Chapter Text
-0-
The Isle of Berk, Present
He saw the village in the distance, illuminated by the torchlight in the distance, and his heart rapped in his chest. They’d arrived. He could see Berk.
The plan was simple enough: sneak into the village, go to their old homes, and drop off the letters they’d both written. The letters explained why they’d left, why they’d come back, and why they needed Berk’s help in stopping the unknown warlord moving to the Archipelago.
Well, that’s not technically true. Johann said he’d be moving to Berk. We have no idea what their leader is doing.
Hiccup knew it would be a tough sell convincing Berk to fight against Dragon Hunters, which is why he included the little white lie about who exactly was invading the Archipelago.
He just hoped it wouldn’t bite him in the ass.
As they got closer to Berk, they climbed higher until they were far above Gothi’s hut before stopping to hover in place.
“Ready, bud?” He whispered, patting Toothless on the head.
Toothless nodded, and Hiccup moved the tailfin into position before engaging the locking mechanism for the tailfin. He looked at the tail, quickly checking the tailfin was extended and the connecting rod that allowed it to mirror Toothless’ normal tailfin worked correctly.
Everything looked good, and Toothless was now flying solo.
Hiccup gave Astrid a thumbs up, and the two unclipped themselves from their saddles.
“Watch my back, Toothless,” he whispered as he leaned to one side and let himself fall off the saddle, relishing the way his stomach dropped as he separated from Toothless and entered freefall.
He caught sight of Astrid not far from him and made sure to keep adequate space between them as they fell to avoid a midair collision.
Once he’d passed Gothi’s hut in freefall, he opened his wingsuit, allowing a more controlled descent which took him and Astrid over the village. They were still high enough that the torchlights didn’t reveal them, but they were close enough to see the layout of the village hadn’t changed.
He wasn’t really surprised. Even after the worst dragon raids, the village just simply rebuilt everything where it originally stood. It was the Viking way.
They descended a little more, keeping track of patrols and Vikings wandering to and from the Great Hall. They’d chosen to come this late at night, when the only people awake would be the drunkards and the graveyard shift. It would be easy to slip in and out without anyone noticing.
When they were low enough, he turned to Astrid and nodded.
Stay safe.
He could almost hear her wishing the same with her eyes beneath her mask.
She peeled off to get to the Hofferson residence, while Hiccup flew towards his old home, near the top of the hill. He adjusted himself, turning to make his approach from the side away from the Great Hall, and dove.
Once he was low enough, he flared his wings, arms straining at the tension, before repeating the motion.
Just a little bit further…
He was nearly on top of the house and just needed one shorter dive and flareup to make it.
Just gotta stick the landing…
-0-
Any other night, a gentle thump on Stoick’s roof would’ve gone unnoticed. Stoick rarely stayed up late when he was alone, preferring to go right to sleep without thinking about how empty the house had become.
But it’d been another hard day, and Stoick was resting in his chair with ice blocks on his head when he heard the soft thump on the roof.
At first he’d brushed it off. Maybe it was one of the younger Vikings playing a prank on the Chief, and in the morning he would send Gunnar out to find out who did it.
But then he heard it again. From within his own home.
He sat up, heart pounding, ears straining. For a moment, all he heard was the steady crackle of dying embers in the hearth in front of him.
Then another sound. Soft. Measured. A footstep where there should have been none.
His room.
He’d once caught Gustav Larson sneaking into Hiccup’s room, looking for a blueprint to use as part of a prank, and he’d placed the boy in the cells for two days for trespassing.
No one enters Hiccup’s room.
It was sacred ground now, the only place Stoick could go and fondly remember his son, the only place that seemed to be free from the rumors of his brutality.
His grip tightened on the axe near the base of the chair. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, moving toward the door with careful, deliberate steps, grabbing one of the torches from its place near the stairs.
But as he ascended the staircase, a thin strip of light spilled from beneath the door to Hiccup’s old room.
His blood boiled, hot anger seeping in as he quietly inhaled.
“When I catch those yakshits—” he muttered to himself, trying to walk as softly as he could.
