, back when couples hooked thumbs). And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to great controversy, because although almost everyone agrees with the formula of affection times purity times intensity times duration, very few have ever been completely satisfied with how much weight each category should be awarded. But on any system, there are five that everyone agrees deserves full marks. Well, this one left them all behind.

They rode back home slowly, fingers intertwined and goofy smiles on their faces. Their hair was mussed and lips a bit swollen, but they didn’t care. The rest of the Overland’s certainly did though. The moment they entered the house, Emma saw their hands and cried out “Finally!” North gave Hiccup a pat on the back that sent him reeling, and Tooth was ecstatic, practically flying around with excitement. The two blushed, thoroughly embarrassed but very happy. And so for two weeks, things seemed pretty perfect. They spent practically every waking moment together, working on the farm, riding with Emma, kissing(a lot). The future seemed as if it was made of gold, there was even talk of wedding bells. Christmas(which has also been around much longer than most people suppose) even passed during that time. Jack was delirious with happiness.

And then his parents died. A week after Christmas, disease spread through the village, taking people from every household, North and Tooth included. It struck suddenly, one day they were fine, the next they were bedridden, the day after, dead. They left a grim truth behind. There was no money.

Practically none anyways. North had always gambled more than he could afford, even more during the holidays. He’d gambled most of his money away and spent the rest on extravagant celebrations. There were debts to half the town. And no money. Every week, there was less to eat, and the remaining members of the Overlands(plus Hiccup) were forced to sell land and furniture to try and prolong the inevitable. Jack felt as if he were in a nightmare, reality slipping farther and farther away. They went to bed each night with growling stomachs, all curled up together on the only bed left. That was comfort at least. He still had his loves. The snow had melted, Wind had been sold, his parents were dead. But he still had Emma. He still had Hiccup.

But then the day came when Jack arrived home from his milk deliveries to find Hiccup with a bag over his shoulder, standing next to Emma at the door. They were finishing an argument.

“You’re too young.”

“Am not.”

“We already agreed-”

“I know.” Emma sighs. “Jack’s not going to like this.”

Jack steps forward, “Like what?”

“I’m leaving.” Hiccup states quietly.

“Leaving?” The floor seems to sway, then he shakes his head. Emma was there. “Now?” His voice comes out high and desperate.

“If I don’t leave now, I’ll never be able to.” Hiccup fidgeted, not meeting Jack’s eyes.

“Why do you have to go in the first place?”

“You know why.” He did. They needed money, needed it desperately. “I’ll sail to America, win us a fortune.”(This was just after America, but long after fortunes)

“Emma, can you give us a minute?” He refused to let her see him like this.

“No. I’m not a baby you know!”

“No, but you are ten. Just...give us a few minutes okay?” She huffs, then storms out of the room. She was almost definitely eavesdropping, but Jack spoke anyway, the words coming out in a rush. “ I’ll come with you. We both will, we can do this together-”

“Jack.”

“We’ll just get out of here, leave the farm and get on a ship, go wherever-”

“Jack-”

“NO! I’m not losing you too!” He cries out, voice breaking, tears threatening to spill.

“We have to do this Jack.” It wasn’t fair, he thought. He still got a thrill every time Hiccup said his name. “It’ll cost too much to get all three of us over there. And you and Emma should stay together. If I go, I can send back money and save the rest, and you guys will have food…” He was rambling, gripping the strap of his bag like a lifeline, “....I lift right out, this makes sense, it does.” It was unclear who he was trying to convince.

“You do not just lift out! We need you here, I-I need you here.”

“You think I want to do this? I don’t want to go, but I have to.” He sighs. “It’s not forever, just as soon as I can get us some money. Then I’ll come back, or you can come wherever I end up, and we’ll have a life. We-we could even get married if you want. If you want.”

There is no breath left in Jack’s lungs. He wants to scream, to shout, to grab Hiccup tight and never let him go, dam the consequences, but the look in Hiccup’s eyes matches his own. No one wants this. But there was no other option. So he swallows, breathes, manages to get out, “You better come back in one piece.”

“What he said!” Emma pipes up from the other room, causing everyone to break into laughter. It’s refreshing, lessening the lump in his throat. He pulls Hiccup into a hug, breathing in the smell of him.

“I love you.” He whispers into Hiccup’s shoulder, and Hiccup whispers it back, leaning in for a kiss.

“Can you two not be gross for a minute? I want to say goodbye too!” They pull apart with a quick kiss-Emma lets them have that one, they need it. There’s more hugs, a few tears, and then they’re at the door, and he knows this won’t be forever, it’ll just feel like it.  They embrace one more time.

“You come back. I don’t care if everything goes wrong and there’s no money, just come back.”

“As long as you’re here waiting.”

“Don’t make me sound like some sort of damsel.” He pulls away, a small pout on his face, eyes shining with mirth and tears.

“But you’re so pretty.” Hiccup teases, cracking a small smile.

“That’s it, get out!”

“Without one kiss?” Jack tries very hard to keep up his facade, he does. But then he surrenders to a kiss because who knows how long it’ll be until he gets another one. Then Hiccup turns to Emma,

“Take care of him, okay?”

She nods seriously, “Okay.”

“Hey! I can take care of myself!”

“Sure you can gorgeous.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Okay, okay!” Hiccup raises his hands in surrender. “I love you.” He says earnestly.

“I love you too.” And then they’re kissing one last time, and this is really the last time, and it’s over far too soon, and then Hiccup is walking away. He stops at the road that turns onto the farm, shouting back,

“Stay gorgeous!” Jack can practically hear the smirk.

“I’ll get you for that! I love you, but I’ll get you for that!”

“I know! Love you!” And then he’s around the corner, gone from sight.

“He’ll be back.” He says, partly to Emma, mostly to himself. It’s taking every ounce of big-responsible-brother willpower to not go racing after Hiccup and hold him and kiss him and maybe do some other things, and tell him screw his plan, they can go together. But he doesn’t. He stays right there, staring at where Hiccup disappeared, then goes inside to make dinner for him and Emma.

What he really wants to do is absolutely nothing until Hiccup comes back, but then he really would be a damsel, which he most certainly was not. He mutters this to himself as he and Emma settle down to bed that night.

“Jack, you’re not a damsel, we’ve established this, now can I please go to sleep?”

“But he called me gorgeous!”

“Why is this a problem again?”She asks wearily.

“Because-because...Oh I don’t know! But I don’t like it!”

“I’m assuming you want to get revenge?”

“I want to make him eat his words.”

“How?”

Then an idea strikes. “I got it!”

“What?”

“I’m going to make myself pretty.” He announces with a flourish. “That’ll show him to call me gorgeous, I’ll floor him.” He hums self-satisfactorily. He thinks for a moment. “Emma?”

“Whaaaat?”

“How do you think I could, you know, look nice?”

“You’re asking this now?” Jack turns the puppy dog eyes on her. “Fine! You could bathe for one. Wash your hair, dig out that forest behind your ears, change your shirt-”

“Alright, alright, I get the idea. It isn’t easy being clean is it?”

“Nope. Welcome to the rest of the world. Took you long enough to get here. Now can I pleeeeeaaaasssseeee go to sleep?”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just-”

“It’s Hiccup, I know.”

“Go to sleep, okay?”

“Okay.”

So the next morning, Jack began his work(Actually he didn’t get started until the early afternoon because of all his chores, he was doing the work of three people, but when he got to work, he really got to work.) First he took a nice cold bath, scrubbing every inch of himself, and it is not an exaggeration to say that years worth of dirt and grime came off. It soon became clear that his skin was the color of porcelain, not a blemish to be seen. While his hair dried, he would exercise, trying to get a bit of muscle(he was rather bony), and wash his face. His ice blue eyes looked even brighter against his newly pale skin. And then he would brush his hair. His hair which previously had been mostly mud and grime colored now resembled the most decadent chocolate, as if he were a sugar treat with the very top dipped in the richest molten cocoa. To be perfectly honest, he hated all of this, but he did it anyway, because wouldn’t Hiccup be surprised when he saw him all clean like this. (Also it was a welcome distraction from the missing).

And very quickly now, his potential began to be realized. From twentieth he jumped to fifteenth within two weeks, an unheard of change in such a time. And three weeks after that he was ninth and moving. The competition was tremendous now, but the day after he was ninth, a letter arrived from Hiccup, and just reading it put him up to eighth. That was what was really doing it more than anything, he was in love, and that love was growing constantly, and people were dazzled when he delivered milk in the morning. Some people could only stare, but many talked, and found him kinder than before. Even the other youths would nod and smile and ask after Hiccup, which was a mistake unless you happened to have a lot of spare time, because when somebody asked Jack how Hiccup was doing-well, he told them. He was fabulous, things were looking up, there were letters every week, soon they’d be together again….Listeners had a tough time paying strict attention, but they did their best, because Jack loved him so completely.

Which was why Hiccup’s death hit him the way it did.

He had written just before he sailed for America. The Valkyrie was his ship, and he loved him. There was a bit of money in the envelope, with the promise of more to come, and it had seemed like they wouldn’t be separated long at all. Then there were no letters, but that was natural; he was at sea. Then the news came.

Jack came back one morning to find Emma wooden, barely holding back tears. Jack cast off his bag and kneeled in front of her, checking for hurts. “Hey kiddo, what’s going on?” He lifted up her chin to meet her eyes.

She mumbles, gesturing weakly to a piece of paper in her hand.

“What was that?”

“Carolina coast. Without warning, at night.”

“What?” He furrowed his brow.

“Pirates.” Barely a whisper. Jack sunk down to the floor. Quiet in the room.

“He’s-he’s been taken prisoner?” He managed. Emma was crying silently now.

“No. It was Grimbeard. The Dread Pirate Grimbeard.”

“The one who never leaves survivors.” Jack stated simply.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Suddenly Jack was talking very fast; “Was he stabbed?...Did he drown?....Did they cut his throat while he was sleeping?.....Did they wake him up?” He stood. “Sorry, I’m being stupid,” He shakes his head. “The way they got him doesn’t matter. I’ll….I’m….I’ll be in my room. There’s some food in the cupboard...make what you like...I…”

With that he hurried to his old room, now stripped of furniture. He stayed there two days. He would have stayed longer, but there was Emma to think about. When he finally came out, the second morning after he heard the news, he apologized.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“Jack, it’s okay. Are...are you okay?”

“I’m alright.” He set about making breakfast. Emma watched him closely. He’d changed.

In point of fact, he’d never looked better. He had entered his room just an impossibly lovely boy. The young man who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, and an ocean sadder. His chocolate hair had snow white running through it, making him appear other worldly. His eyes had new depths to them, they understood the nature of pain. Beneath his features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering. He was eighteen. The most beautiful person in a hundred years. He couldn’t care less.

“You sure you’re okay Jack?”

“Fine.” He sipped his cocoa.

“Really?”

Jack lied, “Yes,” then thinking better of it added, “But I will never love again.”

And he never did.

Chapter Text

Prince Kotzmozis was shaped like a spindle. His arms were spindle arms, ending in needle fingers. His legs were spindle legs that probably ended in needle toes if anyone had ever seen his feet. He was not large, in fact you’d miss him if he stood sideways, but he was tall. Almost seven feet tall and appearing taller, he would have been doomed to a miserable life indeed if he’d wanted to be a rugby player. Would have been snapped in two. But he did not want to be a rugby player. He wasn’t in much hurry to be king either, he was quite content to control Potin from behind the scenes. Even war, at which he excelled, took second place in his affections. Everything took second place in his affections. Hunting was his love.

He made it a practice never to let a day go by without killing something. But not just killing it. In order to satisfy his needs, his prey had to be reduced to a wisp of its former self, to be totally vanquished. When he first grew dedicated, he did not give much care to exactly how his prey met its end, as long as it was most certainly dead. But as his skills increased, his methods refined. His primary weapon these days was fear. He did not care how long it took, once he fixated on a target, he would wear it down until its life was a living nightmare. Until they begged for the sweet release of death. Until the very moment where they felt as if they would die of fear, but were unable to for fear of dying. Then, and only then, would he slip in silent as a shadow and end their life. It was death chess, and he was the international grand master.

In the beginning, he traversed the world for opposition, but the deterioration of the king forced him to stay closer to home. The fact of the matter was that there always had to be a royal family in Potin; a king, a consort, and an heir. So long as his father was alive, there was no problem. But someday his father would die, the Prince would become King, and he would have to make arrangements for a royal family of his own. So to avoid the problem of absence, Prince Kotzmozis built the Nightmare Palace.

He designed it himself with the Count’s help, and sent his hirelings around the world to stock it for him, filling it with animals of all shapes and sizes. It was kept brimming with things he could kill, and really wasn’t like any other animal sanctuary anywhere. In the first place, there were never any visitors. Only the keeper, who went by the name Savage, whose job it was to make sure all the beasts were properly fed, and that there was never any sickness or weakness inside.

The other thing about the Palace was that it was underground. The Prince had picked the spot himself, in the quietest, remotest corner of the castle grounds. He had also decreed that there were to be five levels, with all his needs for individual enemies organized neatly. On the first level were enemies of speed, who he would defeat by trapping them: wild dogs, cheetahs, hummingbirds. On the second level were the enemies of strength, where he pit his cleverness against their might: elephants and rhinos and massive crocodiles. The third level had poisoners, animals who believed they had the advantage before the Prince turned their poisons against them: spitting cobras, jumping spiders, death bats galore. The fourth level was the kingdom of fear, filled with creatures who fought the same way the Prince did: with sheer terror. There were shrieking tarantulas(the only spider capable of sound), the blood eagle(the only bird that thrived on human flesh), and the great suckling squid in it’s own black pool. Even Savage shuddered when it was feeding time on the fourth level.

The fifth level was empty. The Prince had constructed it in hopes of finding something worthy, something as fierce and powerful and dangerous as he was. Unlikely, but he was an eternal optimist, so he kept the great cage of the fifth level always in readiness. And really, the other four levels had more than enough to keep a man happy. Some days when he craved a battle of wits he would call for a beast of strength to be released. Other days when he craved a simple kill he demanded a beast of speed for him to trap and torment. This was his chief pleasure, tormenting the animals. Far from sporting, but he was the Prince, so whatever he wanted was done without question.

He was just finishing a duel with a massive cobra when the issue of the King’s health made it’s ultimate intrusion. It was mid afternoon, and the dance of death between the two fighters had been going since late morning. Kotzmozis would dodge and weave, moving aside at the last moment before the creature hit him, and laughing cruelly when it hit the wall instead. After enough blows to the head, venom began leaking out of the giant snake’s fangs, right into the hands of the Prince, who collected it in a vial. After hours of battling, the vial was nearly full of one of the deadliest poisons in the world, which the Prince was using to back the snake into a corner.(Powerful creatures are unused to their weapons being used against them.)

Slowly the Prince was dripping drops of venom along the massive body, watching skin sizzle and muscle seize, betrayed by its own poison. The Prince was almost at the head, the snake cowering. If it could have spoken, it would have begged for it’s life.

From the door, the Count’s voice interrupted. “There is news, my liege.” From his position over the snake, the Prince replied,

“Can it not wait?”

“Not long.”

“I’ll only be a moment longer.” With that, the Prince splashed what remained in the vial onto the snake’s head. There was a moment’s piercing death scream before the venom ate away at the vocal cords. “What is it?” Kotzmozis snapped, extracting himself from the rapidly melting corpse.

“Your father has had his annual physical,” the Count said.

“And?!”

“He is dying.”

The Prince cursed. “Now I’ll have to get married.”

Four of them met in the great council room of the castle. Prince Kotzmozis, Count Alvin, King Mani, and Queen Stella. Queen Stella was the King’s second wife, and the Prince’s stepmother. Kotzmozis rather detested her, but he abstained from eliminating her in order to avoid the fuss a funeral would cause. He still gave her hell at every possible opportunity however.

“Alright,” the Prince began once they were all assembled. “Who do I marry? Let’s pick a bride and get it done.” The aging King Mani said,

“I’ve been thinking it’s really getting to be about time for Kotzmozis to pick a bride.” He didn’t really say it so much as mumble it. He really said, “Ievee beenumble mumble timnal kostis umble bridgle.” Queen Stella was the only one who bothered ferreting out his meanings anymore.

“You couldn't be righter dear.” She said with a soft smile, patting his hand. (Because she really did love the King. She was not very fond of his son, but she could not do much about him without the kingdom being thrown into an uproar. The important thing here is that she is cleverer than she seems.)

“What did he say?” Kotzmozis demanded.

“He said that whoever we decided on would be getting a thunderously handsome prince for a lifetime companion.” She said placatingly.

“Tell him he’s looking quite well himself.”

“We’ve only just changed miracle men, that accounts for the improvement.”

“You mean you fired Dagur? I thought he was the only one left?”

“No, we found another one up in the mountains and he’s quite extraordinary. And sane too, which is an improvement.”

“Tell him I’ve changed miracle men.” King Mani told her. It came out as: “Tumble hmmm mumble mum.”

“What was that?”

“He said a man of your importance couldn't marry just any princess.”

“True, true.” Kotzmozis conceded. He sighed. Deeply. “I suppose that means Merida.”

“It would be a perfect match politically,” Alvin allowed.

It was true. Princess Merida was from Kroner, the country that lay just across the Potin Channel. (In Kroner, they put it differently; for them, Potin was the country on the other side of the Channel of Kroner) In any case, the two countries had stayed alive over the centuries mainly by warring with one another. The last war, the Berserker Conspiracy, had ended only ten years previously. Before that were the Sand Battles, the Sandwich Discrepancy, which almost bankrupted both nations, the Roman Rift, which did, and the Discord of Diamonds, in which they both got rich again, chiefly by forming an uneasy alliance and raiding everyone else within sailing distance.

“Does she hunt?” The Prince inquired. “I don’t care so much about personality, just as long as they’re good with a knife.”

“I met her several years ago,” the Queen replied. “Quite a temper, but fantastic with a bow and arrow.” Privately she thought that the young woman was a better hunter than her step-son, and kinder too, but she kept that to herself.

“Looks?”

“Hair fiery as her temper, clear blue eyes, roundish face, rather muscular.” Kotzmozis mulled this over.

“Well, let’s bring her over for some state occasions so we can have a look at her.” He decided.

“Isn’t there a princess in Kroner about the right age?” said the King. It came out “Iss tumble prim krumble numm?”

“Are you never wrong?” The Queen said of her husband.

“What did he say?”

“That I should leave this every day with an invitation.”

So began the visit of the great Princess Merida.

The welcoming dinner was served in the Great Hall of King Mani’s Castle. There were three great tables in this hall, set in the shape of a ‘U’. The table on the left side of the U was filled with the nobility of Potin, and the table on the right was filled with the visiting nobility of Kroner. This made no sense for the unity that was supposedly being promoted, but people are stubborn. The table forming the bottom of the U seated the King and Queen, the Count and Countess, Prince Kotzmozis, King Fergus and Queen Elinor of Kroner, and of course the Princess Merida, who had brought her lady-in-waiting. Dinner began at 6:15, and at 6:24 there seemed every chance of lasting peace between the two countries. At 6:30 there seemed every chance of war.

What happened was this: At 6:24 the soup course was brought out. Prince Kotzmozis was engaging in a one-sided conversation with the Princess Merida as the royal table began slowly sipping at their bowls. The Princess abstained, staring at the bowl as if it had insulted her. Her lady-in-waiting was attempting to convince her to eat.

“Princess, can you at least try the soup? It looks good.”

“Astrid,” the Princess whispered as Kotzmozis eavesdropped(he did not have very many manners.) “I don’t want te. I just want te get outta here and go home.”(The Princess had a rather thick accent)

“Just eat the soup. I promise I’ll make it worth it,” Astrid wheedled with a sly grin.

At 6:25, Kotzmozis decides (unwisely) to join the conversation. “Your lady is quite right, Your Highness. The soup looks delicious.” He lowers his voice and smiles seductively, “As do you.”

At 6:26 Astrid stabs a knife into the table as Merida turns on the Prince with fury.

“How dare ye! I am the first born Princess of Kroner and I could have yer gut shot full o’ arrows!”

Queen Elinor reprimands her daughter, “Merida! Do not speak to your fiance in that way!” She whispers sternly.

“I will speak to the slimy git how I see fit!”

Kotzmozis decides to intervene (again unwise.)“My, my, Princess. I wonder if your passion extends into other areas.”