Intending to catch them in the act, Stoick reached out and gently pushed the door open, expecting to see Gustav or one of the younger Thorstons inside.
But what was inside instantly chilled his blood, extinguishing the fire that had been burning inside and replacing it with dread and fear.
A figure stood by Hiccup’s worn wooden desk, clad in onyx armor with red accents that gleamed in the firelight. Firelight from a flaming sword.
The armor…that’s not chainmail…
Scales. Dragon scales.
Night Fury scales.
Stoick didn’t have a half second to react before the figure turned to face him, raising its sword above its head as it did so.
And Stoick’s heart clenched so tightly it hurt. He felt his world shatter into pieces because he couldn’t believe what he saw.
A face he had not seen in five years, yet one he had once known better than his own. The same cheekbones he’d inherited from Valka. The same freckles, scattered across his face like constellations, constellations he grew to know like the back of his hand. The same unruly auburn hair, so often smelling like smoke from forge work, was longer and more tangled than ever before, and Stoick even spied a few small braids in it.
And the eyes…
Gods above, the eyes.
The same green he had seen staring up at him with wonder, admiration and unconditional love. The same green that had once looked at him and believed he could be the greatest father in the world. The same green he’d seen twenty years ago when he declared his son would be the strongest of them all.
The same green that looked broken and shattered when, in a moment of anger, Stoick told him he wasn’t a Viking and wasn’t his son.
Now those eyes stared at him again, older, hardened by a self-imposed exile and with a different kind of fire behind them. Yet within them, Stoick thought he saw a glimmer of the boy he used to know.
No, he told himself, he's not a boy any longer. He had grown taller and filled out more. Matured. His son wasn’t a boy anymore, but a man. He’d changed.
And Stoick missed all of it.
Hiccup.
For a long, frozen moment, they simply stared at each other.
Stoick couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.
His son was home. Hiccup was home.
The words should have filled him with relief, with joy, but instead, a sickening dread curled in his stomach.
His gaze flickered over the black armor, the scaled helmet he held in his hand, the flaming sword in the other, and the prosthetic leg.
Just like the stories said.
No…Allfather, please don’t let it be true…
The stories surged forward in Stoick’s head like a tidal wave, recalling all the horrible things he’d heard of his son.
The raids. The robberies. The dragon attacks. The death. The destruction of entire villages.
The kidnappings.
The sacrifices to dark gods and dragons.
He’d always told himself they weren’t true, or at least misunderstandings. His son wouldn’t do that.
Not my Hiccup.
But five years is a long time, and the traders hadn’t lied about the armor or sword or the leg, as he now saw in front of him. And Stoick didn’t know what five years with a dragon could do to his son.
Hiccup tentatively stepped forward, eyes weary and face tense in the twinkling flame of his sword. “Dad?”
The sound of Hiccup’s voice, so familiar, so unchanged, took his soul and tore it asunder. It’d been five years since he’d last heard that voice, but with it came all the good memories of Hiccup.
His mind told him to raise his axe, to back up and stay alert. That his son was dangerous.
But his heart screamed at him to drop his axe, to run over and embrace his son, to apologize and say he was wrong. To beg for forgiveness.
But as Hiccup took another step forward, fear proved to be the more powerful motivator, and Stoick instinctively took a step back and raised his axe slightly.
“Don’t, Hiccup…” He choked out, and what little light there was in Hiccup’s eyes flickered, like a candle in a windstorm. His face became heartbroken, and Stoick’s chest ached seeing it.
You did this, he told himself. Drop the axe. Pull him into your arms and never let go. He’s your son.
But he couldn’t force himself to put down the axe.
Stoick tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.
Something changed in Hiccup’s face, covering the heartbreak with something else, “I had to come back.” His fist clenched the helmet at his side, “You don’t understand, I had to—”
Five years of anger and despair surged forward, unexpected as it was unwelcome. “You’re right.” Stoick cut in, fury igniting like dry tinder. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand why my son turned his back on Berk. Why he chose them—” he laced the word with venom, “—over his own people! Why he stands with the same beasts that took your mother from us! The same monsters that have terrorized Vikings for generations!”