At 6:27 Astrid stands, eyes blazing. “You will not speak to her that way! She deserves far better than you, you Nightmare!” The Count stands to defend his Prince,

“Silence wench! You have no standing here!”

“My thoughts exactly,” said the Prince. “Will someone please escort the maiden out?” He motions to some guards.

At 6:28 practically the entire royal table is standing as Merida faces the Prince. “She will not be going anywhere!”

“Merida! Show our hosts some courtesy!”

“No Mother! I’ll not have any more insults towards Astrid or meself!” Her accent gets stronger as her volume increases. “I’ll not be marrying this cretin! He has shown no respect towards me or Astrid!” King Fergus attempts to break the tension as the surrounding tables begin to whisper.

“How ‘bout we settle down, eat some dinner, and you,” He points to the Prince, “show some respect to my daughter. Merida, sit down lass, he didn’t mean it about the servant girl.”

At 6:29 Merida stands on the table as her mother shrieks in horror. She pulls Astrid up next to her. “Will ye all shut it!” The entire hall goes silent. “I will not tolerate these insults, and I will certainly not be marryin’ this git! I-I,”she falters before gathering her courage, “I’m in love with Astrid!” With that, she sweeps her lady-in-waiting into a fierce kiss, and Astrid gives back good as she gets while the Prince twitches in his chair.

At 6:30, the two women are still atop the table, now fairly red as the Prince rises roaring from his chair. He spits out the words that bring the two nations to the brink, “Feel free to flee madam! And bring your whore with you!” Then he stormed out of the hall as Merida is restrained by her girlfriend, leaving a very confused congregation behind.

He made his way to the balcony overlooking the Hall, surveying the chaos left in his wake. Princess Merida and her lady love were in the process of being reprimanded and congratulated for their actions. Queen Elinor seems as if she might explode. The remaining nobility are aggressively gossiping, this is the most interesting state dinner in years. Queen Stella finally caught up with her step son, who was pacing like a caged tiger.

“I do wish you hadn’t been quite so blunt.”

“The woman insulted me and kissed her girlfriend for everyone to see! What would the appropriate reaction be? Asking for her hand in marriage on the spot?”

“Perhaps not, but things would have been so good with Kroner.” The Queen mourns, half addressing the Prince, half addressing the Count, who now joined them.

“Forget about Kroner,” Kotzmozis mutters. “I’ll conquer it sometime. I’ve been meaning to since I was a child.” He approached the Queen, who was lost in her own thoughts. “We need someone else, obviously.”

“Obviously,” the Queen repeated, not referring to her step-son’s potential bride.

“The whole of both kingdoms will know about this soon enough, I don’t need Merida’s follies on my reputation.”

“Who would you suggest?” Alvin ventures.

“I don’t know! I don’t care, anybody. Girl, boy, mercreature. As long as they’re pleasant to look at.”

“That Merida kissed a girl,” King Mani puffed, catching up to them. “Mumble kssssm grimuble.” Queen Stella pats his arm.

“Yes, thank you for pointing that out dear.”

“I don’t think Kotzmozis will like that.” “Dumble timmk krumble hsss.”

Alvin steps forward. “You want someone who looks nice, but what if they’re a commoner?”

“The commoner the better,” the Prince replied, pacing again. “You’ve seen what royalty’s like.”He gestures to the still swarming hall.

“What if they can’t hunt?”

“I don’t care if they can’t spell,” He stops and faces them all. “I’ll tell you what I want,” He begins. “I want an individual so beautiful that when you see them, you say, ‘The Prince must be very powerful to be married to that. Search the country, search the world, just find them!”

The Count only smiled. “He is already found.”

It was early morning when two horsemen reined in at the hilltop. Alvin rode a splendid grey horse; large, powerful, perfect. The Prince rode one of his NightMares. It made Alvin’s horse look like a plow puller.

“He delivers milk in the mornings,” Alvin began.

“And he is truly, beyond a doubt, unquestionably beautiful?”

“He was something of a mess when I saw him,” the Count admitted. “But the potential was overwhelming.”

“A farmer’s boy.” The Prince tried the rough words on his smooth tongue. “I don’t know if I could marry one of those even under the best of circumstances. People might say that he is the best that I can do.”

“True. We could always ride back to Potin City and look for other options.”

“We’ve come all this way, we might as well wa-” He simply stopped speaking then. “I’ll take him,” he managed to get out after nearly two minutes of watching Jackson walk by below them.

“No one will mock you, I think. Quite the opposite, in fact.” Alvin was smug.

“I shall court him now, leave me for a moment.” The Prince rode the NightMare expertly down the hill. Jack had never seen such a beast. Or such a rider.

Kotzmozis began bluntly. “I am your Prince and you will marry me.”

“No.”

“You cannot refuse.”

“I just did.”

“Refusal means death.”

“Kill me then.” The moment the words are out of his mouth, Jack falters. He doesn’t care much for himself much anymore, but if he was dead, who would take care of Emma? Kotzmozis saw an opening.

“I am your Prince, and certainly not the worse creature in the world, what possible reason could there be for you to value death over marriage to me?”

Jack is silent for a moment. “Because,” he breathes deeply. “Marriage involves love. I was in love….I’m still in love, and ...it-it didn’t end well. I’m never going to love again.”

“Love?” Sneered the Prince. “Who mentioned love? Certainly not me, I detest the very notion of romance.”

“Then why are you asking to marry me? Commanding, actually.”

“I’m getting to that part. You see, there must always be a royal family in Potin; a king, a consort, and an heir. That’s me. When my father dies, there will be no heir or consort(he planned to kill his step mother at the same time, a funeral would happen anyway) just a King. That would be me. So, I need a consort in order to make arrangements for an heir. Simply, you can either marry me and be the second-most powerful man in a thousand miles and provide for your loved ones and help me find an heir, or you can die a terribly painful death in the very near future. The choice is yours.” He waits.

Jack thinks of Emma. There’s still no money, their homelessness has merely been delayed by having one fewer person to feed. This is an opportunity to make sure she survives. He thinks of Hiccup, gone now. He speaks, “You’ll take care of my sister?”

“She’ll have a royal suite.”

“I’ll never love you.”

“I wouldn’t want it if I had it.”

“Then….I accept.”

His heart broke once more.

Chapter Text

With one thing and another, three years passed.

The Great Square of Potin was filled like never before, packed to the brim with people awaiting the introduction of Prince Kotzmozis’ bride-to-be, (the Prince had taken to calling him his bride, and legally that was the title of a spouse of a Prince, so Jack ended up being called some rather demeaning names) Prince Jackson of Frosti. (The nobles had quite an issue with Kotzmozis marrying a commoner, so after a lot of arguing they made him Prince of Frosti, a little lump of land near the northern border of King Mani’s territory.)

The crowd had been forming for almost three days now, and had really picked up in the  last sixteen hours or so, Everyone wanted to see this famed new Prince, and as the moment of introduction drew nearer, it seemed as if the entire population of Potin was trying to squeeze into the square. They’d all heard rumors about the new Prince’s beauty, but all seemed too outlandish to be true. So here they were in the hundreds and thousands to see if such beauty really was possible.

At noontime Prince Kotzmozis appeared at the balcony of his father’s castle and spread his arms wide. The crowd, which was now at danger size, slowly quieted. There were rumors that the King was dying, that he was already dead, that he was fine. They waited.

“People of Potin!” The Prince began. “As you may have heard, my father’s health is not what it once was. It is with great despair,” and a smile on his face, “that I must inform you that I will likely succeed him within the year. In three weeks, our country celebrates it’s six hundredth anniversary. With this and the King’s health in mind, I shall, on that sundown, take in marriage Prince Jackson of Frosti. You do not know him yet, but you will meet him now!” He steps aside as the balcony doors swung outwards and Jack joined him on the balcony.

The crowd quite literally gasped.

The twenty-one year old Prince far surpassed the eighteen year old mourner. His body was no longer thin and bony, but lean and toned. His hair, once the color of the richest chocolate, was now the white of purest snow, the result of his grief. His skin was still unblemished porcelain, but now he had hand servants assigned to him who cleaned him so thoroughly that he seemed to glow from certain angles. Prince Kotzmozis took his hand and held it high above his head as the crowd erupted in cheers.

“That’s enough,” he said after a moment. “No more exposure to commoners than necessary.” He made to lead them back into the castle.

“No.” Jack insisted firmly. “I want to go down there. There’s so many people, and they’ve come so far.”

“I am your Prince and I say no.”

“I’m about to be your husband and I say yes.” His eyes, still blue and bottomless, filled with that knowledge no one wishes for, stare down the Prince. Amber fights ice. Ice blue wins. With that, Jack jumped off the balcony, landing on a windowsill before alighting on the ground. Quite a few people would claim they saw him fly down, so quick and graceful were his movements. Emma, watching from a window, had to stifle a giggle.

The crowd parted around him as he began to cross and recross the Great Square. He walked slowly, smiled gently, grin not quite reaching his eyes. Most of the people there would never forget that day. For many, this was the closest to royalty they had ever been, and the vast majority adored him instantly. There were some who were withholding judgement, as they were unsure, pleasing as he might be to look at, he would make a good ruler. Of course, there were some there who were jealous. Very few hated him. And only three were planning to murder him.

Jack knew none of this as he moved through the crowd. He let people touch his skin and his clothes, and stopped often to stop and speak to children, complimenting their outfits or smiles. On the inside he felt rather hollow, as if he were a garish puppet being manipulated for entertainment. He smiled of course, walked straight, head held high. He even winked at Emma in her position at the window. But truly he felt as if he were playing a part in the play. Kotzmozis’ eyes seemed to burn into him even from the opposite side of the square. It seemed that this would be the rest of his life; priceless clothes, the Prince always watching, constantly plastered smile. If someone had told him that his death was right there in that courtyard, he wouldn’t have believed them.

But.

In the farthest corner of the Square-

Below the highest wall in the land-

Deep in the deepest shadow-

The man in black stood waiting.

His boots were scaled and black. His pants were black, his shirt too. His mask was silk and black, showing only his eyes, bright and flashing and deadly.

Jack felt hollow as he was finally escorted into the palace. Potin loved him, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

“Jack!” He puts on another smile as Emma comes flying down the stairs into his arms.

“Hey kiddo!” He ruffled her hair. She swats him away, giggling.

“You looked great out there! Like a real prince!” She goes on and on about his triumph as he watches. Three years of royal living have seen her grow into a beautiful young woman. Her chocolate brown hair falls past her shoulders in a shimmering curtain, her skin is clear, the the hollows under her eyes and ribs gone. The sight of her happy and healthy fills his hollowness a little bit. Then he sees the Prince scowling.

Kotzmozis viewed Emma as something of a nuisance, a necessary evil to get Jack to stay. Fortunately, her introduction the previous week, while not nearly as large as Jack’s, had enamoured her of the country. If anything happened to the beloved little sister of the new Prince, there would be riots in the streets.

“Hey,” Jack interrupts Emma. “Do you want to go for a ride? There’s still a few hours ‘till sunset.”

“I can’t silly! I have royalty lessons.” As sister to the new Prince, Emma was now a Princess and expected to act like such. Jack didn’t see much of her these days, with the amount of royal preparations they’re both going through. But it’s enough to know she’s safe and taken care of.

“Okay, guess it’ll just be me then. Have fun!”

“I will!” She hugs him and runs off. She pauses as she turns a corner. She sees she smile fall from his face the second he thinks she isn’t watching him. She still wasn’t a fool. Her brother was hurting. But she could do nothing about it.

Jack went and changed into riding clothes. He needed to get out of the palace, needed to think. He saddled Wind(being a Prince did have some benefits, among them being able to purchase Wind back) and set off into the countryside. He took his first deep breath of the day as his mind roiled. He had known what was expected of him for the past three years, but today was the first time he understood that this was his new reality. In three weeks he would be wed to the Prince in a lavish ceremony, and after he would….No, don’t think about that now, he told himself. No matter that he had only ever wanted to do any of this with someone else. With-No. Don’t think about him. He berated himself. He knew that it was wrong to marry someone without love or even like, but he also knew that it was far too late to do anything about it. Besides, what would he do otherwise?

Dusk was closing in as he crested a hill, thoughts swirling. He was perhaps a half hour’s ride from the castle when he suddenly reined in Wind, for standing in the dimness beyond was the strangest trio he had ever seen.

The man in front was dark, but not naturally, skin tanned and weathered by travel. He was adorned in garishly colored clothing, bright jewelry decorating his hands and neck. His beard and mustache were full and of a rich brown color, his eyes the same but with a dangerous glint to them. To his left was a young woman, thin as a whip with a sword at her side, ink black hair in a braid resting on her shoulder. She wore simple leather armor and a hard smile. On the right was the largest man Jack had ever seen. He was humongous, seven feet tall and four hundred pounds at least. The Giant looked worried, sweat matting straw-blond hair to a pale and pasty forehead.

“A word if we may?” The lead man-Sicilian, he thought-raised his hands.

“Speak.” Jack spoke simply. The strange man did not.

“We are but poor, penniless, extraordinarily talented yet woefully unemployed circus performers. The harsh dark of midnight is swiftly approaching the ground on which we stand, and we, humble travelers in this great land, seek shelter against the onslaught of darkness. We were informed that there was a village nearby where we could exchange our talents for lodging.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no village around for miles.”

“Then there will be no one to hear you scream.” The man leapt forward, and there was no time to scream before there were hands around his neck. There was no pain as places were touched that sent him into unconsciousness.

He awoke to the gentle lapping of water. He was wrapped in a blanket in the bottom of a boat, the Giant sitting a few feet away. Jack stayed quiet as the trio began to talk, thinking it better to listen.

“Why are we waiting to kill him?” the Giant asked.

“The less you think, the happier I’ll be.” The Sicilian answered. There was the sound of ripping cloth.

“What’s that?” The woman asked from somewhere near the tiller.

“The same as I attached to his saddle. Fabric from the uniform of an officer of Kroner.”

“But why-” the Giant began.

“He must be found dead on the Kroner frontier or we will not be paid the remainder of our fee. Do you understand you great dullard?”

“I’m not a dullard, I just feel better when I know what’s going on.”

“You don’t need to know what’s going on, I make the plans and you carry them out. That is the end of it.” Then came the flapping of a sail.

“Watch your heads,” the woman cautioned, and then the boat was moving. Jack was tempted to spring up and make a dash for land, but they would have caught him within seconds. “Potin won’t be happy about his death,” the woman continued. “They’ve really started to love him.”

“There will be war,” the Sicilian stated smugly. “And we will be the ones to have started it. Paid for it too. It’s a fine line of work to be in, starting wars. Reminds me of my first job, for the Vizier of Saudi-”

“Johan.”

“What?” the Sicilian snapped. “How many times have I told you not to interrupt my stories-”

“We’re being followed.” This gets his attention, and he stands, springing over to the tiller.

“Inconceivable!” Jack wonders if he could escape to the other boat. “Speed up!” Johan cries. “And knock out the Princeling again while you’re at it!” He’s a mind reader, Jack thinks. “Not a mind reader,” the Sicilian replies as if in response to his thoughts. “Just a scholar of human nature.”

“He’s not awake though.” The Giant protests.

“Yes he is, he’s been listening to this whole conversation, now knock him out!”

“Okay,” the Giant sighs, then there are hands around Jack’s neck again, and unconsciousness comes before he can struggle.

When he wakes again, it’s dark. Starlight reflects across the water, no land in sight as he raises his head quickly. “There’s no point in jumping,” Johan walks over, sitting next to him in the bottom of the boat. The Giant is at the prow, the woman at the tiller, focused on some unknown destination.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Of course you were, it’s everyone’s first instinct in a difficult situation, to escape. Only the very clever would not have jumped.”

“I’m not going to jump.”

“Because I told you not to.”

“You think you’re real smart, don’t you?”

“I don’t think, I know.”

“Of course,” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, and Johan slaps him across the face. He makes to return the blow, but the Sicilian pulls out a long knife.

“I can’t wait until we kill you, you insolent brat. The grief of your lover should be Shakespearean.”

“I don’t have a lover,” Jack spits out, refusing to show he’s in pain.

“What do you call the Prince of Potin then? An acquaintance?” Johan laughs cruelly.

“A marriage of convenience.”

“Not very convenient for you, seeing as how you’re going to die because of it.” He walks away screaming. “Can’t this boat go any faster? We have a schedule to keep and I want to kill this brat!” Only once he’s out of sight does Jack cradle his stinging cheek.

He’s going to die, he thinks. Oddly, the idea doesn’t scare him as much as it once would have. He hasn’t been living these past few years. Sad to think that the most adventure he’s ever gotten is this trip to his death. He’s not foolish enough to believe that Kotzmozis actually cares for him, and no one else will really miss him, only Emma. She would be okay though, he figured. She was smart enough to play the part of a grieving sister and live off of the palace until she came of age in a few years. He didn’t want to leave her, but at least she would survive. And if he dies at sea, maybe, just maybe he’ll see-”

A tap on the shoulder interrupts his thoughts. It’s the woman with a sword, holding out a wet cloth. “Here, for your face.”

He takes the cloth with a mumbled thank you, wincing as it hits the rapidly forming bruise. “Why be nice to me?” he asks. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“Yeah,” she looks him up and down. “But there’s no need for you to be in pain before that.”

“You’re awfully nice for an assassin.”

“I’m not paid enough to be mean.” There’s quiet for a moment. “My name’s Heather by the way.”

“Jack. But I guess you already knew that.”

“Yeah” Quiet again. Jack steels himself, he wants to ask her a favor. She seems like she might actually help him. He’s not going to get out of this alive, so he might as well make arrangements for after the fact.

“Hey,” he begins quietly. “Do you think, after you guys, you know, do it. Can you throw me into the ocean?”

“Why?” She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but certainly not this.

“I’m not religious or anything, but….”He takes a breath. “You know how I told your ass of a boss that I didn’t have a lover?”

“Yeah.”

“I used to, but he….he died at sea. I don’t know what happens afterwards, but I’ve heard stories and….I want to join him if I can. Please.”

“Oh.” She seems visibly shaken by this, by this young man who has lost everything, whose blue eyes are boring into her, begging her to grant this last wish. “I’ll...I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” She goes back to the tiller, resolving to stay away from the haunted young man for the remainder of their time together.

The Giant calls out, “Johan! We have a tail!”

The Sicilian swears. “Inconceivable! Even the fastest ships in the Prince’s navy will still be at least two hours behind us!” He thinks. “That ship is most likely a fisherman on a midnight cruise. There’s no other logical explanation. No one in Kroner could know what we have done, and no one in Potin could have gotten here fast enough.” Jack ventures a look. It’s a small sailing ship made of dark wood, sail blacker than the midnight sky. A single man stood at the tiller. A man in black.

“That ship, the one that’s not following us, is gaining.” He observes.

“Somebody shut him up!” Johan fumes. Jack doesn’t turn around as hands are around his neck for the third time.

Darkness is welcome.

He’s woken for the final time by Heather shaking his shoulder. “Get up. You’ll be with your boy soon.” She offers a weak smile, then proceeds to tie his wrists and ankles together. Johan takes over at the tiller, muttering how he can’t trust anyone less clever than him to do this very important task. Jack just watches in awe as they cut through the dawn sea, fog receding to show sharp rocks cutting up through the water. The ship rounds a large outcropping, and the Cliffs of Insanity come into view.

These Cliffs were the highest of their kind in the known world, and so named because it was insanity to go anywhere near them. From the bottom was the rockiest shore and deadliest currents this side of the Marina Trench, and from the top was a thousand foot drop. They provided the most direct route between Potin and Kroner, but no one used them, sailing the long way around instead, many many miles to the east. Climbing the Cliffs was not impossible, two had done it in the past century alone, but dozens more had died, and the shallows at their feet were filled with corpses of humans and ships who had tempted fate.

These were the Cliffs that Johan docked at the foot of(to his credit, he didn’t crash the ship). Jack was thrown over the Giant’s shoulder as they disembarked, giving him a perfect vantage point to see the black sailed ship cutting through the fog, less than a mile away. Great, Jack thought. Another person who likely wanted to kill him.

“Sink the ship!” Johan barks.

“Okay,” the Giant sighs before shoving a humongous foot through the hull of their ship.