Hiccup’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening. “That’s all you see them as? Beasts? Killers? Even now, when the raids have stopped? That’s all they’ll ever be to you?!”
Stoick’s voice was firm. Unflinching. “That’s what they’ll always be. They took your mother from us. Then they took you. And now…I don’t even know who you are.”
The words erupted between them like a Zippleback blast. And from the way Hiccup flinched, they had struck just as deeply.
But then, something changed.
Hiccup set his jaw. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet and steady, but Stoick heart within it a restrained fury. “The dragons didn’t take me.”
His green eyes burned like embers in the dim light. “I chose to leave.”
Stoick faltered. His voice, for the first time, lost its strength. “Why?”
Hiccup’s fingers clenched. “Because you wouldn’t listen!”
“NO!” Stoick’s roar shook the walls, his voice thick with rage. “You don’t get to turn your back on your people—on all Vikings—and claim it was because of me!”
“But it was! You didn’t listen!” He pointed the flaming blade at Stoick, and for a moment Stoick saw the monster he’d heard Johann speak of. The man who’d unleashed captive dragons on villages, who’d terrorized the Rus for nearly a year. “I tried to tell you about the dragons! I tried to tell you Toothless wasn’t dangerous! I tried to warn you about the nest! But you didn’t listen to me! You never listened to me!”
Stoick’s hand gripped the axe tighter as he ignored his heart tearing itself apart in his chest.
He’s your son, for Thor’s sake!
Slowly, Hiccup put his helmet on his head, leaving the visor up so Stoick could see his face. His sword still held its fire, flames dripping from the sword, evaporating in the air.
Finally, Stoick found the courage to talk again. “You don’t get a chance to explain. You betrayed me. The memory of your mother. All of Berk and all Vikings—”
“You don’t even know what other Vikings are like—”
“And you do?! The boy who traded his home for a dragon knows what its like to be a Viking?”
“There’s more to being a Viking than this! I’ve travelled the world, Dad! I’ve seen things you couldn’t even dream of! I’ve been all over the Viking world, and others besides! I’ve been to the west, the south and the far east. Not everyone kills dragons, Dad!”
The mention of the far east once again sent a shiver down his spine, but he didn’t dare ask Hiccup about those stories. He didn’t know if he could take it if they were true.
Stoick tightened his grip on his axe, raising it to a battle-ready stance. “I’ve had enough of this. Hiccup, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Hiccup kept the sword pointed at him, “What do you mean?”
“You can either come quietly—”
“For what crimes?!”
“Besides betraying Berk? There’s plenty more! Johann’s told us all about—”
At the mention of Johann’s name, a new look took over Hiccup’s face, one Stoick had never seen before.
He spoke low in a menacing tone, “What did Johann tell you?”
Stoick couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Everything. All about what you and your Dragon Riders have done in the east. In the lands of the Rus. The north. Everything.”
Hiccup rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, you disapprove of everything we've done? Well, Dad, I don’t regret anything we’ve done, in the lands of the Rus or the East or the North.”
No.
Allfather, it can’t be true. He can't have admitted to it.
The world tilted beneath him. His stomach churned, a sick, twisting dread hollowing him from the inside. His limbs felt weak, boneless, like a man drained of blood. He could barely breathe, as if some wraith had reached inside his chest and stolen the very air from his lungs.
He felt lightheaded and dizzy. He felt as if he’d taken five different poisons at once. His entire world was coming undone.
Hiccup kept talking, “Dad, you need to listen to me—”
“Hiccup, don’t—” He couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t see that face, the same face Valka once cradled, the same face he had watched grow until the day he left.
It couldn’t be true. His son couldn’t have just admitted to all the horrible things they said he’d done. All the innocent people killed, the kidnapping, the sacrifices.
Please, for the love of the gods, don’t let it be true. He couldn’t have just asked me if I disapproved of it all. He couldn't have admitted to it.
Could he?
Hiccup lowered the flaming blade, scrambling through the pockets on his armor, and pulling out a white letter. He set it down on his old desk, “Dad, you need to read this. The sun’s coming up—”
Rage filled Stoick again. “No! You’re going to stay here, and answer for your crimes! All the innocent blood you’ve spilled will be answered for!”