“Alright, look sharp!” Despite his surety in their safety, Johan kept looking over his shoulder at the black ship. He shook his head before bounding forward, and suddenly, there was a rope in his hands, long and thick, reaching all the way up the Cliffs. He pulled on the rope again and again, testing its sturdiness. It held firm, attached to something-a giant rock, a tree, something a thousand feet above their heads. “Fast now!” He ordered. “If he is following us, which is completely inconceivable, but if he is, we’ve got to reach the top and cut the rope before he climbs up after us.”

“You expect me to climb!” Jack exclaims. “In case you haven’t noticed Mr. Genius, I’m tied up! And I don’t think you could climb it even with your hands free, you scrawny little-” Johan strikes him across the face again. Jack refuses to make a sound, even as his nose begins to bleed.

“Silence! You will not question me!” He takes a rag from his pocket and ties it around Jack’s mouth. “Little whore.” Once he’s satisfied, he nods to the Giant, “Prepare to climb.” The Giant arranges Jack around his shoulders as Heather takes out some more rope, tying herself and Johan to the Giant’s waist. “All aboard,” Johan says as Jack rolls his eyes(This was before trains, but the expression comes originally from carpenters loading lumber, and this was well after carpenters.)

With that, the Giant began to climb. It was at least a thousand feet, and he was supporting the weight of four, but he was not worried in the least. When it came to power, nothing worried him. When it came to speaking, he got knots in the middle of his stomach, and when it came to planning he broke out in a cold sweat, and when organizing people was mentioned, or worse, leading them, he always changed the subject right away. But strength had never been his enemy.

His real might lay in his arms. He could hold an elephant aloft with only the muscles in his back, could scissor a hundred bag pound of flour with his thighs, could take the kick of a horse to the chest and not fall backwards. But none of it compared to the strength of his arms. There had never, not in a thousand years, been arms to match Fishlegs’(for that was the Giant’s name). His arms were not only gargantuan, and surprisingly quick, but also tireless.

This is why he did not worry. If you gave him an axe and told him to chop down a forest, his legs might give out from having to support so much weight for so long, or the axe might shatter from the punishment of killing so many trees, but Fishlegs’ arm would be as fresh tomorrow as today. And so, even with Johan and Heather and Jack wrapped around him, he did not feel put upon at all. Up he climbed, arm over arm, arm over arm, two hundred feet above the water now, eight hundred more to go.

More than any of them, Johan was afraid of heights. A bad experience in his younger years left all his nightmares to deal with falling, so this terrifying ascension should have been most difficult for him, tied as he was to the Giant. But he would not allow it. From the beginning, when as a child he realized he had no interest in training his body to fitness only to someday die in battle, he relied on his mind. He had not been lying to Jack, he was very clever, for he had trained his mind to obey him completely. So, now three hundred feet in the air, when he should have been trembling uncontrollably, he was not.

Instead he was thinking of the man in black. There was no way anyone could have been quick enough to follow them. And yet from the depths of Hel, the black sailed ship and it’s master appeared. How? How? Johan flogged his mind for an answer, but found only failure. In wild frustration he took a deep breath and cast his gaze back to the dark waters below. He cursed. The man in black was still there, sailing faster than lightning and Death itself towards the Cliffs. He could not have been more than a quarter mile away now.

“Faster!” He commanded.

“I thought I was going faster,” Fishlegs responded meekly.

“Don’t listen to him Fishlegs, you’re doing great. You’re a little over halfway.” Heather patted his shoulder fondly.

“Thank you.”

“And he’s closing on us.” No one had to ask who ‘he’ was. Six hundred feet done now. Arms still pulling, over and over. Six hundred and twenty feet. Six hundred and fifty. Faster now. Seven hundred. “He’s left his boat behind,” Heather announced. “He’s coming towards-” She stopped as they all felt the rope shake at the weight of another body added to it.

“He’ll never catch up!” Johan declared. “It is inconceivable!”

“You keep using that word!” Heather snapped. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

“How fast is he climbing?” asked Fishlegs.

“Fast enough.” The man in black was not climbing as fast as Fishlegs, but it was fast enough. Already he had cut their lead by a hundred feet. Maybe more.

“Faster! I thought you were supposed to be strong!”

“I’m carrying three people,” Fishlegs explained. “He has just him-”

“Excuses are the refuge of cowards.” Johan interrupted. He looked down. The man in black had gained another hundred feet. He looked up. The cliff tops were beginning to come into view. Another hundred feet and they were safe.

Jack felt sick. Tied hand and foot, if his kidnapper’s arguing knocked him over he wouldn’t be able to even try to grab the rope. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to happen. They would kill him anyway, but he couldn't bring himself to fall. He closed his eyes and waited. For what he was not sure. Blood from his nose began to run into his eyes.

“Pull Fishlegs!” Johan screamed.

“He’s over halfway!” Heather added.

“Halfway to doom is where he is.” Johan spoke down to Heather. “We’re fifty feet away from safety, and once we’re there and I untie the rope…” He allowed himself to laugh.

Forty feet. Fishlegs pulled. Twenty. Ten. Five. Then it was over. Fishlegs had done it. The odd little party was at the top of the Cliffs and the man in black still had three hundred feet to go. Jack wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not.

“Seems a shame,” Fishlegs said, looking down the Cliffs beside Heather, who was untying everyone. “A climber like that deserves better-” He’s interrupted by Johan untying the rope from around a massive oak. The rope moves like a living thing, twirling and curling like the greatest of river serpents heading at last for home as it soared over the cliff tops and into the Channel. Johan was very pleased with himself, strutting and preening like a prize peacock until Heather cuts in.

“He did it.”

“Did what?” Johan roared, scurrying to the cliff edge.

“He released the rope in time.” The trio looked down together. The man in black was hanging in space, clinging to the sheer rock face seven hundred feet above the water. Johan watched with a sneer.

“It may interest you buffoons to know that since I have made a study of many things, death and dying among them, I am an expert in the subject. And as an expert I can tell you that he will be dead long before he hits the water. The fall will do it, not the crash.” The man in black dangled, clinging to the Cliffs with both hands. “Oh, how rude we’re being,” Johan turned to Jack, immobilized by his bonds a few feet away. “I’m sure you’d like to watch.” Jack shakes his head vehemently and tries to hop away. Johan grabs him in an instant and brings him over to the edge so that he can watch the final struggle of the man in black three hundred feet below.

He considers jumping. He’ll be dead before he hits the water, which doesn’t sound like a bad way to go, especially not knowing what they’ll do to kill him. As he watches, a drop of blood runs down his face, falling parallel to the Cliffs for a thousand feet before staining a rock on the shore. They watch the struggle of the man in black. Jack turns away the best he can. He can’t do it. He can’t jump. There’s still a tiny insane part of him that believes he’ll get out of this alive.

“Shouldn’t we be going?” Heather asked. “You’re the one who went on and on about how important time is.”

“It is, it is, be we can’t just miss a death like this! This will make a fantastic story, or better yet, a show! I could stage one of these every week and sell tickets, get out of the assassination business entirely. Look at him-do you think his life is flashing before his eyes? That’s what the books say.” (As a matter of fact, his life was flashing before his eyes, which is what gave the man in black the strength to continue)

“He has strong arms,” Fishlegs commented. “To hold on for so long. How do you think he’s doing it?”

“Who cares? He can’t hold on much longer. Not even the woodsmen of wintery Russia, who I met on one of my miscalculated journeys to the Orient, who climb trees more ancient-” His story stops abruptly as the corner of his eye catches a flicker of movement on the Cliffs. The man in black was beginning to climb. Not without great effort, and not quickly, but there was no doubt that despite the sheerness of the Cliffs, he was heading in an upwards direction.

“Inconceivable!” Johan cried. Heather’s resolve snapped. She whirled on him,

“Stop saying that word! It was inconceivable that anyone could follow us, but when we looked behind, there was the man in black! It was inconceivable that anyone could sail as fast as we could sail, but still he gained on us!  Now this too is inconceivable, but look!” She points to the dark figure. “He’s still rising! So stop using that word!”

The man in black was indeed rising, somehow finding miniscule crevices for his fingers and toes, and he was now fifteen feet closer to the top, fifteen feet farther away from death. Johan turned on Heather, a wild glint in his eyes. As he saw the cruel glint in those eyes, Jack became truly frightened of the man for the first time.

“I have the keenest mind that has ever been turned to any pursuit, lawful or not, so when I tell you something,” he spat, “It is not guesswork, it is fact! And the fact is that the man in black is not following us. The obvious logical conclusion is that he is a simple fisherman who enjoys dressing a la noir while he sails from dusk ‘till dawn, and has something of a rock climbing hobby and the same general destination that we do. That satisfies me, so it better satisfy you Swordwench! That said, we cannot take the risk of him seeing us with the Princeling here, so one of you must kill him.”

“Should I do it?” Fishlegs asked meekly. He did not like killing people, did not like dead bodies, disliked even fictional deaths in books. Unfortunately, he had to deal with these things quite often. However, to the Giant’s delight, Johan shook his head.

“No Fishlegs, I need you to carry the brat. Pick him up now and let’s get moving.” He turned to Heather. “We’ll be heading directly for the frontier of Kroner. Catch up as quickly as you can once he’s dead.” She nodded once. Jack began thrashing madly as he was hoisted over Fishlegs’ shoulder. The gag came loose, and he begged, desperately,

“No! Please! Heather, you promised! You said you’d throw me to the sea!” There was very little logic to that request, but right now that feeble promise was the only thing keeping Jack from complete madness. He would die, but at least he’d be with Hiccup. Now even that was taken from him. “Please! You promised! You have to!” He was practically sobbing as Heather turned away from him, shame in her eyes. “Please!” Johan strikes him again. He’s quite a sight now, bruise blossoming on his right cheek, nose broken with dried blood everywhere, and a fresh cut from one of Johan’s rings dripping blood from just above his eyebrow.

“Shut up!” Johan reties the gag tighter, adding a blindfold for good measure. He roars, “Come on Fishlegs, we’ve got a murder to commit! I’m going to enjoy this.” He storms off, and Fishlegs follows. Jack still thrashes for all he’s worth, but the Giant is too strong. He slumps in defeat, silent tears running trails through the blood on his face.

Just before Fishlegs loses sight of Heather he turns and hollers, “Catch up quickly!”

“Don’t I always!” She waved back, blowing him a kiss. Fishlegs blushes. “Bye for now Fishlegs!”

“Bye for now Heather!” Fishlegs replied. Then he was gone, and Heather was alone.

She went to the cliff edge and knelt with her customary quick grace. Two hundred and fifty feet below, the man in black continued his painful climb. Heather lay flat on the ground, staring down, trying to discern the climber’s secret. She was a quick study. It only took her until he was two hundred and ten feet away before she realized how he was making this impossible climb. Somehow, by some mystery, he was driving his fists, covered in scaled and clawed black gloves, into the rocks, using them for support. Then he would reach up with his other hand until he found a split in the rock, and he would take that clawed glove and jam it in. Wherever he could find support for his feet he would use it, but mostly it was his arms and jammed claws doing the work.

Heather was impressed to say the least. The man in black must either be an extraordinary adventurer, or an extraordinary fool. She rather hoped it was the first, as an experienced adventurer would put up more of a fight.

The man in black was close enough now for her to realize that he was masked, black fabric tied around the top half of his face. Another criminal? Perhaps. Then why should they have to fight? What was it for? Heather shook her head. It was a shame that such a fellow should die, but she had her orders. She may not like her orders, but what else could she do? She was not one much for planning, and without Johan’s brains, however annoying they may be, she would never be able to pull off a job like this. The Sicilian said kill him, so why waste sympathy on the man in black. Someday somebody would kill Heather, and the world would not stop to mourn.

She stood, her blade-thin body ready for action. The man in black was still one hundred and fifty feet away, with nothing for her to do but wait. She hated waiting. She turned her gaze to the path Fishlegs and Johan had taken. The Prince too. There was guilt smoldering inside her. The young man had not begged for his life, or tried to bribe her, or did any of the things she was used to seeing before she killed. (Do not be fooled, Heather may be a nice assassin, but she was still an assassin. Even the kindest among that group have killed at least a few people. Heather had killed more than a few.) All he had asked was to be thrown into the sea. A noble idea to be sure, joining a lover after death, but impossible, she told herself. She was here to kill those who stood in their way, not make hostages feel better about dying. Perhaps the gods would take pity on him and reunite the two in the afterlife, though they’d died apart. They would, she assured herself. She was blameless. She was.

She checked the cliff again. The man in black had a hundred feet to go. She began pacing, time going too slowly for her liking. To pass the time more pleasantly, she pulled from her scabbard her most prized possession: the hook-handed sword. It gleamed in the light of dawn as she paced, fencing with shadows, waiting to fence the man who seemed made of shadows…..

Chapter Text

On a little island off the shore of Kroner, tucked away in the hills overlooking the sea, lay the village of Berserk. It was rather small and the air was always clear. That was one of the few nice things you could say about Berserk: terrific air, you could see for miles. But there was little work, dogs overran the streets, and there was never enough food. The air, plenty clear, was too hot in daylight and freezing at night. As for Heather, she was always just a trifle hungry, had no friends, and was sick often. She was fantastically happy.

It was because of her family. Her father Oswald was a bit funny looking, a bit crotchety, and fairly absent minded. Her mother Snorri couldn't cook, couldn't play, and seemingly couldn't smile. Her older brother, to be quite honest, was rather mad, the kind of boy who shrivels up snails with salt and burns things with magnifying glasses(magnifying glasses in the hands of young boys have been the scourge of ants since their invention).

Heather adored them all. Totally. She couldn't put her finger on why. Perhaps it was the bedtime stories her father told her(when he could remember the endings). It could have been the way her mother patted her shoulder when she drew something(when her mother could be persuaded to look at such a thing). It could have been the way her brother smiled at her(right before he burnt something down). The most likely reason was that they probably loved her back, but love is many things, none of them logical.

Heather’s parents made weapons. Shields, axes, bolas, and magnificent swords. If you wanted a fabulous sword, did you go to Oswald and Snorri? If you wanted a great balanced piece of work, did you go to the little island off the coast of Kroner? If you wanted a masterpiece, a sword for the ages, was it Berserk that your footsteps led you to? Absolutely not. You went to Tomorrow, for in Tomorrow lived the famous Flashburn, and if you had the money and he had the time, you got your weapon.

Flashburn was mustachioed and jovial and one of the richest and most honored men in that city of twelve castles. And he should have been. He made wonderful swords, and was a sword master besides, and nobles bragged to each other when they owned an original Flashburn. But sometimes-not often, mind you-a request would come in for a weapon that was more than even Flashburn could make. When that happened, did Flashburn say,

“I’m sorry, I cannot do it.”? Of course not. What he said was, “Of course, I’d be delighted, fifty percent down payment please and the rest on delivery, come back in a year, thank you very much.” The next day he would set off for the island off the coast of Kroner.

“Hello my dear Snorri, Oswald, children,” Flashburn would call out when he reached their little house.

“What do you want Flashburn?” Snorri would say.

“Nothing at all! Can I not visit my dear friends and their darling children?”

“Some people can,” Oswald would join in. “But you, you cannot, you old scoundrel.” Then they would laugh, the adults would embrace, Flashburn would ruffle the children’s hair, and Heather would make tea while the adults talked.

“So I may have fibbed before,” Flashburn would always begin. Oswald would grunt. “Just a tiny fib. You see, this very week I have accepted a commission to make a sword for a member of some disant nobility. Australawhasit or whatever. It is to be engraved in the handle with gems in patterns of his family’s crest-”

“No.” That word would stop all conversation. When Snorri said no, it meant nothing else but. Heather, supposedly busy with the tea but actually eavesdropping, knew exactly what would happen next: Flashburn would use his charm.

“No.” Oswald would say. Flashburn would use his wealth.

“No.” Snorri would say. He would use his wit, his wonderful gift for persuasion.

“No.” from Oswald. He would beg, entreat, promise, plead.

“No.” from Snorri. Insults, threats.

“No” from Oswald. Finally, genuine tears.

“No.” Snorri would say. “More tea?”

“Perhaps another cup, thank you-” Flashburn would take a sip, swallow, then a big: “WHY WON’T YOU?”

Heather hurried to refill their cups so as to never miss a word. Her brother had lost interest in these proceedings ages ago and was off doing gods knew what, but Heather was thrilled by their arguing. She knew the three had been friends for thirty-odd years, grew up together, loved each other deeply. The strange thing was: arguing was all they ever did. Now Snorri and Oswald would have a small conversation off to the side,

“It’s my turn now, isn’t it?”

“No, you got to do this bit last time.”

“Alright then, go ahead,” Snorri would concede, and Oswald would smile a crooked smile before turning back to Flashburn.

“Why? My mustachioed friend asks me why? He sits there on his world class ass and has the nerve to ask me why?”(Oswald had a bit of a flair for the dramatic.) “Flashburn, come to us with a challenge! Once, just once, ride up and say, ‘Oswald, I need a sword made for a wizened old man to fight a duel,’ and I would embrace you and cry ‘Yes!’ because to make a sword for an old, old man to survive a duel, that would be something!”

Snorri would come in, “That sword would have to be strong enough to win, yet light enough to not tire his weak arm. We would have to use our all to perhaps find an unknown metal, strong but light-” Oswald’s excitement overtakes him,

“Or devise a different formula for a known metal, mix bronze and iron and air and silver and blood in some way ignored for a thousand years!”

“We would kiss your smelly feet and comb your pompous mustache for an opportunity like that, Flashburn. But to make a stupid sword with stupid jewels in the pattern of a stupid crest for some stupid nobleman,”

The two speak in unison, “That we will not do.”

“You were excellent darling,”

“As were you.”

“For the last time, I ask. Please.”

“For the last time, we say no.” Heather had to stifle her giggles when they spoke at the same time. (It is a simple fact that children always have and always will find that unbearably funny.) Her parents would hear her anyway, and call for her to come into the room. She would stand in the corner and watch the events.

“Then I must bid you adieu my old friends. I gave my word that the sword would be made, and I cannot make it. Which means that I have gone back on a commitment. Which means I have lost my honor. My honor is the only thing in this world that I care about, and since I cannot live without it, I must die. And since you are my dearest friends, I may as well die now with you, basking in the warmth of your affection.”(Flashburn had a flair for the dramatic as well, it was part of why the three got along so well) Now Flashburn would pull out a knife. It was a beautiful piece of weaponry, a gift from Oswald on his wedding day.

“Goodbye children,” Flashburn would say then. (Heather’s brother would usually rejoin them for this part) “May the gods grant you your quota of smiles.” It was forbidden for the children to interrupt. “Goodbye my friends, although I die in your home, and although it is your own stubbornness that drives me to it, don’t let it weigh down your consciousnesses. Gods forbid you feel guilty on my account.” He pulled open his coat, brought the knife closer, closer. “The pain is worse than I imagined!” He cried.

“How can it be when the point is still an inch away from your belly?” Snorri asked.

“I’m anticipating, don’t bother me, let me die unpestered.” He brought the knife to his skin, pushed. Snorri grabbed the knife away.

“Someday we won’t stop you. Heather, set an extra plate for supper.” She would go off to add more water to the broth, mumbling the whole way about stupid mustached men.

“I was all set to kill myself, truly.”

“Enough dramatics,” Oswald would say.

“What is on the menu for the evening?”

“The usual broth.”

“Children, go outside and see if by chance there is something in my carriage.” There was always a feast waiting in the carriage. After the food and stories and demonstrations with swords and axes that the children watched eagerly would come the departure. And always before the departure would come the request.

“We could be partners,” Flashburn would say. “In Tomorrow. My name before yours on the sign of course, but equal partners in all other things.”

“No.”

“Alright, your names before mine. You are the superior craftsman and woman, you deserve to come first.”

“Have a good trip back.”

“WHY WON’T YOU?”

“Because Flashburn,” Snorri would say. “You are very rich, and so you should be, you make wonderful weapons. But you also have to make them for any fool that comes along. We are poor, and no one in the world knows of us except you and the children, but we do not have the suffer fools. Well,” she conceded. “Except our son.”

“But you are artists!”

Oswald would laugh, “No, not yet. Craftspeople only. We dream to be artists. I pray that someday, if we work with enough care, if we are very, very lucky, we will make a weapon that is a work of art. Call us artists then, and we will answer.”