For the first time in their conversation, Stoick saw confusion in his son’s face.
“Innocent blood? Dad, what are you talking about?”
Stoick summoned his courage, “Johann told us all about your crimes in the east and the North, in the lands of the Rus, the Finns and others. He said…” Stoick’s voice faltered as he recalled the worst of it, “he said…he said you were a monster—"
The reaction was immediate.
Hiccup flinched as though Stoick had driven a blade straight through his chest. His breath hitched, his shoulders caving inward as if an invisible force had struck him down. His sword arm wavered, just for a moment, before he stumbled back, eyes wide and stricken.
Hiccup gulped, his voice cracking as he asked, “And you believe him?”
It broke his heart, but Stoick didn’t know how to answer. He wasn’t sure what he believed anymore as he looked back up at his son’s face.
For a fleeting second, Stoick saw something unbearable. The same expression Hiccup had worn when Stoick disowned him, when words cut deeper than any blow ever could. But this was different. This wasn’t the wounded gaze of a boy trying to win back his father’s approval.
This was the shattered look of a son realizing his father had already made up his mind.
Hiccup shook his head lightly, pleading, “Dad, please, for once in your life, please just listen to me! Johann can’t be trusted—”
A voice began yelling outside, startling them both. Hiccup ran towards the window while Stoick stayed planted where he was in the doorway, silently processing the words his son said.
Johann can’t be trusted?
A moment later, the voice grew loud enough for Stoick to recognize.
Gunnar.
“Dragon Riders! The Dragon Riders have come to Berk!”
A half second later, Stoick heard a dragon’s roar.
He saw his son extinguish his sword, open the grip, eject something and put something else in. Turning around, Hiccup strode forward towards Stoick, putting the visor down on his helmet, at once turning into the stranger he’d become in Stoick’s mind.
“Move,” the voice carried the weight of command, but there was something else in it, something protective.
But Stoick didn’t budge. His son wasn’t going anywhere. He was going to a cell, and they were going to talk. He needed to know what he meant when he said Johann couldn’t be trusted.
He needed to know if everything he’d heard about was true. “You’re not going anywhere.”
There was a fire in his eyes that Stoick didn’t recognize, something he hadn’t seen before. “Dad, move, please!” Hiccup thumbed over a button on the sword hilt and made a move around Stoick.
Reacting quickly, Stoick grabbed Hiccup’s arm and prevented him from getting around him. “You’re staying right here, and you’re going to explain what you meant by Johann can’t be trusted. You’re going to—”
Hiccup moved with a speed that seemed almost unnatural. He twisted his arm quickly and wretched it from Stoick’s grasp, moving back as Stoick made a move to restrain his son again. Hiccup merely planted his feet and pointed the pommel of the sword towards him, crouching down as he flicked the switch on the pommel.
A blue, glowing mist erupted from the hilt of Hiccup’s sword and covered Stoick’s face, sending him reeling backwards.
He felt every muscle in his body tighten, stiffening until he couldn’t move anymore. In less than two seconds, he was unable to move any part of his body.
And Hiccup stood there, unharmed, walking over sorrowfully with the visor pulled up again so Stoick could see his face. “Flightmare mist. It’s temporary, so it’ll wear off in a few minutes, but I… I’m sorry, Dad.” He said, sounding remorseful, refusing to meet his father’s eyes as he pulled the visor back over his face. “I’m sorry for everything.”
Hiccup then ran out of his room, leaving Stoick’s mind reeling from it all.
But part of him didn’t care. His son was back. He was back in the Archipelago, and there was still hope in Stoick’s heart he wasn’t the monster everyone said he was.
-0-
His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest, but the rest of him felt numb, like his limbs weren’t his, like he was moving because he had to, not because he could. Everything in his head was a blur, still reeling from what had just happened.
Staring at Stoick, frozen by the Flightmare mist, hurt Hiccup more than he thought. He hated that he had to use it on his father. The Flightmare mist hadn't been meant for this. Astrid suggested it in case they ran into patrols or drunkards, buying them enough time to get away, but instead he’d had to use on his own father.