Flashburn entered his carriage, and Snorri approached the window, whispered: “Just remember this; when you get the jeweled sword, tell no one of our involvement. Claim it as your own.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” Embraces, waves, parting gifts for the children. The carriage would ride off. And that was the way of life before the hook handed sword.

Heather would always remember the exact moment it happened. She was sparring with her brother, or trying to. He had his head stuck in a big old book on healing, which was holding his interest for the chief reason that it had very gruesome drawings in it. Heather was attacking his back and the book with a wooden sword as he tried to scare her by vividly describing various maladies, which was normal behavior for both of them. Then a heavy knocking came on the front door.

“Inside there,” an oily voice snapped. “Open up and be quick about it.” Oswald came from where he was making lunch(Oswald and Heather did all the cooking in order to avoid food poisoning; Snorri and her son had similar talents in cooking, which is to say none) and opened the door, bowing.

“Your servant.”

“You are a sword maker,” the voice boomed. “Of some distinction, I have heard.”

“If only it were true. My wife is a far more accomplished craftswoman(both parties would always stubbornly insist the other was more talented), but as it is, neither of us have any great skills. We do mostly repair work. If you had a dagger that needs sharpening, I might be able to help, but anything more is beyond me.” Heather crept up behind her father, abandoning her play to peek out at the visitor. The booming oily voice belonged to a tall, dark, hooded man atop a splendid grey horse. Clearly a nobleman, but Heather was unsure which country.

“I have a desire to have made for me the greatest sword since the Stormblade.” Heather’s brother gasped from where he was eavesdropping. The Stormblade and it’s owner were the stuff of legends, made all the better by the fact that all the stories were true. The Dread Pirate Grimbeard wielded that sword, wreaking havoc across the known world. Whole armies were known to surrender at the mere mention of that sword. And this man wanted a sword to surpass even that? The boy nearly cried out in excitement, for he knew his parents could make such a sword. Heather was louder in her excitement. She would get to see a sword greater than the Stormblade! She squealed a little. The adults shot her a look.

“Your Grace, I hope your wishes are granted,” Oswald said, and the hearts of the children fell. “Now if you please, our lunch is almost ready-”

“I did not give you permission to move. You stay exactly where you are, or risk my wrath, which is considerable. My temper is murderous. Now, what were you saying about your lunch?”

“What were you saying about my family?” Snorri challenged, coming in from the forge.

“There are rumors that deep in the mountains of Berserk lives a genius, the greatest sword maker in all the world.”

“He visits here sometimes-that must be your mistake. His name is Flashburn, and he lives in Tomorrow.” Snorri may have been distant, but she would, like any mother, protect her children at all costs. And this man gave her the feeling that her children would need protecting.

“I will pay five hundred pieces of gold for my desires.”

“That is far more than anyone in this village will make in a lifetime. I would love to accept, but neither my husband or I are the one you seek.”

“The rumors have led me to believe that Snorri and Oswald of Berserk could solve my problem.”

“What is your problem?” Oswald asked tentatively, standing in front of the children, just in case.

“I am a master swordsman. But I cannot find a weapon to match my peculiarities, and therefore I cannot reach my highest skills. If I had a weapon to match, there would be no one in all the world to equal me.”

“What are these peculiarities you speak of?” The noble held up his right hand. Snorri began to grown excited. Oswald couldn’t hide a grin. The man had an iron hook for a hand.

“The Stormblade cut this hand off, I wish for a weapon greater than that to take its place.”

“Of course,” Oswald interrupted. “Every sword in the world is made for someone with fingers. For you there is no way to wield a sword unless you use your weaker hand or bind a weapon to the stump. For an ordinary swordsman it would not matter, but a great swordsman, a master, would be hampered by never using his dominant hand. The flow of the weapon, the connection to the body must be as natural as breathing, and cause him no more thought.”

“Clearly you understand the difficulties-” the nobleman began again, only to be interrupted by Snorri joining her husband’s frenzy. Heather had never seen her parents like this.

“The measurements….there must be a contraption, fixed to the wrist...hold the sword as an extension of the arm….the weight must be the same as if the hand were still there….so many measurements…..”

“And your preferences!” Oswald cut in. “Do you prefer to slash or cut? If you slash, do you go left to right or the parallel? Or an upward thrust….how much power should come from the wrist and the shoulder? And do you wish the point coated so as to enter more easily or do you enjoy seeing your opponent wince? So much to be done…..”

“So much to be done….” And on and on they went until the noble dismounted and grabbed them by the shoulders to quiet them.

“You are the craftsmen of the rumors.” They nodded. “And you will make me a sword greater than the Stormblade?”

“We shall beat our bodies into ruins for you.” said Oswald solemnly. Snorri continued,

“Perhaps we will fail, but no one will try harder.”

“And payment?”

“When you get the sword, then payment. Now let us get to work measuring. Heather! My instruments!” Heather scurried off.

“I insist on leaving something on account.”

“It is not necessary,” Snorri barked. “We may fail.”

“ I insist ”

“Fine!” She snapped. “One gold piece, leave that. But do not bother us with money when there is work that needs beginning.” The noble took out a single piece of gold. Oswald threw it in a drawer and left it without a glance. Then the measurements began, hundreds of them. Wrists and arms and shoulders and waists, double and triple checked, for a single mistake would rob them of perfection. And that is what they sought. Perfection. They would not settle for less. They told the noble to come back in a year, and set to work. They didn’t even watch him leave.

Such a year. They only slept when they dropped from exhaustion. They ate only when forced. The children acted as parents while their mother and father studied, fretted, complained, and worked. There were bad days; weeping, they never should have taken the job, it was impossible. The next day would be a good one; they never should have taken the job, it was too easy. Joy to despair, joy to despair, day to day, hour to hour. Sometimes Heather would wake to see her mother weeping;

“What is is Ma-ma?”

“I cannot do it. I cannot make the sword. I cannot make the sword, nor can your father. We would kill ourselves in pity and despair except what would you children do then?”

“Go to sleep Ma-ma.”

“No, I don’t need sleep. Failures don’t need sleep. I slept yesterday.”

“A little nap.”

“Alright, a few minutes, to keep you from nagging. You’re worse than your brother.” She would mumble as she curled up in the middle of the floor, Heather drawing a blanket over her.

Some nights the children would awake to see their father dancing.

“What is it Dad?” Her brother would ask.

“I found the mistakes, I corrected the problems!”

“So it will be done soon?”

“Done tomorrow, my silly boy!”

“You’re wonderful Dad.”

“I’m more wonderful than wonderful, how dare you insult me.”

The next day, tears from the both of them.

“We cannot do it!” Oswald would sob.

“I thought you found your mistakes?” Heather would ask.

Snorri would snivel then respond, “There are new ones, worse ones, my girl. We are wretched, wretched creatures.”

“Say you wouldn’t mind if your mother and I killed ourselves.”

“But we would mind. We love you, and would die with you if you stopped breathing.”

“You don’t love us, you’re only speaking out of pity.”

“How could we pity the greatest sword makers in the history of the world?”

“Thank you son.”

“You’re welcome Dad.”

“I love you back, both of you. Thank you.”

“Sleep Ma-ma.”

“Fine.”

A whole year of that. Four seasons of the handle being right, but the balance being wrong. Twelve months of the balance being right, but the cutting edge too dull. Fifty-two weeks of the cutting edge sharpened, but that threw the balance off again. Three hundred sixty-five days of the balance returning, but now the point was fat. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours of the point regaining sharpness, only now the blade was too short and it all had to go, all had to be thrown out, all had to be done again. And again. And again. And again. The health began to leave the pair, only barely maintained by the ministrations of their children. They were fevered always now, but forcing their frail shells on, for this sword had to be finer than the Stormblade itself. They were battling legend and it was destroying them. Such a year.

One night the children awoke to find Snorri and Oswald seated. Staring. Calm. The children followed the stare. The hook handed sword was done. Even in the darkness it glistened. Finer than the Stormblade.

“At last.” Oswald whispered, unable to say more.

Snorri breathed, “After a lifetime, we are artists.”

The dark hooded noble did not agree. The next morning he rode up with a manservant, demanded to see the sword. He afixed the sword holding contraption to the stump of his hand, attached the weapon. Sniffed distastefully.

“Not worth waiting for.” He took the sword off, replaced his hook. The children stood in the corner, watching, waiting, holding their breath.

“You are disappointed?” Oswald could scarcely speak. Snorri was attempting to set the man on fire with her eyes.

“I’m not saying it’s trash, but it’s certainly not worth five hundred pieces of gold. I’ll give you ten, it’s probably worth that.”

“Wrong!” Oswald cried out. “It is worth none of that, not five hundred, not ten, not even one! It is worthless and priceless. Here!” He threw open the drawer where the single gold piece had lain untouched all year, and tossed it at the noble’s feet. “The gold is yours, all of it. You have lost nothing.” He snatched the sword from the man’s hands and turned away.

“I’ll take the sword,” the nobleman said. “I never said I wouldn’t take it. I only said I would pay what it was worth.”

Snorri was livid. “You’re quibbling, haggling, you penny pinching bastard! Art lays before you and you see only gold. Beauty is here for the taking and you see only your fat purse! You have lost nothing, there is no reason for you to be here, get out of my house!”

“The sword.” he growled.

“This sword belongs to my daughter. I give it now, it is forever hers. Good-bye!” Oswald snapped.

“You are peasants and idiots who are wearing my patience thin, now give me the sword!”

“You are an enemy of art and I pity your ignorance!” Those were the last words she ever spoke.  The nobleman’s iron hook flashed then, leaping forward and tearing her heart to shreds. Her body slumped to the floor. Heather began to scream. This couldn’t be happening, her mother was not dead, not dying, she was fine, they would have lunch. She could not stop screaming.

Oswald wielded the sword then, tears in his eyes, screaming too. The cruel hook disarmed him in an instant, sending the sword clattering to the ground, Oswald following a moment later with iron through his chest. Heather could not stop screaming.

Her brother went mad, leaping forward and attacking the man with his bare hands. A punch broke the nobleman’s nose; the hook flashed, and the boy’s face was torn and bleeding. He fell back, shouting abuses. He ran into the street, shouting for help; no one came, no one wanted to risk themselves. They watched as the noble nodded to his manservant,

“Dispose of the boy.” The servant ran after the boy, and Heather watched as her brother fled for his life, disappearing into the forest. The nobleman shouted for the whole town to hear(a few brave souls had poked their heads outside their doors) “This family attacked me and tried to rob me. I defended myself, but by my mercy I shall let this child live!” He gestured to Heather, still standing shell-shocked at the door of her house. It was lies of course, everyone knew it. But he was a noble, so what was there to do?”

Heather saw the man’s cruel smile, and something snapped inside her. She picked up the hook-handed sword from where it lay near her parent’s bodies, sparing a moment to whisper a goodbye to them, and then chased after the nobleman as he made to leave town.

“Coward!” The nobleman whirled around. “Pig!” Heather stood in the middle of the street, sword raised, fire in her eyes.

“Someone take care of the child before she oversteps herself.”

“Killer! Bastard!” She ran forward, blocking his horse’s path. “I, Heather of Berserk, challenge you, coward, pig, bastard, killer, to a duel.”

“Someone take the infant away.”

“The infant is eleven and she stays.”

“Enough of your family is dead for one day, be content. Now get out of my way.”

“I will be content when you are begging for breath at the mercy of my blade. Now dismount !” The nobleman grunted, dismounted. “Now draw your sword.” He did so, fastening his old sword into the contraption Snorri and Oswald had made for him. “I dedicate your death to my parents. Now begin!”

They began. The duel was short, of course. The nobleman was far older and far more experienced than a grieving eleven year old. Heather was disarmed in under a minute. But for the first fifteen seconds or so, the noble was uneasy. During those fifteen seconds, strange thoughts crossed his mind. For even at the age of eleven, Heather’s genius was there.

Disarmed, the young girl stood ramrod straight. She did not cry or plead, just stared down the nobleman with her mother’s fire in her eyes. The nobleman lowered his sword.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he announced. “You have talent and you are brave. But you’re also lacking in manners, and that’s going to get you in trouble. So I shall help you, and leave you with a reminder that bad manners are to be avoided.” And then his sword flashed twice, leaving two long lines, one down each side of her face from temple to chin. They bled profusely. Everyone watching knew she had been scarred for life.

Heather would not fall. The world went white behind her eyes, but she wouldn’t fall. The blood continued to pour. The nobleman remounted his horse, waited. His manservant came out of the woods, hands bloodied. A single nod. The two rode off. It was only then that Heather allowed the darkness to claim her.

She awoke to Flashburn’s face. “My brother?” She croaked out.

“I’m sorry darling, we-we couldn’t find his body.”

“Maybe….”

“There was too much blood. He’s gone, Heather. I’m so, so, sorry.”

“I failed them.”

“Sleep.” Heather slept.

The bleeding stopped after a day, the pain stopped after a week. They buried her parents and set a marker for her brother, Heather never letting the hook-handed sword out of arm’s reach. After the funeral, she went with Flashburn, leaving Berserk for the first and last time. They arrived in Tomorrow, the city of twelve castles, and she lived with Flashburn for two months as the scars began to heal.

Then one morning she was gone. She left a note, ‘Thank you. I’m sorry. I must learn.’ Eight words that confused the Hel out of Flashburn. What was there beyond Tomorrow that an eleven year old girl could possibly have to commit to memory? He shrugged and sighed, it was beyond him. There was no understanding children anymore. He was a man with a magnificent mustache who made swords, that much he knew. Most other things were beyond him.

So he made more swords and his moustache grew bigger and the years went by. As his moustache grew, so did his fame. From all across the world they came, begging him for weapons, so he doubled his prices because he didn’t want to work too hard anymore, he was getting older, but when he doubled his prices, when the word spread from duke to Prince to King, they only wanted him more desperately. Now the wait was two years for a sword, the lineup of royalty was unending, and Flashburn was growing more tired, so he doubled his prices again, and when that didn’t stop them, he decided to triple his already doubled and redoubled prices and besides all that, all work had to be paid for in jewels in advance and the wait was now three years but that didn’t stop them. Even though the work on the finest was not what it once was(Oswald and Snorri could no longer save him after all) the silly nobles didn’t notice. They had to have swords by Flashburn or no one.

Flashburn grew very very rich, and his moustache grew very very large. He had the largest moustache in all of Tomorrow. It was golden and shining and obscured half his face to the point where he could barely see what was in front of him. But he could still make swords, and people still craved them.

“I’m sorry,” he said to a young woman who entered his shop one morning. “The wait is up to four years and I am embarrassed to even mention the cost; get a sword somewhere else.”

“I already have my sword.” She threw the hook handed sword onto Flashburn’s workbench.

“My dear girl!” Flashburn sprung up and embraced her. “Never leave me again, I’ve been awfully lonely.”

“I’m sorry Flashburn, but I can’t stay, I’m just here to ask you a question. I’ve spent the last seven years learning. Now I need you to tell me if I’m ready.”

“Ready? Ready for what? What have you been learning? Please don’t say necromancy, I knew it, I knew your brother couldn’t have been the only crazy one, you should have seen your father when he was younger, Snorri’s influence will only do so much-”

“It’s not necromancy! I’ve been learning the sword you big dummy!”

“Oh.”

“Yeah oh!”

“Wait, so you left me for seven years, robbed me of the only link to my dearest friends, and grew into a beautiful young woman without my permission, just to learn the sword?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can’t fail them twice.”

“Who?”

“My family, I need to avenge them.”

“But why did you need to leave? I am one of the greatest sword masters in the world, I could have taught you.”

“That’s true, but you care about me. You would not have been ruthless. You would have said, ‘Excellent parry Heather, that’s enough for one day, let’s have supper.’”

“That does sound like me,” Flashburn admitted.

“So I went and found ruthless masters. I trained with Bertha the Unsinkable, Madguts the Murderous, the Goggler Twins, the prisoners of the Lava-Louts, the Hotshot-O’Ugerlies-”

“Oh! How is Tantrum doing?”

“Very well, I do think Humungous is a good influence on her, she insisted on the name split though.”

“Like she would ever agree to anything less.”

“Norbert of Hysteria taught me how to defend myself if the opponent does not use a sword, Camicazi of the Bog-Burglars taught me how to use the opponent’s size against them, the Wanderers Tribe taught me how to properly scare the opponent-”

“The opponent? All this to kill one man?”

“He killed my family. I have to find the hook-handed man and kill him in a duel. I can’t lose that duel, so I came to you. You know swords, and you know sword masters. You can’t lie, am I ready? If you say yes, I’ll travel the world looking for the hook handed man. If you say no, I will spend another seven years training and another seven after that if I need to.”

Flashburn saw the young woman before him. There was a fire in her eyes. “Show me what you can do.”

So they went to Flashburn’s courtyard. It was early morning. Warm. Flashburn put his body in a chair and the chair in the shade.

“We know you have the desire, the willpower, the motive to deliver the death blow,” he intoned. “Now we need to make sure the body can support the mind. We need no enemy for this, visualize him in your mind.” Heather drew her sword. “The hook-handed man taunts you,” Flashburn called. “Do what you can.”

Heather flew into motion, blade flashing in the morning sun.

“He uses the Flashy Turnover!” Immediately Heather changed position, increased the speed of her sword. “Now he surprises you with the Glancing Flick!” But Heather was not surprised for long. Again her feet shifted, her body moved a different way. Again and again she attacked the invisible opponent, the focus of all her energies over seven long years, every attack deadly if anyone had actually been standing there. Sweat dripped from her brow, the blade was blinding. Flashburn continued to shout. Heather continued to shift. The blade never stopped moving.

Sometime long after noon, Flashburn said, “Enough, even watching you is exhausting. You have my respect for lasting so long, especially in this heat.”

Heather sheathed her sword. “Your respect, while appreciated, is worth nothing if I'm not ready. Am I ready?”

“You want to know if I think you are ready to duel to the death a man ruthless enough to kill your family, rich enough to buy protection, older and more experienced, an acknowledged master.” She nodded. He sighed. “I'll tell you the truth, and it's up to you to live with it. First, there has never been a master as young as you. Even the youngest before you was thirty-two before they reached that rank, and you are barely eighteen. The truth is that you are a cocky girl driven by rage and you are not nor will ever be a master.”

She nodded sadly. “Thank you for your honesty. I was hoping for better news, but I'll go now, sorry to waste your time-”

“Let me finish! No patience at All! How you got this far is beyond me. Now, you know I loved your parents, but what you don't know is that when we were very young, not yet fifteen, we saw with our own eyes an exhibition by the Eastern Wizard Ug.”

“I've never heard of any Wizards.”

“It is the rank beyond master in swordsmanship. Ug was the last so designated. He died at sea long before you were born. There have been no Wizards since, and you would have never in this world beaten him. But,” he continued as Heather’s face began to fall. “He never in this world would have beaten you.” A smile spread on Heather's face, not quite one of happiness, but more of relief. Then her features hardened again.

“I am ready then.”

“I almost feel sorry for the hook handed man. But I don't, so I ask you one favor:when you find the bastard and kill him, give his corpse a good kick from Flashburn.”

“I will.”

The next morning she set out to track down the hook handed man.

She had it all carefully prepared in her mind. She would find the hook handed man. She would go to him, say “My name is Heather of Berserk, you killed my family, prepare to die,” and then they would duel. Oh, they would duel. Lovely plan really, simple, direct, no frills. Perfect.

In the beginning she had had all sorts of wild notions of vengeance. The enemy would weep and beg before she cut out his tongue. The enemy would laugh cruelly from an iron throne while she approached, fighting off a battalion of soldiers. The enemy would be propelled by her sword into a bottomless pit, never to be seen again. Really, every situation imaginable. But in the end she settled for simplicity. She would approach, they would duel, the enemy would die. There was only one problem: she could not find the enemy.

While training, it had never occurred to her that there would be a problem finding the enemy. How many hook handed noblemen could there be? All she had to do was ask around, ‘Hello, have you seen any noblemen with a hook for a right hand lately, no I’m not crazy,’ and sooner or later she would get a lead. But soon revealed no one with any knowledge of the hook handed man, and later wasn’t looking too promising.

The first month wasn’t all that discouraging, she made her way across Kroner and the Eastern Territories. The second month she spent in Bog-Burglar Territory and the Southern Isles. The third she visited Mystery, off the coast of Nowhere. The fourth and fifth months she tried the far north. And then six months had passed. Then a year. Now two.

For the first time, Heather began to worry. She had seen all of Europe, sailed across the Archipelagos and even visited the (then) distant northern shores of Africa, but the hook handed man was nowhere to be found. She knew what had happened: it had been nine years since her last duel with the man. Seven years learning had been seven years too long. Too much had been allowed to happen. For all she knew the hook handed man was off in the jungles of the Orient, or sailing the Indian Sea, or getting rich in America, or….dead?

At the young age of twenty, Heather began having a few glasses of wine at night to help her sleep. The voices of her family haunted her; their screams, their bloodied bodies, the awful iron hook dripping with blood. Three months later, she began having a few glasses at noon to ward off daydreams. Her brother’s torn face begged for vengeance. Her mother spoke from a pool of blood on the ground. Three more months and the wine was essential to wake her in the morning.

The world was slowly collapsing around her. Not only was she living in daily failure, something nearly as dreadful was happening: swordplay was beginning to bore her. As she traveled, she paid for lodging by challenging any brave enough to a duel. When she won, as she always did, her opponent bought her dinner and lodging(occasionally at swordpoint, sore losers and all.) She was simply too good. Local champions were cake. Regional winners were child’s play. Even the masters of the big cities were no more difficult than a brisk jog in the park.  She had no competition, nothing to help her keep an edge. Her travels seemed pointless, her quest pointless, her life, everything, everything pointless.

At twenty-one, she began to give up on the ghost, stopping her search beyond half-hearted and oft-forgot inquiries at taverns. She drank, ate, slept on occasion and woke miserable, reaching for the bottle. She was a shell; the greatest fencing machine since the Eastern Wizard was barely practicing the sword.

She was in that condition when the Sicilian found her. At first, Johan only plied her with stronger wine, but then through a combination of pride and nudging, began to get her off the bottle. Because the Sicilian had a dream: with his guile plus the Giant’s strength and Heather’s sword, they might become the most efficient criminal organization in the whole uncivilized world.

Which is precisely what they became. In dark places their names were whispered in fear by those with twisted needs. The Sicilian Crowd(two was company, three a crowd even then) became more and more famous, and more and more rich. Nothing was beyond or beneath them. Heather’s sword flashed like lightning, the Giant’s strength grew by the month, and the Sicilian was the leader. Of that there was never any doubt. Without him, Heather knew where she would be: in a mud hole(no offense to mud holes) somewhere begging wine from the back door of a tavern. So Johan’s word was not just law, it was gospel(annoying gospel.) When he said to kill the man in black, all other possibilities ceased to exist. The man in black had to die……

Heather paced the cliff edge, impatiently fencing shadows, checking the man in black’s progress every few minutes. Fifty feet below, he continued to climb, and Heather’s patience, never the best, was wearing thin. Forty-nine. Forty-eight. Forty-seven. The pattern continued, jam a hand in a crevice, pull, jam in the next hand. Forty-six. Forty-five. Forty-four….

“You down there!” Heather called out when she would take it no more. The man in black looked up.

“Let me guess, you want me to climb faster so you can get to killing me quicker.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I mind a lot actually.”

“You seem pretty calm for someone who’s about to die.”

“Who says I’m about to die?” Heather snorts.

“You’ve got a near thousand foot drop below you, and a talented swordswoman with orders to kill you above. I don’t think you’ll be getting out of this.”

“You’d be surprised what I’ve gotten out of. Now,” he grunts. “If you don’t mind, I could use some quiet. I’m trying to focus here.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

Forty-three. Forty-two. Forty-one….

“You couldn’t speed things up, could you?”

“If you want things speeded up you could lower a rope or something.”

“I could do that,” Heather conceded. “But I don’t think you would take my help, after all I am waiting up here to kill you.”

The man in black sighed. “That does put a bit of a damper on our relationship. You’ll just have to wait.”

Forty. Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight….

“I could give you my word as a Berserker.”

“No thanks, I’ve known too many Berserkers.”

“I’m going crazy up here!”

“If you want to change places, be my guest.”

Thirty-seven. Thirty-six. Thirty-five and resting.

“Oh come on!”

“I need a break! I notice you weren’t the one climbing up the Cliffs!”

“That’s besides the point! You’ve made it this far, you have to continue!”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Heather was quite close to having a fit. “Ok, look, we have another piece of rope up here we never used, I can lower that down to you and-”

“No.”

“Sorry?”

“No. Look, I appreciate the offer, but you might not pull me up. You might, but you might also might not. You’re in a hurry to kill me, and dropping the rope would do that pretty quickly.” Heather was floundering now, positively desperate for some action.

“But I’m the one who told you I was going to kill you, I didn’t have to do that, doesn’t that mean you can trust me just a little?”

“Honestly? Sorry, no.”

“There’s no way you’ll trust me?”

“Nope.”

Suddenly Heather raised her right hand high, “I swear on the souls of my family that you will reach the top alive!”

The man in black was silent for a long time. “They were important to you.”

“They still are.”

“Throw the rope.” Heather tied the rope around a rock and threw the other end over the edge. The man in black grabbed hold, began climbing while Heather pulled. In a moment he was safely at the top of the cliff.

“We’ll wait until you’re ready.”

“Thanks.” The man in black sat down on a rock to catch his breath.

“Why are you following us?”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m bored.”

“Fine. I’m interested in your baggage.”

“It’s not for sale.”

“That’s your problem.” He was silent then, breathing deeply. Heather stood and walked away, surveying the terrain. It was perfect for a battle, filled with trees for dodging around and rocks for tripping over and little rises and gullies to give height advantages or disadvantages. A forest to the right, stretches of clifftop to the north and south, and the cliffs themselves with their thousand foot drop to the left. Always a valuable thing to keep in mind when planning tactics. It was perfect, provided the man in black could fence. Really fence.

Heather took out her blade, ran her fingers along the cool metal her parents had forged so long ago. She made a few practice thrusts and parries, then examined the man in black. He was taller than her by a few inches, skinny but well-muscled. A fine sailor, definitely, to have sailed the rocky seas to get here. A mighty climber, to be sure, he’d climbed the Cliffs of Insanity. But could he fence? Really fence?

Please Tyr, she privately invoked the god of bravery and battles; Please, it has been too long since I had a challenge. Let him challenge me, let him put up a fight. Let him be swift and strong and clever, let him have a background equal to my own and the passion to win. Let him be a master!

The man in black took a final deep breath, then stood. “Thanks for the break. I’m ready if you are.”

“Let’s get to it then.”

“Let’s.”

“It’s a shame,” Heather mourned as they faced each other. “You seem decent, I hate to kill you.”

The man in black unsheathed his sword. “You seem decent too, I hate to die.”

“One of us has to though. Begin.” And with that, she took the hook handed sword and placed it in her left hand. She’d begun all her duels left-handed lately, it was good practice. There was not a soul alive who could match her when she used her right hand, but she was more than worthy with her left. Maybe as many as fifty could match her with her left, maybe as few as ten. The man in black was right handed, which was a shame. A good lefty could always beat a good righty, but at least it was her weakness(if you could call it that) against his strength. She might get some excitement out of this battle yet.

They touched swords, and the man in black immediately launched into The Piercing Lunge, and Heather was thrilled. No one had taken the offense against her in so long. She blocked it easily, but let him continue,  studying his attacks. Her excitement faded quickly. The attacks were clumsy and heavy, arms flopping around as if unconnected to the body, and he was a moment away from tripping over his own feet. Still, she let him continue, blocking his attacks expertly and throwing in a few of her own.

He somehow dodged them and pushed forward with The Grimbeard’s Grapple, trying to angle the pair so the Cliffs were at Heather’s back. She waited until they were only a few feet away from the edge, then threw in a powerful Golden Grimpiercer attack to knock him off balance. But he blocked it! She tried again from the opposite side. Again he blocked it! She tried the Overpoint attack, the Destroyer’s Defense. Blocked again as she grew closer and closer to the Cliff edge, blade blinding as she searched for openings that were suddenly non-existent.

But she never panicked, even as she heard her heel kick a pebble over the cliff edge as the man in black pushed ever forward. Instead she smiled. The man in black smirked,

“What’s so funny?”

She laughed like the devil she knew she was. “I have a secret.” She blocked another attack. “I’m not left-handed.” And she threw the blade to her right hand and surged forward. They moved away from the cliff edge, Heather brutally assaulting the man in black, blow after blow as she cornered him against a large boulder. She was curious to see how he’d fight in closer quarters, with no room to block or parry.

He flailed, Heather no longer holding back, his clumsy blocks no longer sufficient. Then she struck him, no more than a pink scratch on the wrist. First blood was hers. The man in black only smiled, even as his back pressed into the boulder.

“I know why I’m smiling, why are you smiling?” Heather asked.

“Because I have a secret too.” His eyes flashed in mirth behind his mask. “I’m not right-handed.” He threw the blade to his left hand and the battle was finally joined.

“Finally!” Heather crowed in delight. “Someone who can fight!”

“Are you like this with all the people you’re meant to kill?” The man in black asked as he parried a particularly nasty Flashburn’s Fancy.

“Only the fun ones!” Their blades rang together, both smiling despite themselves, the masked man and the Wizard. They went parallel to the cliff edge, Heather’s passiveness and the man’s clumsiness gone. Attack and defense, defense and attack. It seemed as if Heather’s prayers had been answered. With his left hand, the man in black could fence. Really fence. He used moves she hadn’t seen in years, challenging her ever onwards. She was practically enjoying herself.

Then the unthinkable. The man in black scratched Heather’s shoulder, just enough to bleed. Second blood was his. She ducked and struck at his legs, escaping his hold and feinting towards his neck. At the last moment she went for his chest, but he parried quick as lightning. She attacked again, and again he parried. Then he attacked, and Heather, for the first time in more years than she could remember, was on the retreat. She looked for the openings that had been there before, but they were gone. He’d been faking earlier. She dodged a Switch-hander, frustration growing, and demanded,

“Who are you?”

“No one important.” He shrugged midfight, turning the movement of his shoulders into an attack that scraped Heather’r arm. She fumed, doubling her attack.

“I have to know!”

“Get used to disappointment.”

They flashed across the battlefield, and the blades were both invisible, but the ground trembled, the skies shook, and Heather was losing. A good lefty will always have an advantage over a good righty. And the man in black was a very good lefty. Not much better than Heather; a hair quicker, a fraction stronger, a speck faster. But he had those minuscule advantages, and he had heart. The passion Heather had pleaded for in her opponent was present in spades, and it is this that would be her undoing.

They met again and again, neither conceding anything. Heather scratched him a few times, the man in black returning the favor. The sound of ringing metal rose. A final burst of energy ran through Heather’s veins as she lashed out. Any other opponent would have had their head removed clean from their shoulders. But the man in black blocked it. And she was beaten.

A final flick and the hook handed sword went flying. She stood tall.

“Do it quickly,” was all she said.  

The man in black lowered his sword. “And take an artist like you from the world? No. But-” and here he hit her in the back of her head with the butt of his sword- “I think you’re a fantastic fencer if that helps.” He struck her one more time, and she fell unconscious. He tied her hands around a tree and left her sleeping there somewhat peacefully.

Then he sheathed his sword, picked up the Sicilian’s trail, and set off into the morning.

Chapter Text

Jack was not happy. If they were going to kill him, they could at least get on with it. His frenzy of earlier had subsided, and he likely would have resigned himself to this fate if he wasn’t being tortured in the second worst way known to humankind-

“So there I was, floating in the middle of the Doldrum Seas, floating on a plank, when I spotted some sea turtles, and you remember how useful sea turtles are-” The Sicilian had not stopped talking the entire morning, and it was getting close to noon now. He’d been regaling the trio with tales of his heroics and more dastardly deeds-most of which Jack highly doubted hd ever occured-while leading them ever closer to the Kroner frontier.

Jack had tried to escape three more times so far, resulting in a nasty scratch on his arm from Johan’s knife, a double gag around his mouth after he’d bitten through the first one, and the unfortunate consequence of being carried upside down, which was making his head ache horribly. Taking stock of his situation, he was still tied hand and foot, still gagged, still riding on the Giant’s shoulder, still listening to Johan’s awful stories, and still waiting to die.

With doom impending, his mind turned-for the third time in twenty-four hours- to Hiccup. For the past three years he’d tried to keep the boy he loved(still) out of his mind, knowing that the future they had dreamed of would never happen, that he was to marry the Prince, that reunion was not only im-probable but im-possible. Jack hadn’t been lying to Heather when he said he wasn’t religious, he’d never believed in the gods the same way Hiccup had. But now he wondered. He remembered.

He said he’d follow him anywhere, wherever they ended up. They’d actually talked about it on their second, no third, night together. They’d been lying in a pile of hay under a hole in the roof of the barn, staring up at the stars, swapping long lazy kisses and stories, making up for time lost to obliviousness and stupidity. (Hiccup argued that most of that obliviousness was Jack, but Jack fought that most of the stupidity was Hiccup’s.)

“My dad always said he’d see me in Valhalla someday,” Hiccup had said quietly, curled up against Jack. “Like he knew he’d die in battle and hoped I would too.”

“You are not allowed to die in battle anytime soon.” Jack had said authoritatively from his place in the crook of Hiccup’s neck.

“Yes boss.” Sarcastically.

“I mean it!” He’d lifted his head up, stared earnestly into emerald eyes. “I just got you, and I’m keeping you. I don’t care what Hel I have to wiggle out of, I will break into Valhalla and get you back if you’re ever stupid enough to die.”

Hiccup had lifted an eyebrow. “You’re that sure you’re going to Hel?”

“Have you met me?”

“Yes, and that’s why I know you’re not going to meet with Lady Hel.”

“Really? So where do I end up then, O All-knowing Seer?” Jack wiggled his eyebrows.

Hiccup adopted a dramatic thinking face, scratching his chin before nodding, “Muspelheim.”

Jack slapped his shoulder lightly, “You’re awful.”

“You love me.”

“You’re lucky I do.”

“Yeah, I am.” Hiccup had said with a soft smile.

“Oh great, you have to go be sappy on me when I’m trying to be angry at you. Juuuust great.” He faux pouted, barely concealing a smile as he blushed.

“I love you.” Hiccup said as way of apology for the false injury.

“Stop it.” Jack demanded as he blushed deeper. It was still very strange to hear ‘I love you’ from someone he loved as well.

“Nope. I love you.” Taunting now, and Jack was redder than North after he’d had too much to drink.

“Stop it!

“I’ll come down to Muspelheim-”

“Stop it!”

“Tell Surtr himself I love you! Kiss you in front of him!” Smiling brighter than the stars.

“I swear Hic, I won’t come get you in Valhalla.” Half-laughing now at the ridiculousness of the argument.

“Then I’ll come get you. I’m always chasing you anyway.” He’d looked so smug at that, at getting Jack to blush, that Jack had no other choice but to take out the most powerful weapon in his arsenal. He leaned in and kissed him.

Gentle at first, like all their kisses. But then Jack deepened it, wrapping himself around the boy next to him, hands going absolutely everywhere. Hiccup, startled at first, began to return the kiss just as deeply. Then, just as it seemed that this kiss might go further, Jack pulled away, breathing heavy but smirking all the same. Hiccup lay there like a fish, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing lamely.

“What?” He breathed out. Jack laughed, but there was no meanness in it.

“Hey, you said you wanted a kiss, you got a kiss.” Hiccup’s mouth was still flapping as Jack slid back down next to him, intertwining their legs. “Come on,” he’d said softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw, “Tell me some more stories.”

Hiccup had recovered after that, and they’d spent the night telling stories and trying to surprise the other with kisses(Jack won five to three). The night had passed slow and syrupy until it was morning and North was shaking them awake. The giant man had raised an eyebrow at the two boys tangled in the hay, then sighed. Deeply. He’d given up trying to control Jack a long time ago.

“I don’t care what you two do, but Jack, I’m your father and I have to ask,” he’d tensed up before flatly asking, “Is my son still an honest man?” Vines should have been growing up the barn walls following that question: the boys turned into tomatoes.

They’d laughed about it in the weeks following, turning it into an inside joke about chasing each other and not letting North see. They never thought they’d have to make good on those promises to find each other in the afterlife, at least not anytime soon. Jack doesn’t think he’ll be able to fulfill his promise at this rate anyway. He’s still very much alive, and only the dead can get into(or sneak into) Valhalla.

He’s so lost in his contemplation of the dead that he’s forgotten the living, and so doesn’t notice that Johan’s storytelling had devolved into a rather impressive stream of curses until the Giant turns around to see whatever the Sicilian is screaming at.

“He’s beaten Heather,” Fishlegs noted sadly. He’d liked Heather, she was the only one who realized that he was smarter than he looked. She didn’t make fun of him when he read his books. And now she was probably dead, killed by the man approaching up the mountainside.

They were on a rocky mountain path, narrow and strewn with rocks of every shape and size that Johan was in the process of kicking off the edge of the path. They disappeared into the deep crevice tracing the right side of the path, occasionally bouncing off the sharp mountain face to their left and hitting one of the trio. This perch gives them a perfect vantage point of the man in black as Johan turns the air blue in a dozen languages. He kicks a medium size rock against the mountainside, which bounced back and walloped him in the forehead. He stood still a moment, pausing his cursing as a tick rapidly formed in his right eye before storming over to Fishlegs, growling.

“He cheated. Must have. No one can beat Heather in a fair fight.” Well, the man in black could have if he were a certain factor faster or if the temperature was sufficiently cold and the man had gloves while Heather did not or…. Fishlegs’ brain went on a tangent like that for a while, figuring out the ways that Heather could have been beaten. He had a gift for things like that, for analyzing and figuring. It was because he knew so much, from reading, you see. Doing much with this information was a bit beyond his skill set, but he enjoyed it anyway. Or he did before Johan grabbed him by the collar-

“Are you listening to me?”

“Of-of course!” Fishlegs stammered out.

“You aren’t!” The Sicilian spat. “You were thinking again, weren’t you?”

“No-n-no-no.” Jack rolled his eyes from his position on Fishlegs’ shoulder. He could feel the Giant’s terrified shaking at Johan’s intensity, and he’s glad he’s not on the receiving end of the Sicilian’s rage at the moment.

“What did I tell you about thinking?” Johan doesn’t wait for a response. “You are not the brains of this operation, you are the muscle. The muscle stands there, looks intimidating, and takes orders. Now, like I was saying while you were thinking your imbecile thoughts, there is no way the man in black is playing fair. It is utterly inconceivable that he could have beat Heather fairly, so we won’t play fair either. I’ll go ahead to the frontier and dispose of the Princeling, you stay here and take care of the man in black.”

“And how would I do that?” Please don’t make me kill him, please don’t make me kill him.

“You’ll kill him, you dolt.”

Oh Thor “And-um, how would I go about killing him exactly?”

“Your way!”

“Oh, okay. And my way is?”

“Must I spell everything out for you?” Jack rolls his eyes again. Johan had told the Giant not to think. The large man was obviously terrified of his boss and was trying to listen to him. Johan didn’t care. This was like a bad play.

“Hit him with a rock or something!” Johan is losing whatever patience he ever had. “You stand here in the shadow of the mountain and wait until the man in black comes up the path, then throw a rock at his head! Simple! Now, give me the Princeling and catch up once the man in black is dead. If you fail, don’t bother following me.”

“I don’t know Johan, it doesn’t seem very sportsmanlike-”

“I will leave you.”

“I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him!”

“Good, now untie the brat’s legs so he can walk.” Jack was tossed from the Giant’s shoulder onto the ground, and he tensed when Johan’s hands touched the insides of his legs. Then the moment passed, his legs were free, and he kneed Johan in the face. The Sicilian cursed, and Jack took off running up the path.

“Grab him you dolt!” Johan ordered, and the Giant was after him. Frantic hope beat in his chest as he ran, hands still tied behind his back. If he was fast enough, got far enough-a rock lodged itself between his shoulder blades. He pitched forward, landing hard on his elbow. He squirmed desperately, trying to get on his feet when the Giant’s hands close around his waist.

“Good! You finally managed to do something right! Bring him back here!” Johan calls, mad glint in his eyes. Jack struggles, but the giant holds him still as Johan loosely ties rope around his ankles. They haul him to his feet, and Johan shoves him forward with a knife pointed at the small of his back. “Can’t run away now, can you?” He taunts as Jack shuffles forward. The Sicilian laughs cruelly before turning to Fishlegs, “Like I said, kill the man in black, meet me at the Kroner frontier when you’re done.”