He didn’t have a choice; the alarm had gone up and Astrid may still out there somewhere. She could be in danger and need his help and he needed to find her.
But that didn’t make it any easier seeing his father lock up and freeze, the expression on his face halfway between confusion and horror.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He wasn’t supposed to see me. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
Hiccup thought it would be a simple break and enter, something he and Astrid did dozens of times before. Now, he was bolting down the stairs and out the front door of his house, away from his father and desperate to see if Astrid was safe.
But no matter how fast he ran, his mind couldn’t leave Stoick. He’d seen Hiccup, and it was somehow worse than everything he ever imagined.
He’d prepared himself for rage, fury, disappointment and even apathy.
But his father looked afraid of him. Afraid of his own son.
His father had looked at him like he was something else, like he’d barely recognized the boy he once raised. And then he'd said those words.
Innocent blood. Monster.
And he said them without question, without hesitation, like he believed it. Like he believed Johann.
Hiccup’s mind tottered. He could still hear his own voice, shaking, asking if Stoick believed the lies, and the fact that his father hadn’t answered felt like the worst answer of all.
He hadn’t defended him. Not even once.
He thinks I’m a monster.
The thought smashed into him harder than any punch he’d taken in his life. How could Stoick believe Johann over his own son?
Johann, of all people.
Hiccup reminded himself Johann had been to Berk more than he had over the last five years, and that the island didn’t know Johann was working against them.
Berk didn’t know Johann was a traitor working alongside Krogan. Berk didn’t know that Johann worked for a warlord who seemed intent on ruling not just the Archipelago, but the known world.
It wasn’t his father’s fault, not entirely at least; that laid with Johann. He didn’t know the exact webs Johann was spinning, but whatever they were, they’d clearly worked enough to turn his father against him.
And somehow that made it worse. His father didn’t know Johann was a traitor spreading lies, and Hiccup wasted his time, leaving too much unsaid. He’d lost his temper with his father, accused him of not listening, then wasted more time by not outright saying everything Johann said was a lie.
He felt like the same screwup he was before he’d met Toothless, making things worse instead of better.
Maybe not. There’s still a chance. He wanted to keep you behind and hear you.
The older, cynical part of Hiccup wanted to believe his father wouldn’t listen to him, just like he’d done growing up. But the part of him that’d grown held out hope. His father had said he wanted to hear why Johann couldn’t be trusted.
Stoick just had to read the letter.
Not paying attention to where his legs were taking him, Hiccup collided with a body sprinting across the yards to his house, knocking the wind and his sword from him. The other person was also thrown to the ground.
“Sorry!” The voice said, but the figure got up and continued running up the steps.
Towards his old house. “Chief! Stoick!” The figure called out as soon as it crossed the threshold of the home.
The boy was younger, he saw that much, with blonde hair, but other than that he didn’t really get a good look at him. Whoever he was, he was familiar enough with his father to be on a first name basis, and Hiccup’s mind rebelliously wondered if this was the new heir to Berk, the one his father always wanted.
Don’t think about that right now.
Hiccup couldn’t linger to see who it was. He had to get clear, find Astrid and get out.
Grabbing the sword and stowing it in his leg holster, he threw himself forward back into a run, heading towards the sounds of commotion coming from the village.
He saw a brazier lit and hoisted into the sky and thought for a moment he caught a glimpse of Stormfly flying by.
He shoved his father to the back of his mind. He needed to find Astrid.
He got to the bottom of the hill and decided to cut through the alleys, thinking if he got there fast enough he might find Astrid somewhere near her house.
As he turned another corner, he ran smack into another body, once again knocking him to the ground with a groan.
But as he scrambled up to try to get past the Viking, he froze in place.
The Vikings had a peg leg. He knew this one, one he’d seen every day for years.
“Oi! Watch where you’re going, ye—” Gobber words got stuck in his throat when he turned, a choking sound coming from his throat.
Maybe he doesn’t know it’s you. Hiccup hoped against hope that was the case. His visor was down, and it was still dark enough. He didn’t know if he could handle Gobber looking at him with the same fear Stoick did.