He marches off, Jack in tow, and Fishlegs is left alone. He tracks the man in black’s progress up the mountainside, sighing before searching the ground. He selects a rock that fits comfortably in his palm, and aims for a spot on the path maybe fifty yards away. WOOSH. Dead center. He picks another, aiming for the same spot. WOOSH. Four inches to the left. He shrugs, he’ll still hit the man’s head if he aims for the center. He picks a third rock, moving to a sharp turn in the path where the man in black will not see him until it is too late. Covered in deepest shadow, unseen, silent, he counts down the seconds until his target will die…..

Most babies weigh between five to ten pounds at birth. There are some who weigh up to fifteen, and a rare few that weigh a bit more than that. Out of these large(definitely not little) angels, almost everyone does what babies do at birth-lose between several ounces and a pound, and then take the better part of a week to gain it back.

Not Fishlegs. At birth he weighed sixteen pounds and had gained another by the end of his first afternoon. (Since his mother gave birth two weeks early, the doctors weren’t unduly concerned. ‘It’s because you delivered early’ they told Fishlegs’ mother, ‘That explains it.’ Actually, this explained nothing, but whenever doctors are confused about something, which happens more frequently than any of us would benefit from thinking about, they always snatch at something in the vicinity of the case and say that explains it. If Fishlegs’ mother had delivered late, they would have said ‘Oh, well, you came late, that explains it.’ Or if it had been raining they would have said ‘It was raining during delivery, the extra weight is simply moisture, that explains it.’)

A healthy baby doubles their birth weight in about six months and triples it in a year. At one year, Fishlegs weighed eighty-five pounds. He wasn’t fat, you see. He looked like a perfectly normal strong eighty-five pound kid. By the time he reached kindergarten, he was the size of a full grown man, and shaving like one too. The other children made his life miserable.

At first they’d been scared to death, but once they found out he was chicken, well, they weren’t about to let an opportunity like that get away. “Bully, bully” they teased him during recess.

“I’m not,” Fishlegs would say out loud. (To himself he would think ‘ I don’t fill the dictionary definition of bully, you’re looking for someone else. Actually you’re filling the dictionary definition of bully -His thoughts would go like that for a while, for it was not just his body that was larger than normal, it was his mind too, and he used this extra brainspace to stuff all kinds of interesting facts and words into his head. He never said most of it out loud of course, merely thought it for fear of ridicule)

“Coward!” They would taunt.

Fishlegs would list the properties of dragon skin in his head to make it all go away. Non-flammable, hardness varies depending on species and venom resistance -“I’m not,” he would meekly protest out loud.

“Prove it!” They would shout back and inevitably one would step forward and swing their fist with all they had and hit Fishlegs in the stomach, confident that all Fishlegs would do was go ‘oof’ and stand there, because he never hit back no matter what you did to him.

“Oof.” Another hit, then another. Maybe a jab to the kidney, or a kick in the knee. It would go on like that until Fishlegs burst into tears and ran home.

One day after such an episode, his father called to him. “Come here,” Fishlegs obeyed, as always.

“Put down the book,” his mother said gently, “dry your tears.” Fishlegs would reluctantly put down whatever book he’d picked up for comfort-his favorite was Classifications of Earth: Rocks and their Properties- and make an awkward attempt to rub his eyes dry.

“We need to make this stop Fishlegs sweetie.” His mother said. “They have to stop picking on you.”

Igneous rock formed either large or small crystals depending on the cooling time of the magma - “I don’t mind so much.” He mostly just wanted to go back to reading.

“Well, you should mind,” His father chastised. “Come on, I’ll teach you how to fight.”

Obsidian cooled rapidly and could be carved - “But I don’t want-”

“Listen to your father.” They trooped out to the backyard.

“Make a fist.” Fishlegs did his best. His father looked to the heavens, then to his wife, then back at his son, plastering a smile to his face. “Not quite, son.” He was at a loss for how to say this nicely. He wanted to be kind to his son, he really did, but…..

“Here, I’ll show him.” Fishlegs’ mother stepped in. “Okay honey, you want to put your thumb on the outside of your other fingers. Okay sweetie? That way when you hit somebody, you hurt them instead of yourself.”

“But I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Would you rather they hurt you?” His father asked. “Look, we don’t want you to hurt anyone either, but when it comes down to it, we want you to be okay. If that means you have to hit a few kids so the rest leave you alone, then so be it.”

“But-”

“Try the fist again sweetie.” Fishlegs tried the fist again, this time with his thumb on the outside. “Good job honey!” His mother applauded. She wanted to be kind to him too.

“Now hit me.” His father instructed.

“I don’t want to do that.”

“Hit your father Fishlegs.”

“But-”

“Look, we’ll show you how. Watch your mother, see? It’s simple. Make the fist, the pull back your arm a little, aim for where you want to land, and move your arm forward.”

“You try. Hit your father a good one.” Fishlegs made a punch towards his father’s arm. Now two sets of eyes looked to the heavens in frustration. Fishlegs looked at his shoes, silently cataloging the type of dirt on them. Silicate residue.

“Now that, that was a good start honey, tell him how good he did.”

“It was in the right general direction,” Fishlegs’ father managed. “If I’d been standing two feet to the left it would have been perfect.”

“Can I stop now? I’ve learned a lot of fighting for one day.”

“You’ve learned more about rocks today than you have about fighting, now try again.”

“Son, please hit me, okay? Hit me a good one.”

“I don’t want to.” Tears began to form.

“Crying won’t work Fishlegs. I know you’re six and this is scary, but you look much older, so you have to fight like you’re older. So we’re gonna stay right here until you punch me. If it takes all night we’re gonna stand here, and if it takes all week we’re gonna stand here until-”

SPLAT!!!!

(This was before emergency rooms, or even hospitals, at least where Fishlegs lived, which was too bad for his father, because there was nowhere to take him after Fishlegs’ punch landed, except to his own bed, where he remained with his eyes shut for a day and a half, except when the milkman came to fix his broken jaw-this was before doctors, but where Fishlegs lived they hadn’t gotten around to claiming the bone business yet, the logic being that since milk was so good for bones, who would know more about broken bones than a milkman?)

When Fishlegs’ father was able to open his eyes again, they had a family talk, the three of them.

“You’re very strong, Fishlegs.” his father said. (Actually, that is not strictly true. What his father meant was ‘You’re very strong, Fishlegs’. What came out was more like ‘Zzzzz’zzzzz zzz zzzzzzzz, zzzzzzz’ Ever since the milkman had wired his jaws together, all he could manage was the letter z. But he had a very expressive face, and his wife understood him perfectly.)

“He says you’re very strong, Fishlegs.”

“I thought I might be,” Fishlegs replied calmly. “Last year I hit a tree once when someone threw my book into it. I knocked the whole tree down. It was a small tree, but I figured it had to mean something.”

“Zzzzzzzz zzzzzz zzzzzz zzzzzz, Zzzzzz.”

“He says we’re moving, Fishlegs. He’s quitting his job.”

“No Daddy, you’ll be better soon, the milkman practically promised me.”

“Zzzzz, zzzzzz zzzzzzzz zzzzz.”

“He wants to quit his job, Fishlegs.”

“But what will he do? Where will be go?”

Fishlegs’ mother answered this one herself; she and her husband had been up half the night agreeing on the decision. “He’s going to be your mananger, Fishlegs. Fighting is an international sport. We’re all going to be rich and famous.”

“But Mommy, Daddy, I don’t like fighting.”

His father reached out and gently patted his son’s head. “Z’zzzzzzz zzzzzz zzzz zzzzzzzzz.”

“It’s going to be wonderful ,” his mother translated. Fishlegs only burst into tears.

They had his first professional match in the village of Hysteria on a dreary sort of Monday. His parents had a terrible time getting him into the ring. They were absolutely confident of victory, because they had worked very hard for this day. They had taught Fishlegs for three years before finally agreeing that he was ready. His father handled tactics and ring strategy while his mother was in charge of diet and training, and they had never been happier.

Fishlegs had never been more miserable. He was scared and terrified and frightened, all rolled into one. Originally he refused to enter the arena. Because he knew something: even though outside he looked twenty, and had a spotty sort of beard already, inside he was still the nine year old that would much rather be tucked away somewhere with a book on dragons.

“I won’t go in there! You can’t make me!”

“After all we’ve slaved over the past three years? You are going to do it.” His father said.(His jaw was practically good as new now.)

“He’ll hurt me!”

“Life is pain,” his mother said. “Anybody that says different is selling something.”

“Please, I’m not ready. I forget the holds. I’m not graceful and I fall down a lot. It’s true!”

It was. That was their only real fear, were they rushing him? “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” His mother said.

“Get going Fishlegs.” His father said. Fishlegs stood his ground.

“Listen, we’re not going to threaten you,” his parents said more or less together. “We all love each other too much for that sort of thing. But we want you to listen. No one is going to force you to fight, if you don’t want to, don’t fight. We’ll just leave you alone forever.” (Fishlegs’ private picture of Hel was being left alone forever with no books or people. He had told them this when he was five.)

He marched into the arena to face the champion of Hysteria. Very Vicious(that was his name) had been champion for twelve years, ever since he was twenty-two. He was very large, had a humongous beard that raged like a forest fire out of control, and stood six feet tall, only half a foot shorter than Fishlegs.

Fishlegs didn’t stand a chance.

He was too clumsy; he kept falling down or mentally listing rock classifications when he should have been working on his holds. As it was, he either got them backwards or missed altogether so they weren’t holds at all. Very Vicious toyed with him, tripping him or picking him up and throwing him down. Fishlegs always got up and tried again, but Very Vicious was too fast for him, too big, and far more experienced. The crowd laughed and drank and thoroughly enjoyed the whole spectacle.

Until Fishlegs got his arms around Very Vicious.

The crowd grew very quiet then. Fishlegs lifted him up. No noise. Fishlegs squeezed. And squeezed.

“That’s enough now,” Fishlegs’ father said.

Fishlegs put the other man down. “Thank you,” he said politely. “You’re a wonderful fighter and I was lucky.”

The ex-champion of Hysteria grunted.

“Raise your hands, you’re the winner.” His mother reminded. Fishlegs stood in the middle of the arena with his hands raised high.

“BOOOOOOO!!!!” went the crowd.

“Animal!”

“Ape!”

“Gorilla!”

“BOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

They didn’t stay long in Hysteria. As a matter of fact, they didn’t stay very long anywhere. They fought the champion of the Meathead Islands. “BOOOOOO!!” They fought the champion of the Visithugs. “BOOOOOO!!!” The champion of the Danger-Brutes. “BOOOOOOO!!” They fought in Bloodspilt Bay. They fought in the Waterlands.

“BOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

“I don’t care what anyone says,” Fishlegs’ mother comforted him one winter afternoon. “You’re my son, you’re wonderful, and you have every right to be the champion. You won those fights fair and square.” It was gray and dark and they were hotfooting out of the Murderous Mountains as fast as they could because Fishlegs had just demolished their champion before most of the crowd was even seated.

“I’m not wonderful,” Fishlegs was on the verge of tears, which was common these days. “They’re right when they tease me, I’m too big. Whenever I fight, it looks like I’m picking on somebody.”

“Maybe,” Fishlegs’ father began hesitantly; “maybe, if you’d just sort of possibly maybe lose a few fights, they might not yell at us so much.”

Wife whirled on husband. “He’s eleven and you already want him to throw fights?!”

“No, no! Just….maybe if he looked like he was suffering a bit, they’d let up on us.”

“I am suffering.” Fishlegs protested. (He really was)

“Well, let it show a little more.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t help being strong, it’s not my fault. I don’t even exercise.”

“I think it’s time to head for Greece.” Fishlegs’ mother interrupted then. “We’ve beat everyone in the Archipelago that will fight us, and athletics began in Greece. No one appreciates talent like the Greeks.”

Privately Fishlegs was sorting through his mental catalog because only some athletics were invented in Greece, and he wasn’t sure what he did really counted as athletics anyway. Out loud he said, “I just hate it when they go ‘BOOOOO!!!’”(He really did. Now his private picture of Hel was being left alone with no people or books and everyone going ‘BOOOOO!!!’ at him forever.)

“They’ll love you in Greece.” His father reassured him. They fought in Greece.

“ARRRRGGGGGHH!!” (AAAAARRRRGGGHH! Was Greek for BOOOOOOO!!)

Italy.

The Sahara.

Persia.

Arabia.

“BOOOOOOOO!!!!”

They tried the Orient. The jujitsu champion of Korea. The karate champion of Siam. The kung-fu champion of all China.

“SSSSSSSSSS!!!!” (See note on AAAARRRGGGHH!!!”

In Mongolia his parents died. “We’ve done everything we can for you Fishlegs, good luck, we love you,” they said, and they were gone. It was a terrible thing, a plague that killed everything it touched. Fishlegs should have died too, only naturally he never got sick. Alone, filling half his worst nightmare, he traveled across the Gobi Desert, hitching rides with caravans. And it was there he learned how to make the BOOOOOOO!!!!ing stop.

Fight groups.

It began in a caravan on the Gobi when the leader ordered his men to take Fishlegs’ bag. There were three of them. “You wanna fight, freak?” They said. So he fought. He won naturally, and everyone seemed happy. (Well, the two with broken jaws weren’t exactly chuffed, but they left him alone after that.”

Fishlegs was thrilled. He never fought one person again if he could help it. He traveled for a while, beating up gangs for local charities, but he never had much of a business head, and besides, most of these places were rather low on reading material.

So he joined a traveling circus. All the other performers grumbled at him because they said he was eating more than his fair share of the food. So he stayed pretty much to himself except when it came to his work. He read a lot, picking up books here and there about all sorts of things, pretending he wasn’t lonely.

But then one night, when Fishlegs had just turned twenty, he got the shock of his life. The BOOOOO!!!ing had returned. He couldn’t believe it. He’d just squeezed a dozen men into submission, cracked the heads of seven more. What more could they want from him?

The truth was simple: he’s gotten too strong. He would never measure himself(would break a scale if he did), but everybody whispered that he must be over seven feet tall, must weigh four hundred pounds. And not only that, he was quick now. All those years of experience had made him inhuman. He knew all the tricks, could counter all the holds.

“Animal!”

“Ape!”

“Gorilla!”

“BOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

That night, alone in his tent, Fishlegs cried. He tried to read his favorite book(after all these years he still had that old Classifications of Earth book) but the text was blurry. He was a freak, they said. Metamorphic rock is formed by extreme heat and pressure. A two-eyed Cyclops. Rocks in that classification include marble. By the next morning, he had composed himself enough to put down the book and face the circus again. At least he wasn’t alone.

The circus fired him. The crowds were BOOOOO!!!ing them too now, and the bearded lady threatened to walk out and the contortionist made rude gestures and that was it for Fishlegs.

This was in the middle of Greenland, and as everybody knows, Greenland is one of the loneliest places on this good green Earth. In Greenland, there is one person for every twenty square miles of real estate. Probably the circus was stupid for taking a booking there, but that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Fishlegs was alone, in the loneliest place in the world, with exactly three books to comfort him, all of which he’d already read several dozen times. He just sat there on a rock, watching the circus pull away. He was still sitting there the next day when Johan the Sicilian found him. Johan flattered him, promised to keep the BOOOOO!!!s away and provide a steady stream of reading material. Johan needed him. But not half as much as Fishlegs needed Johan. As long as Johan(and later Heather) was around, he wasn’t lonely. He didn’t have to make plans. Whatever Johan said, Fishlegs did. And if that meant crushing the head of the man in black…..

So be it.

But not by ambush, he decided. Not the coward’s way. Nothing unsportsmanlike. His parents had always taught him to go by the rules. (He had so many advantages anyway.) Fishlegs stood in shadow, rock held tight in his palm. He could hear the footsteps of the man in black coming nearer, nearer. Nearer.

He leaped from hiding and threw the rock with incredible power and perfect accuracy. It smashed into a boulder a foot away from the face of the man in black. “I did that on purpose,” he called, picking up another stone. “I didn’t have to miss.”

“I believe you,” the man in black said, walking forward slowly.

They stood facing each other on the narrow mountain path.

“Let me guess, you want to kill me too?”

“Not want to, per say. But I still have to.”

“That’s a popular motive today.”

Fishlegs shrugged. “You’ve seen us with the Prince, so you have to die.”

“The Prince is what I’m interested in.”

“I don’t think you’ll be getting what you want.”

“You’d be surprised.” The man paused a moment. “So what happens now?”

“We face each other as the gods intended,” Fishlegs said, trying to play fair. “No tricks, no weapons, skill against skill alone.”

“You mean you’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword and we’ll try and kill each other like civilized people?” The sarcasm was high.

“I could kill you right now,” Fishlegs pointed out. “I am still holding the rock. I’m trying to give you a fair chance here.”

“I guess you are. I accept then,” said the man in black, and he took off his sword and scabbard. “I do think the odds are slightly tilted in your favor when it comes to hand fighting, though.”

Fishlegs sighed. “I tell everybody, I can’t help being the biggest and strongest. I’d rather be a bard to be quite honest, it’s not my fault everyone else is smaller than me.”

“I’m not blaming you.”

“Let’s just get started.” Fishlegs muttered as he moved into fighting position and dropped his rock, watching the man in black move slowly towards him. For a moment, Fishlegs felt a little sorry. The man was obviously a good sort, even if he had killed Heather. He wasn’t complaining or trying to beg or bribe. He just accepted his fate. Obviously a criminal of character.( Was he a criminal though? The mask seemed to indicate that. Or was it worse than that: was he disfigured? Face burned away by acid? Born hideous?)

“Why do you wear a mask?” Fishlegs asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“I think everyone will in the near future,” the man in black replied a bit more breezily than someone who is about to fight a Giant usually replies. “They’re extremely comfortable.”

They faced each other on the mountain path. A moment’s pause. Then they engaged. Fishlegs let the man in black fiddle around for a bit, testing his strength. It was about average, but his legs were quick. He let the man in black feint and dodge and try to get a punch in here, a punch in there. Then, when he was quite sure the man in black would not go to his maker embarrassed, Fishlegs wrapped his arms around the man, squeezed. And squeezed. And squeezed.

Then he took the remains of the man in black, snapped him one way, snapped him another, cracked him with one hand on the neck and the other on the base of the spine, locked the legs up, looped the limp arms around them, and tossed the entire bundle of what had once been human into the crevice on his right.

That was the theory anyway.

What actually happened was this: Fishlegs lifted. Fishlegs squeezed. And the man in black slipped free. That was certainly a surprise. “You’re very quick,” he complimented.

“Lucky I am,” he man replied.

Then they engaged again. This time Fishlegs did not give him the chance to fiddle. He just grabbed him, swung him around the head once, twice, smashed his skull against the nearest boulder, pounded him, pummeled him, gave him a final squeeze for good measure and tossed the remains of what had once been alive into the crevice on his right.

Those were his intentions anyway.

In actuality, he didn’t even get through the grabbing part with much success. Because no sooner than his hands reached out than the man in black dropped and spun and twisted and was loose and free and still very much alive.

Fishlegs was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with him. Could I be losing my strength? Some kind of mountain disease that saps your strength maybe? A desert disease took Mom and Dad….. But after running through his mental catalog and coming up short on mountain diseases(and getting punched rather solidly in the kidney while he was distracted) he realized what the problem was.

He had not fought against a single opponent in so long he had all but forgotten how. He had been fighting groups and gangs and bunches for so many years that the idea of having only one enemy was a bit foreign to him. Because you fought differently against one opponent. You punched instead of blocked, moved instead of staying still, did certain holds, moved certain ways. When there was but one, you had to completely readjust yourself. Quickly now, Fishlegs went back in time. How had he fought the champion of Hysteria? He recalled that fight, and the fights against the Meatheads and the Danger-Brutes and the Visithugs, and remembered fleeing the Murderous Mountains because he’d beaten their champion so quickly. So easily. And he suddenly readjusted his style to what it once had been.

But at that point the man in black had the advantage. The man in black was not the best fighter, but he was fast and accurate with his punches and kicks. The kidney, the back of the knee, that weird spot on your shoulder that really hurts to knock into. He hit them all, deadly and accurate. He pounded him. Fishlegs was fighting back, but he was too large, too slow, too immovable. All those things that were advantages fighting against groups were a death sentence here. A swift kick to the back of his thigh brought Fishlegs to his knees. The man in black was breathing heavily, but Fishlegs was worse.

I am beaten, he thought. I’m going to die here on this mountainside, never going to read another book, never going to have a friend again. For a very intelligent person, he was surprisingly wrong.

“I’m sorry about this,” the man in black panted. Then he wound up, aimed, and cold-clocked Fishlegs right in the nose. WHAM. The Giant fell unconscious onto the mountain path as the man in black got his breath back. He staggered, leaning against a boulder, checking to see if Fishlegs was bleeding. He was. The man tried to clean it up best he could, then looked around for something to secure the Giant with. He gave up almost as soon as he’d begun. There was no point in trying to restrain him, he’d simply snap whatever bonds were used.

The man in black made his way back to where he’d left his sword, putting is back on as he shut his eyes. He took a deep breath. Then he stepped around Fishlegs and continued up the path.

Two down, one to go……..

Chapter Text

Johan was waiting for him. He’d even set out a little picnic spread. From the knapsack he carried he’d produced a fine handkerchief, two goblets, a leather wine holder, some cheese, and some apples. The location couldn’t have been lovelier: a high part of the mountain path with a splendid sunset lit view all the way back to Florin Channel, two horses meant for escape were calmly tethered and grazing a few feet away.

The only thing marring the occasion was the beaten and bloody Prince, tied, gagged, and blindfolded with Johan’s long knife at his throat. Despite this, Jack was calm, collected. He would not be some damsel in distress; he would either find a way out of this or die with some dignity.

“Welcome!” Johan called to the man in black as he drew near. The man in black stopped and stood silently, surveying the situation. “You’ve beaten my Giant.”

“Yes.”

“Now it is down to you and me.”

“Looks like it,” the man in black edged forward a half step. With a cruel smile Johan pushed the knife harder into Jack’s throat. It was about to draw blood. Jack didn’t make a sound.

“If you want him dead, by all means keep moving.” The man in black froze. “Good.” No sound now in the late afternoon sun. “I’ll have you know I understand completely what you’re trying to do, and let me tell you, it is quite ungentlemanly to try and kidnap what I have rightfully stolen.”

“Let me explain then-” The man in black began to move forward.

“You’re killing him!” The Sicilian screamed, pressing the knife deeper. The bound Prince made no noise as a drop of blood made its way down the pale expanse of his throat. The man in black retreated hurriedly.

“Just let me explain,” he said again from a safe distance, features twisted in panic as he began to speak. “I-”

“There is nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know,” Johan interrupts. Jack rolls his eyes underneath the blindfold. “I am one of the cleverest men ever to be born, there is no one who can match my wit, my intelligence, my-”

“Your monologuing?” The man in black snarks, faint smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

Johan fumes as he continues, “None can match my deducing abilities. Some say I read minds, but that is not true, I merely predict the truth using logic and wisdom. With that in mind, I deduce you are a kidnapper.”

“What gave it away? The chase, the outfit, the mask maybe?” Jack cracked a smile as he imagined Johan’s reaction to this irreverence, and indeed, the Sicilian’s face was quite comical as he tried to maintain some dignity.

“What is it that you want with him?” Johan spits.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ll guess he has some use as a ransom item.”

“It is my business. You see, I have instructions to do certain things to him, and it is highly imperative that I follow these instructions exactly. If I complete this job, I’ll be set for life. If I fail, it means the end of my life. My instructions do not include ransom, they include death. So any of your explanations are meaningless, I cannot do business with you. You wish to keep him alive, whereas it is terribly important to me that he stop breathing in the near future.”

“Have you considered that it took a lot of work and sacrifice on my part to get this far? And that if you kill him now, you’ll be the next to go?” The man in black’s hand lay on the pommel of his sword, menacing quietly.

“I have no doubt you could kill me,” Johan replies almost cheerily. “You’ve beaten Heather and Fishlegs, two paragons of physical strength, and anyone who can do that will have no problem disposing of a middle-aged overweight Sicilian. But, if you kill me, neither of us will get what we want. You’ll have lost your ransom item, and I my life.”

“A stalemate then.” The man in black removes his hand from the sword.

“Correct. I cannot compete with you physically, and you are no match for my brains.”

“Is that so?” The man in black asked cheekily. The sarcasm was lost on Johan.

“It’s true, there are no words to contain all my wisdom. I am so cunning, so crafty, so clever, so filled with deceit and guile and chicany, you have never met such a knave, a scoundrel so shrewd, cagey as well as calculating, diabolical, tricky as I am untrustworthy...there are truly no words to describe it.” He was certainly using many words. The man in black suppressed another snarky comment.

“Let me put it this way; the world is several billion years old and several billion have trod upon it at one time or another, and out of all of them, I, Johan, speaking with pure candor and modesty, am the slickest, sleekest, sliest and wiliest fellow to have yet to grace the world with my presence.”

The man in black looked unimpressed. “That’s a big speech, do you give it to all would-be murderers?”

“Only the ones that need a bit of enlightening.”

“I see. In that case, since you are obviously so very very intelligent-”the sarcasm was off the charts now-“I challenge you to a battle of wits.”

Jack groaned. Would they get on with it already? Johan should be wearing the gag, not him. Speak of the devil, Johan shoved the knife against his throat again, a second drop of blood tracing the path of the first.

“A battle of wits for the Prince?”

“You read my mind.” The man in black answers evenly, hand returned to his sword as he sees the knife draw blood once more.

“I told you, it just seems that way. My mind reading is merely logic and wisdom. Would this challenge be to the death?”

“Right again,” the man in black says with a grim smile.

“Then I accept.”

“Pour the wine.”

Johan filled the two goblets with deep red liquid as the man in black pulls a vial from somewhere in his dark clothing. He offers it to the Sicilian.

“You can open and smell it if you want to, just don’t touch it.”

Johan took a deep whiff. “I smell nothing.”

Taking the vial back, the man in black said, “What you don’t smell is the concentrated venom of the Venomous Vorpent. It’s odorless, tasteless, and clear until it comes into contact with flesh. It’s also the deadliest poison in the world. I’ve found it very helpful for breaking stalemates.” Johan was beginning to get excited. “Can you hand me the glasses?”

“Get them yourself. My knife does not leave his throat.” The man in black swallowed, then took the goblets and turned away. Johan actually cackled in anticipation, and Jack rolled his eyes. The man in black was busy for a long moment, then he turned back to the picnic with a goblet in each hand. Very carefully he placed the goblet in his right hand in front of Johan and the goblet in his left hand in front of himself. He threw the empty vial next to the cheese.

“Your move. Guess where the poison is.”

“Guess?” Johan cried out. “I don’t guess. I think, ponder, deduce, and then decide. I never guess.”

“Get to it then, this is the battle. It ends when you pick and we find out who is right and who is dead. I’ve made my move, now make yours. Check,” he added, letting Johan know his enemy was only one step away from victory. Jack rolled his eyes yet again from beneath the blindfold (It was a wonder they had not rolled out of his head).

“Your battle is child’s play,” Johan teased. “All I have to do is use what I know of you to deduce how your mind works. Are you the type of man who would put poison into his own glass or into his enemy’s?”

“How about you stop stalling and make your guess?”

“I’m relishing is what I’m doing. Only cowards stall. No one has properly challenged my mind in years, and I’ve missed it. This reminds me of my last such battle-”

“Stop stalling.” The man in black says, voice dangerously even. He fixes the Sicilian with a harsh glare, but Johan only smiles and stares at the goblets.

“Now a great fool,” he began, savoring every moment, “would put the poison in his own cup, as he knows that only another great fool would reach for the cup he was given. I am clearly not a great fool, so I will not reach for your wine.”

“That’s your choice?”

“No. Because you know I am not a great fool, so you know I would never fall for such a trick. You would count on it. So I cannot reach for my glass either.”

“Keep going,” the man in black wheedled, and Jack was struck with a sense of deja vu. Something about this situation was familiar. Something about the voice speaking to Johan was familiar.

“Now,” Johan continued. “We have decided that the poisoned cup is likely in front of you. But the venom is that of a Venomous Vorpent, a dragon found only in the Barbaric Archipelago, and the Barbaric Archipelago, as everyone knows, is only filled with the worst kind of cutthroats and criminals, and criminals are not used to having people trust them, as I do not trust you, which means I clearly cannot choose the poison in front of you.” The man in black curled his lip at the insult to his homeland, but said nothing. “But again, you must have suspected I knew the origins of Vorpent Venom, so you would have known about cutthroats and cutthroat behavior, and therefore I clearly cannot choose the wine in front of me.”

“You really are as smart as you say.” You would think Johan could detect sarcasm by this point.

“Of course I am, I’m the one who said it and I am never wrong. Now, you beat my Giant, which means you are exceptionally strong, and strong men are usually convinced that they are too powerful to ever die, too powerful even for Vorpent Venom, so you could have put the poison in your own cup, convinced that your strength would save you.”

The man in black was trapped somewhere between a smile and a grimace, purposely avoiding Johan’s eyes to instead observe the awful bloody mess that was Jack.

“But you bested my swordswoman,” Johan continued. “Which means you must have studied, because she studied many years for her skill, and if you can study you are more than merely strong. You would be aware of mortality and would not wish to die and would keep the poison as far away from yourself as possible, therefore I cannot possibly choose the wine in front of me.”

“Stop stalling and Pick. A. Glass.” The man in black growled evenly. “You won’t figure out where the venom is by talking to me.”

Johan only chuckles, “I have already learned everything I need. I know where the venom is.”

“Then pick your cup.”

“Of course,” Johan reached for the glass in front of him, then paused and pointed at the trees beyond. “Goodness, is that a Shortwing Squirrelserpent?” The man in black turned for a look.

“I don’t see anything,” he muttered as Johan quickly switched the goblets. As he turned back around he asked, “What’s so funny?”

Johan was beaming violently, smiling from ear to ear. “Nothing at all,” he purred. “Now, shall we drink?”

They picked up their glasses, downed them, and smiled.

“You guessed wrong,” the man in black smirked.

“No, you only think that I guessed wrong. In fact, I switched glasses with you while your back was turned.” The man in black continued to smile. “You are a fool!” Johan cried, “You’ve fallen victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is ‘Never get involved in a land war in Asia’, but only slightly less well known is ‘Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!”

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with the symptoms of Vorpent Venom poisoning, there are two ways the venom can kill you. The first is being stung by the Venomous Vorpent dragon itself, which causes the afflicted to contract a nasty disease called Vorpentitis, which kills you slowly over a few months and for which there is only one known antidote. The second way is by touching or drinking concentrated venom disguised by say, a glass of wine, and dying far more rapidly, over the course of about thirty seconds or so. During those thirty seconds, the afflicted feels a bit numb, then experiences pins and needles accompanied with a rapid fever before their body seizes up twenty-five seconds after the poison is ingested. The remaining five seconds of life is spent in a paralytic state until the venom hits the brain and it’s goodbye sweet world, hello Valhalla.

As the man in black told Johan he guessed wrong, Johan felt a bit numb, but he supposed that was a side effect of a close brush with death. As Johan described the classic blunders, his fingers and toes felt rather tingly and his throat became parched, but he figured this was from the excitement of victory. It was only after he froze up following his description of the second classic blunder that he saw the smirk on the man in black’s face and deduced that something was very, very wrong. In those final five seconds, the man in black stared him down, smile playing on his lips as he whispered, “Checkmate.” Johan barely had time to be angry before the world went black.

The man in black took a deep breath of relief as Johan slumped over. Apprehensively his eyes turned towards Jack, still bound and blind, but now without the threat of the knife at his throat. Unsure of himself for the first time since the entire pursuit began, he shakes his head before quietly stepping over Johan’s body and approaching Jack. A final moment of hesitation, then he begins untying the young Prince, freeing ankles, wrists, the gag, and finally the blindfold.

Jack blinks at the brightness, quickly slipping into his Court face and preparing to negotiate his way out of this.

“You killed him then,” he says solemnly, not meeting the other man’s eyes.

“Looks like it,” the man in black exhales shakily.

“Thank you then. If you go to the palace in Potin I’m sure my fiance will compensate you for your troubles. Now, excuse me,” Jack says imperiously, looking every inch a prince despite the fact that most of his upper body is the blue and red of bruises and blood. “I should get back to Potin, they’re probably worried about me.” He stands and goes to one of the horses Johan had intended to flee with.

“Wait!” The man in black snaps out of his shock, leaping to his feet. “After all that, you’re going back to Potin? Back to the Prince?”

“Not that it’s your problem, but yes. He is my fiance.”

“But-”

“Look,” Jack growls, angry at this mysterious man who was somehow achingly familiar…… “I suggest you get out of here before the Prince shows up, because I know he’s probably hunting him,” he points to Johan’s corpse, “and if he finds you insteadi doesn’t matter what I say, he will think you’re the kidnapper and kill you. So get out.”  With that, he swings himself onto the horse and sets off at a sprint, heading for the coast.

He’s barely begun to trace the path of the ravine when a voice erupts from behind him.

“Wait!” The man in black is chasing after him on the other horse, desperation defining his face. Jack urges his horse forward, tears beginning to prick his eyes because this, this is familiar as the man in black calls out again. “Jack! Please! Wait!” How does this man know his name? Jack pushes harder, vision blurry at the edges, and the world is reduced to a series of streaks as his horse races faster and faster towards….somewhere. He doesn’t know how to get back to Potin from here, doesn’t know if the Prince is even looking for him, doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’t know.

“Please! Stop!” The man in black is right behind him, and he reaches forward, grabbing the reins of Jack’s horse and bringing them both to a stop despite Jack’s best efforts.

“You-you-” The man in black is breathing  heavy as he dismounts, making sure Jack does the same. “You really want to get back to your love that badly?”

“I never said I loved him.” Jack snaps as the horses wander off.

“Does he know that? You are marrying him.”

“We’ve never pretended. He knows I don’t love him.”

“Can’t love is more like it,” the man spits bitterly.

“What do you know about love?” Jack’s shouting now, and the man in black joins him.

“I know enough!”

“Enough? You know enough? Did you know that I was in love with someone? And that I loved him more than a pig like you could ever imagine?!”

“Let me guess, some rich man, and he left you for a richer woman!”

“No. Poor. Poor and it killed him!”

“Don’t pretend like you care, you just went straight to the next guy. How long did you wait, a day?”

“Don’t mock me, I died with him !”

BOOOOOOOooooooooommmmmmm!

A terrific boom cuts through the air, and they whip their heads towards the sound. A ship is making its way up the coast, the seal of Potin on the sail visible even from here. Jack sees his opportunity as the man stares sorrowfully at the ship. “You can die too for all I care!” Jack rages at old wounds reopened one too many times, pushing the man in black towards the ravine. His arms windmill wildly at the edge as he locks eyes with Jack and says quietly, “As you wish.” His eyes look like emeralds as he falls.  

For a moment Jack can do nothing but stare at the space where the man in black had been, and then he’s practically leaping down after him…..

For about three seconds Jack’s descent resembles a climb down the side of the ravine. Then he grabs a loose rock instead of the cliff, and he’s falling backwards, rolling down the steep rock face as his nose begins to bleed again, leaving a spotty crimson trail behind him. He crashes into the ravine floor roughly, but barely gives it a second thought as he races over to where the man in black is lying prone on the ground. He rips off the mask and…..

(I will acknowledge here that every creature on this planet, from the lowliest on up, deserves at least a few moments of genuine privacy at some point in their lives. However, I am the narrator, meaning I have more power than is particularly good for me, and I can choose which moments to make private or not. So, the moment of reunion will not be made private, as the narrator has chosen to reserve that time of privacy for a later date when it may be more desperately required.  So pardon my interruption, I will now redirect you to the ravine floor.)

Jack rips off the mask and lets out a sob, because it’s Hiccup staring back up at him. Hiccup, Hiccup, his Hiccup , here. And then strong arms, stronger than they used to be, wrap themselves around him and pull him down to the ground as he begins to cry properly, sobbing into the warm body below him. Hiccup just holds him tighter, neither speaking, just gripping each other like pythons.

After ages pass, Jack sniffles and raises his head up, staring down at Hiccup with a look of complete adoration before whispering, “You bastard, you got taller than me.” And then they’re both laughing, hands in hair and on faces.

“I think it’s only fair, considering you somehow got even more gorgeous. Look at you!” It should be said at this point that both the young men were extremely dirty; Jack was covered in blood and bruises and the dirt of the ravine, and Hiccup had cuts and scratches all over from his fights with Heather, Fishlegs, and the ravine floor. But at that moment, after three long, lonely years, they each thought the other had never looked more beautiful.

“I did it out of spite!” Jack announces, which was true.

“I take it back, you haven’t changed at all.”

“You haven’t either, you big smartass. I can’t believe you interrupted Johan’s monologuing.”

“He was boring!” Hiccup hurriedly defends himself. “And he hurt you,” he says more softly, bringing his thumb up to wipe Jack’s cheek. Jack leans gently into the touch, savoring the feeling. It’s been so long since he felt this warm, since he’s felt anything, really. Slowly, he leans down, his eyes never leaving Hiccup’s. Halfway to his mouth, Hiccup pulls him down the rest of the way, and their lips meet tentatively, then desperately. They press themselves together, destroying the space between them, because they’ve had enough of separation.

(If you recall, their first kiss had, ranked by the formula of affection times purity times intensity times duration, blown all other competition for world’s greatest kiss right out of the water. Well, this kiss, at their long overdue reunion, this kiss made that one seem like puppy love.)

They’re one being at the bottom of the ravine; legs, arms, heartstrings intertwined and beating together. Eternity passes before they break away, and Jack rests his head on Hiccup’s chest, breathing heavily. “I….I just can’t believe you’re here. H-how?”

“That’s kinda a long story.” Hiccup’s breathing heavy too, smiling brighter than the sun.

Jack gives a soft smile. “We have time,” he whispers as he leans down to kiss Hiccup again.

BOOOOOOOooooooooommmmmmm!

A blast echoes against the walls of the ravine. Bodies jerk upwards, Hiccup wrapping himself around Jack protectively.

“Pitch.” Jack breathes.

“We gotta go,” Hiccup pulls Jack to his feet and sets off down the ravine before stopping suddenly. Jack runs into his back with a “Hey!”

“Who’s Pitch?”

“Oh. Well, you see. That’s kinda my nickname for the Prince. I can’t exactly call him a bitch in public, and he wears all black, and it made sense at the time, and don’t you dare smirk at me Haddock!” He finishes in a rush, pointing a finger at Hiccup, cheeks flushed.

Hiccup just laughs and squeezes their joined hands.  “I’ve missed you.”

“Then why didn’t you come back?” Jack blurts out, still worked up and seemingly surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth. Then he stands up straighter, steel in his eyes, and asks again. “Why didn’t you come back?”

“I-I couldn’t”

“Then why now? Why a week before I’m supposed to get married to someone else, someone that threatened Emma when I tried to refuse his proposal? Why did you leave me for three years Hiccup? I thought you were dead!” He snatches his hand away. “Three years of everyone always telling me what to do and where to go and who to be, doing whatever they wanted so that they’ll take care of Emma, and now you’re doing the same thing, just showing up when you’re ready in some kidnappers outfit and…..and…..dammit I missed you so much and I was almost okay with it all and now you’re here…..and….three years! I was alone for three years, missing you and making sure Emma was okay and…..and…..and….” He runs out of steam, shaking with anger and grief and some other emotions he couldn’t describe but that were pouring out of him after being silenced for too long.

Hiccup stands there silently, biting his lip. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“At the beginning.”

“You want to know everything?”

“Well, yeah. You promised you’d come back, so you better have a dam good reason for taking this long.”

BOOOOOOOooooooooommmmmmm!              

The echo reaches them, and Hiccup shifts uncomfortably. “Walk and talk?”

Jack hesitates for a moment before nodding slowly and retaking Hiccup’s hand. “But first you have to tell me where we’re going.”

Hiccup cracks a smile, looking every inch a cocky sort of scoundrel. “My ship.” He starts walking down the ravine, Jack in tow.

Stunned silence lasts approximately three seconds.

“You have a ship!?”

“Well, yeah. What kind of Dread Pirate Grimbeard would I be without a ship?” Let it be said here that Hiccup could be a smug bastard at times.