“Hiccup?”
The voice was softer than he remembered, worn down like old leather, and it made his heart lurch. He turned, the sound of his name almost lost in the wind.
Gobber stood there, his stance wary, but not hostile. There wasn’t fear in his eyes, not quite, but something close lingered. Unease. Hurt. Maybe both.
“It’s really you,” Gobber murmured. “By Thor’s beard, what are you…Are you all here?”
Hiccup swallowed hard, suddenly a boy again, tongue-tied and struck with shame.
“I… uh…” He felt like his mouth was stuffed with yak fur. “Gobber…”
The older man’s shoulders sagged, the fight going out of him. He tugged off his helmet with a trembling hand and ran his fingers through graying hair, disbelief etched deep in every line of his face.
“What in Hel’s name are you doing back here, lad?”
He looked older. Not just in the way Stoick had—time had left its fingerprints—but in his eyes too. Eyes that had seen too much and maybe hoped too little.
Hiccup’s hands itched to reach out. To hug him. To say I’m sorry for every year that passed in silence. For every letter never written, every memory left to rot with dust and distance. Gobber had been more than a blacksmith to him, he'd been family. And Hiccup disappeared without even saying goodbye.
At least lift your visor, he told himself. Let him see your face. Let him know it’s still you.
He was raising his hand when a Nadder’s shriek echoed from the square, high, panicked, and unmistakable.
“STORMFLY!”
Astrid’s voice, raw and terrified.
The blood drained from his face.
“Wait, Hiccup!” Gobber stepped forward, his good arm outstretched to stop him.
But Hiccup was already gone, slipping past before Gobber could block him, boots and prosthetic pounding against the cobblestone as he bolted down the alley, the memory of Gobber’s face chasing him harder than any enemy ever could.
Once clear of Gobber, he pulled out the compact, foldable crossbow he’d stolen from Grimmel, loading it with a dart filled with diluted Speed Stinger venom. He then grabbed his sword in his free hand.
He whistled for Toothless and heard the dragon roar affirmatively above him, the whistling sound of a Night Fury dive becoming louder.
He turned the final corner and emerged into the square, taking a split second to analyze the chaos in front of him.
He saw Stormfly trapped against the ground with several warriors holding her down, while Hoark advanced on her with his axe drawn.
He heard Toothless diving through the air, the characteristic Night Fury scream becoming louder. More Berkians cried out Night Fury and ran for cover, but not the ones on top of Stormfly.
He saw Astrid fighting her way towards Stormfly, dodging and blocking strikes but never following up with any hits of her own. But she wouldn’t get there before Hoark killed Stormfly.
“ASTRID!” He called out, letting her know he and Toothless would handle Stormfly. Running forward, he shot the crossbow bolt at Hoark, watching him crumble to the ground in confusion at the limbs that refused to work properly.
Hearing Toothless’ dive reach the pitch that signaled a plasma blast, he took cover, pausing to let the blast hit where he assumed Toothless was aiming.
When he heard the plasma blast explode in the air, flashing purple light around the square, Hiccup leapt up, pushing away and fighting off the dazed Vikings, their ears ringing and eyes blinded by the plasma blast.
Astrid was with him a second later, fighting off Berkians who weren’t concussed or blinded while he deftly cut the ropes holding Stormfly down.
The second the net fell away, Astrid was in the saddle. “We need to leave! Now!” She shouted at him, and he could only nod as Toothless landed nearby, swiping his tail at three charging warriors and sending them into a wagon. Hiccup hopped on, clicked in, and they took off.
And only once they were airborne, climbing fast above the watchful village, did Hiccup allow himself to look down.
Stoick and Gobber, side by side, standing still among the chaos. They looked so small from up here. But even from this height, he could see it in their eyes. The shock, the sorrow, the pain.
Hiccup turned away, his heart heavy and his eyes stinging. He looked toward Astrid, toward the one person who might understand, who could help shoulder the weight of everything he was carrying.
But when he saw her face, something inside him cracked.