“What-no-How? No way you're the Dread Pirate Grimbeard. He's been sailing for twenty-five years, and you've only been gone for three. And he's the one who...they said he killed you.” Jack finishes quietly. “How are you even here right now? Spill.” He demands, as if they were back on the farm and he's telling Hiccup to do his chores.

“Let me get there, it's a long story.”

As he spoke, the sun began to set behind the two young men walking hand in hand through the bottom of a ravine, covered in the dirt and blood of a twenty-four hour struggle as they began to rediscover each other.

“They attacked us in the middle of a storm,” Hiccup began. “Someone had just screamed 'Land Ho’ and you could see America on the horizon. There were no storm clouds over it, just bright blue sky and green trees shining like jewels. Then our lookout fell out of the crows nest with a bullet in his back, and the Boneknapper came out of the mist.” Jack let out an appropriate soft gasp, the reputation of that ship earned it. “They were on us in a second, and then half the crew was dead.”

“Where were you?”

“I-I-I was hiding behind some dragon cages.” He rubs the back of his neck nervously, and the last of the dastardly black-clad exterior melts away to reveal the Hiccup beneath, embarrassed and not wanting Jack to think less of him. “I was terrified, all I could think was that I had to get home, but everyone was dying and there was blood everywhere-” he’s rambling.

“Hey.” Jack squeezes Hiccup's hand tighter, moves closer. “It's okay. Keep going.”

Hiccup took a deep breath. “Someone charged at me with an axe, and he cut my leg. I slipped on the blood and dragged myself behind a cage, hoping they wouldn't notice me. Then I sneezed.” Jack snorted. “It's not funny.”

“It's a little funny, only you would sneeze in a life or death situation.”

“Well, I sneezed, and they heard it and came towards me. I couldn't run away, so I reached into the nearest cage for something to fight with and….I could have sworn this story was less embarrassing-”

“What did you do?” Jack bumps their shoulders together playfully.

“I may have thrown an Electrisquirm* at a pirate.” Jack howls with laughter. “He shot three feet into the air and collapsed, but more pirates came and grabbed me and dragged me to the captain. I-I was the only one left alive at that point.”

Jack squeezes his hand again. There's silence for a moment as they walk through the ravine.

“Grimbeard laughed at me. Said he hadn't seen anything that clever in years. Asked why I was on the boat.”

“What'd you say?”

Hiccup blushes impossibly red. “I told him about you.” Jack stops in his tracks, eyes wide.

“Wha-what?” he stammers out in a small sort of voice.

“I said you were the reason I was heading to America, that I wanted to go home to you and Emma, that I'd fight him until he let me go. You can imagine how well that went over. He just laughed and asked for more. So I kept talking and talking and eventually he put his hand up-which is a big hook by the way, most of the guy is made of metal- and said 'It's dark and I'm tired. Throw him in the hold, I'll kill him in the morning.’ And they threw me in the hold.”

The pair starts walking again, night swiftly approaching as the echoes of the Prince's ship fade away, leaving them alone in the world.

“The next morning, someone came down, wrapped up my leg, and shoved a mop and bucket in my face, told me to clean the deck. I cleaned the entire ship while they watched, and that night Grimbeard looked at me and said 'I guess you worked well today, I'll kill you tomorrow’.”

“Sounds like a great guy.” Sarcasm pools off his tongue.

“That went on for about a week until my leg started getting worse. I collapsed in the middle of the deck, and I thought he was going to kill me right there. But he told the ship doctor to look at me instead. You would have liked her-”

“Her? Isn’t having a woman on a ship bad luck?”

“Yeah, Grimbeard didn’t really believe in that. Only thing he didn’t believe in. Anyway, I think that Gothi would have scared away any bad luck. She had this giant stick that she whacked everybody with. Didn’t talk either, just stared at you until you figure out whatever she’s trying to tell you.”

“And...you trusted her? The lady who whacks people with a stick?”

“Oh gods no, I tried to hobble out of there, but my leg gave out again and I passed out. When I woke up, she and Grimbeard were there. She whacked him with the stick while she drew in sand-that’s how she says more complicated things-and they told me my leg was infected. They said if I kept the leg, I might live, but it would be risky. If they took off the leg, I’d definitely live, and I wanted to come home so-”

“You didn’t!” Jack bends down and pulls up the cuffs of Hiccup’s pants, first the right, then the left. Except there is no left leg, just a metal contraption resembling a foot. He looks up at Hiccup, who shuffles nervously.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why would I-you did this so-gods, Hiccup I thought I told you to come back in one piece!” He face palms as he stands again, voice breaking. He peeks through his fingers at Hiccup.

“I’m still in one piece, there’s...there’s just slightly less of me now.”

“Gods Hiccup, of course I don’t mind, how could I? This is you. It’s you.” He moves his hand to Hiccup’s face, cupping his cheek. “I just can’t believe-”

“Yeah, it takes some getting used to.” Hiccup shifts his eyes to the ground and starts to pull away, so Jack pulls him back, planting a kiss on his lips. He falls into the crook of Jack’s neck as Jack talks into his hair.

“I was gonna say I can’t believe you’re here, you big drama king. I don’t care about your leg, I care that you’re here and alive, ‘cause it’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” Hiccup mumbles something into Jack’s neck. “What?”

“I said thank you.”

“Hic, if I dumped you over a stupid metal leg, it would probably make me the shallowest person in the world.”

“Still-”

“No. I don’t want you worrying about this. I don’t care. Nothing will ever make me stop loving you, especially not a dumb hunk of metal.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Hiccup cracks a smile, and Jack returns it, both steadfastly ignoring the fact that Jack has just said ‘I love you’ for the first time in three years.

“So!” Jack breaks the silence, starting to walk again. “What happened after the whole leg debacle?”

“Ummm…” Hiccup shook his head quickly, “Grimbeard let me build this leg, and I kept doing chores and stuff. He was a little nicer to me after that, but not that nice. Every night he’d shove me back into the hold and say ‘You did okay today, I guess I’ll kill you in the morning’.”

“What changed?”

“One day after about a year, he shoves me into his cabin one morning, hands me a sword and a vest and says ‘congrats, you’re promoted.’ Suddenly I’m first mate of a pirate ship.”

“Real step up in life, huh? You must have been pretty happy not to be on death row.”

“Actually, I threw the vest back in his face and threatened him with the sword. Said I was tired of his games and I wanted to go home. He said I was going to stab myself the way I was holding that sword.”

Jack just shakes his head. “You know you’re an idiot right? Who-wait, no, only you would threaten a pirate who’d threatened to kill you for a year!”

“In my defense-”

“You have no defense.”

“No, no I do not.” Hiccup lowers the finger that had been prepared to defend himself.

“So how are you still here? ‘Cause if I was Grimbeard in that situation, I would have stabbed you.”

“You’re so nice.”

“Aren’t I?” Jack smiles cheekily. The corners of Hiccup’s mouth turn up, and in that moment, it feels like nothing has changed.

“I’m still here because Grimbeard looked at me and said I was obviously left-handed, so if I was going to kill him, at least do it properly. He took the sword and showed me how to hold it and how to do some fighting moves until it got dark. Then he brought me to a cabin instead of the hold, threw the vest in my face and slammed the door. I didn’t realize until after he left that he never said he’d kill me.”

“I still don’t see why you like the guy. He didn’t kill you and gave you a sword, big whoop.”

“The whoop came later. I was his first mate for a year, and he taught me a lot about sailing and fighting-I’m pretty good with a sword you know.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Hiccup rolls his eyes fondly. “Pirate life isn’t so bad. Grimbeard was decent to me, I had a few adventures, built some machines to keep the ship safe and sailors happy. I wanted to come home though. Everytime the ship got close to port, I’d ask him if I could leave. May have threatened mutiny a few times,” he adds sheepishly, fiddling with little braids woven into his hair.

“Let me guess, he wouldn’t let you leave. Big surprise from a pirate.”

“Are you going to let me tell the story?” Jack motions with his hands for Hiccup to keep going. “I tried to sneak out after a while, stole some clothes and food. Grimbeard caught me, brought me to his cabin. At this point I was ready to throw him overboard, and I told him so. He just stared at me and said two words: ‘I’m retiring’”

“How does a pirate retire?”

“By passing the title on. He told me his name wasn’t actually Grimbeard, it was Gobber, and he’d been first mate to the last Dread Pirate Grimbeard, this guy named Squidface. The original Dread Pirate Grimbeard’s named Speedifist, and he’s been retired for twenty years and lives in Barbados.”

“So let me get this straight, he wanted you to be the next Grim Pirate Grimbeard? The guy who can’t see a nanodragon without trying to pet it? The guy who cried when Emma called him her brother? He wanted the most sensitive, caring guy I’ve ever known to be some ruthless pirate?”

“Pretty much.”

“Ok, all that I can kinda believe. The Electrisquirm, the peg leg, being first mate, the sword fighting, adventuring, all that I can understand. But I don’t think you’re the Dread Pirate Grimbeard.” Jack declares in almost sing-song suspicion.

“Why not?”

“That is not the Stormblade.” He points to the sword at Hiccup’s side, which is small and plain and definitely not the legendary sword of a pirate king.

Hiccup smirks. “You’re right, you got me. This,” he unsheathes the sword for Jack’s inspection, “is Endeavor. Because the Stormblade always leans a little to the left. I don’t use it unless I have to, left it on the Night Fury.”

“That’s your ship?”

“Yeah. We would get there quicker if we went along the coast, but someone pushed me into a ravine.”

“Hey!”

“You did!”

“I said I was sorry!”

“No you didn’t!”

“Finnneeeeee, I’m sorry then.”

“I think this needs a different kind of apology.”

“What kind of apology?”

“You know what-”

Jack cuts him off with a kiss, faux pouting the entire time. “Happy now?”

“Very.” Hiccup smiles smugly. (He really was a smug bastard sometimes).

They walk in peaceful silence for awhile, something niggling at the back of Jack’s brain. “Hey,” he begins, finally realizing what was wrong. “How did you know Johan would pick the poisoned cup? And-” He interrupts Hiccup, who had opened his mouth to respond, “If you tell me it was luck or something after you have obviously planned the rest of this very well, I will slap you where you stand.”

Hiccup takes a step back, raising his hands. “Okay, okay, I may have rigged it.”

“Finally, you do something intelligent-”

“The poison was in both cups.”

“I take it back.”

“Long story, but I’m immune to Vorpent Venom. I got stung by a Venomous Vorpent, but if you eat the antidote before the venom kills you, you gain immunity.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Only for you m’lord.”

Jack opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. “So...how far is this ship?” He asks after a long pause trying to hide the crack in his voice. It’s becoming difficult to see the ground in front of them.

“I asked the crew to wait off the Southern coast, but if they saw Pitch’s ship they probably moved. They’ll still be along the coast, but in hiding.”

“There’s no way we’re going to reach the coast tonight. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I say we camp here and keep going in the morning.”

“Wait, wait, wait, you can’t crash on me yet. I have questions! First, how in Thor’s name did you get engaged to a Prince? I mean, I know you’re a sweet talker, but how did you end up agreeing to marry that bastard?”

“That’s….that’s a long story.” Jack retreats into himself, shame filling every corner of his body. Hiccup had been fighting for his life on a pirate ship, and where had Jack been? In a palace, sleeping on silk sheets. Hiccup’s hand on his chin startles him out of his thoughts.

“Hey, whatever it is, it’ll be okay.”

“Thanks, just….how about we get a fire started? Got any flint in that fancy outfit of yours?” He asks, eyeing the Dread Pirate getup appreciatively.

Hiccup blushes, muttering, “Yeah, I think I have some, but do want to talk-” Jack walks away before he can finish the sentence, moving slowly to collect firewood. Unfortunately for someone wanting to delay a conversation, there’s plenty of kindling around, having fallen into the ravine from trees on the ground above. Hiccup produces his flint, and soon they have a merry fire going, the mood less so.

They sit a few feet apart, Jack with his knees drawn up to his chest. “It was more than a day,” he starts suddenly, staring into the fire like answers will spontaneously appear from the flames. “I never wanted anyone but you.”

“I’m sorry. For what I said earlier. I-it took so long to find you again, and I thought you’d forgotten about me and I just felt so-”

“Heartbroken?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were dead.” The fire crackles. “I thought, ‘That’s it. I’ll take care of Emma, do what I have to, but I was never going to love anyone again. Didn’t think I could.” He sighs. “Back before I heard about, well, you dying, I had an idea, a stupid one to get back at you for calling me gorgeous-”

“You know, only you would take that as an insult.”

Jack smiles softly, eyes still not leaving the flames. “I thought I'd make myself actually gorgeous, you know, shock and awe for when you came back. And people noticed, I guess. And I heard you died. I kinda lost track of time after that, but one day the Prince comes riding up on this monster of a horse and demands I marry him. I said no, that I was in love with someone. He threatened Emma. Said he'd take the farm, kill her and me, so I agreed. They brought us to the palace, fed us, showed us how to be 'royal’” he finger quotes. “I barely see Emma anymore, but a lot of Pitch. He's-he's not a good man. He wants...a lot to come out of our wedding, a lot from me, he's touc-touched me and said to stay quiet if I wanted Emma to live. He has plans for our….”

“Jack?”

“He has plans for our wedding night, and he'd tell me in detail exactly what he was going to do to me.” His eyes never leave the fire, even though he's talking faster now, panicked and rambling. “And I'm supposed to be married to him in six days. If I'm not, he'll kill Emma. I can't let that happen, I can't-”

“Jack!” Hiccup kneels in front of him, grabbing his shoulders and meeting his stare. “We're gonna rescue Emma, okay? We'll get the Night Fury and my crew, get her out of there, no one is going to die, and you are not going to marry Pitch!” His voice rises, desperate. “He's never going to touch you again, you hear me?” Hiccup's desperate. Desperate and angry and scared, scared that something inside Jack has been broken irreparably, stolen away and smashed to bits. “I won't let him hurt you.” Quieter now as Jack stares him down.

“I'm not some damsel you know.” Jack smirks and Hiccup splutters as he's pulled into a searing, confident kiss. The kiss quickly turns hungry, passionate and searching, clearly the first step towards something more . When Jack pulls away, he does so with every intention of returning.

“I want you,” he breathes out hurriedly, afraid of breaking the moment. “I love you, and a few hours ago I thought I was never going to see you again. I want to have this, want to have you, do….do you want this?”

Hiccup leans in and kisses him deeply, with more than a little tongue. “But-” he stops Jack from kissing him again.

“No buts”

“Wait-you're sure?”

“Absolutely, and I swear if you don't come here and kiss me right now…”

“Okay, okay!”

They're smiling like loons as their lips come together again. And again. And again. Hands shift, sneaking under shirts and loosening belts as they slowly migrate to the ravine floor….

(Hello again, it is I, your friendly neighborhood narrator. Remember that aforementioned bit of privacy every living creature is owed? This is where it will be utilized. Call it an abuse of power if you must, but I am of the belief that our favorite couple's night time activities deserve more than a little bit of privacy. So while they have their fun, I shall direct you to the Southern coast of Kroner, where the Prince Kotzmozis’ ship lies in wait.)

“Your Highness!”

“What? Speak quickly, I'm extraordinarily busy.” Kotzmozis snaps at the Count while sipping wine, sitting at a desk and inspecting maps of Kroner.

“We've found a sunken boat at the foot of the Cliffs of Insanity. It bears Kroner seals and matches the description of the kidnappers ship.”

“So they made it to the Cliffs at least. Any bodies or blood?”

“A few drops on the sand, splattered as if dropped from a great height, but not enough to mean death.”

“So Prince Jackson is alive, that is certainly a blessing. Ready my NightMares, once we pass the Cliffs I’ll follow the trail myself.” He dismisses the Count with a wave of his hand, downing what’s left of the glass of wine. With a flourish he places the glass on his desk before waltzing out onto the deck, pitch black robes flowing behind him. Sailors bow as he passes, not meeting his eyes.

“There!” He cries, “Bring us ashore at that cove! Prepare to release the NightMares!” The ship shakes as it draws near the coast. Snorts and shuffling  below deck become audible, and the sailors shift uncomfortably.

The ship draws itself parallel to the shore, and a plank is thrown down to the shore to serve as a walkway.

“Clear the deck!” Kotzmozis calls, preparing for his exit. “Release the NightMares!” An unlucky handler swallows, then removes the cover to the hold.

Night with hooves erupts from the belly of the ship with sharp whinnies and bites, making its way towards land and freedom. Sailors back away in terror whenever the blackness comes too near. With an expert hand, Kotzmozis pulls himself onto the moving phenomena and directs it off the ship. Sixteen hooves beat the ground as he calls back “Follow our trail and meet with us by sunset!” Then he’s gone.

The NightMares were the result of a years-old desire. Many years before, the Prince had decided that the greatest hunter in the world must also have the greatest steed. He must pursue his prey in majesty or not at all. So he searched the world for beasts he considered worthy of him. And he found them.

Deep in the Black Forest of Germany, there lives a man rumored to have made a deal with the Devil for eternal life. The man unfortunately had not read his contract carefully, and so as a trick, the Devil coupled his eternal life with a poison touch that corrupted any living being. This man had owned four horses before he touched them with his newfound poison. Then they became the NightMares. Eighteen hands high, blacker than empty eye sockets, and meaner than an angry drunk, these devil horses never slept, rarely tired, and only obeyed one man. The Prince Kotzmozis had tamed the NightMares so quickly that there were rumors of his own infernal heritage, rumors that were quickly silenced with gold or steel.

These were the horses he pursued his prey with, and he never returned empty handed.

Now Kotzmozis thunders across the plain atop The Cliffs of Insanity, searching for a sign of the kidnappers. Every so so often he switches horses mid-gallop, swinging himself across broad backs smoother than a shadow to give the horses some respite. After nearly an hour he comes upon the scene of the sword fight, sliding from a Night Mare's back and crouching to the ground, observing the footprints, loose ropes around a nearby tree, the few drops of blood on the dirt.

As the sun lowers, some of the ship's crew finally catches up to him. "There were three kidnappers," he announces. "And a fourth pursuer. One of the kidnappers fought the pursuer, and they are both extremely skilled with the sword. The pursuer won, tying the kidnapper to a tree, and following the other kidnappers' trail east. At this point Prince Jackson was still alive. Track down the swordsman if you can, follow my path after." With that, he mounts the NightMares again, hooves pounding towards a mountain path.

Orange begins to bleed into the blue of the sky by the time he dismounts again. He crouches again, inspecting the place where a Giant's body had lain after defeat, as well as a scrap of black clothing, presumably from the pursuer. Kotzmozis poked around a while longer, inspecting footprints and blood drops. He had new prey now.

When his retinue caught up to him, panting from their pursuit, he merely saddled one of the NightMares and called out, "There is a Giant on the loose! He is one of the kidnappers, capture him if you can and follow my trail!" Then he was off again, a dark cloud of hooves, dust, and flapping robes. Several members of the royal retinue swore as he rode off- who in their right mind would expect them to capture a Giant?

It was practically no time at all before Kotzmozis came upon the morbid picnic scene. Johan's body had not moved, and a swarm of flies crawled over the cold flesh. More insects are attacking the remnants of the picnic, and they fly away as the Prince stoops to inspect a goblet. He sniffed the liquid inside, then inspected Johan's body. 

"Vorpent Venom..." he murmured. His new opponent was getting more interesting by the second. "Now where have you gone?" He wondered aloud, following footprints that must belong to Jackson and the pursuer. The footprints quickly become hoof prints, and he jumps onto one of the NightMares to follow the trail. The prints stop abruptly at the edge of a ravine, with no horses or kidnapped royalty in sight. A few footprints give the Prince all the remaining information he requires. "One was pushed," he says to himself. "and the other followed willingly....They would not go North, they would only meet mountains, but to the South..." He smiles a vile smile, petting the nose of a NightMare. "We've got them my pets."

The royal retinue approaches in the distance, as as he rides to meet them, he calls, "Back to the ship! We sail to the Fire Swamp!"

A brave(and possibly stupid) rider ventures, "But, my lord, your Highness, why would Prince Jackson travel through the Fire Swamp?"

Kotzmozis only smiles, an awful unnatural sight on a face not designed for happiness. "Because they have no other choice. The only way out of this ravine is through the swamp. They are trapped. All we have to do is wait for them to emerge....or not." He sounded almost happy that his fiance was in mortal peril. "Bring the ship around, our hunt is almost complete."