Her visor was up and her eyes glistened, shedding tears in the wind. Her mouth was tight, jaw clenched, but her expression was full of agony, sorrow and anger. She wore a similar look the day Stormfly was poisoned and nearly lost to her.
She turned to him, their eyes met, and at that moment, he knew.
Johann hadn’t just turned his father against him.
He’d turned Astrid’s family against her, too.
-0-
Earlier
The house hadn’t changed at all, Astrid noted with some disappointment. It stood exactly how she remembered it the last time she walked out of it, right before leaving Berk with Hiccup and the others.
Thinking about that fateful day brought an avalanche of different emotions to Astrid as she landed near silently on the roof. It was her childhood home, where she’d spent fifteen years of her life. It was where her mother passed down her first axe, where she’d learned how to use it and where she’d practiced with Gunnar.
But she knew she was also viewing the home with nostalgia, and not everything was perfect. Berk was perpetually at war with creatures no better than slaves to a monster's will, and her parents were both warriors. Every night was a night one or both of them might not come back. Both she and Gunnar grew up in that pressure, knowing that if the worst were to happen, they would only have each other.
She'd never realized how growing up in an endless war shaped her until she saw other lands at peace.
She slipped in through her old room, astonished there was hardly any dust on her old bed or the unused weapons rack where she would keep most of her training axes.
Had someone kept the room clean? She could hardly picture her parents doing so after she’d left in the manner she did.
She pushed her visor up, but it didn’t help much against the darkness, and she didn’t want to ignite her axe in case her parents were still awake. So, she moved carefully, crossing the room and holding her breath with each creaky floorboard.
Peeking through the cracked door, she let her gaze sweep down the hallway, tracing the familiar path to her parents’ room and her brother’s, just a few feet away. The house still smelled the same: mix of wood, leather, and lingering smoke from downstairs.
Once she was confident the coast was clear, Astrid steadied herself and opened the door all the way, moving carefully to her parents’ bedroom door.
With practiced efficiency, she took the vial of sap, applied it to the letter, and pushed it gently but firmly against the door. After waiting a few seconds, she let it go, pleased it stuck to the door.
She just had to make it to a cliffside, signal Stormfly, jump off and meet up with her dragon.
But curiosity overtook her.
It’d been five years since she last saw her brother. He was only twelve when she left and was a wide-eyed boy who’d worshipped his older sister. Now he was seventeen years old, a man in his own right.
Don’t do it, Astrid, her rational mind told her, but the heart slowly won out, the memory of the last time she saw him filling her chest with guilt.
He was twelve and didn’t know better. You had no right to treat him like that.
Settling back into a stalking posture, Astrid crept to her brother’s door, slowly pressing it open to make sure the hinges didn’t squeak. Her heart increased its pace as the door opened more, excitement eclipsing the dread she felt from endangering the mission.
Butterflies filled her stomach as the door opened enough to squeeze through, and Astrid moved over to Gunnar’s bed as quietly as she could.
But it was empty.
Her heart sunk. It wasn’t as if she expected him to be waiting for her, but she had wanted some kind of reassurance. Some kind of proof that he was still here and safe.
No. You can’t afford to stay any longer.
Her rational side finally won, and she slipped quietly out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Descending the stairs, she let her eyes linger on the hearth, the kitchen and other small, familiar details that felt distant now. She moved towards the door, ready to run towards the cliff and signal Stormfly.
She put down her visor, swallowing the lump in her throat as she readied herself. Hand gripping the handle, she hesitated for only a second before pulling the door open.
The night’s cold air seeped into her bones, but it wasn’t the chill that made her pause. It was him.
A young man with golden hair sat on the steps, gazing into the dark sky, his expression distant.
“Oh, for Thor’s sake, Mom!” The figure spoke in a strangely recognizable voice, “I’m seventeen, I don’t need a bedtime!”
The figure turned, and all at once Astrid’s world came crashing down around her.
She recognized the hair, the eyes, the nose and jawline of that boy in front of her. She recognized the voice, although it was deeper now and full of more authority than she’d ever heard in it before. She even recognized the way he stood up, favoring his right leg as he lifted himself up.
“Gunnar,” she whispered, gazing into her brother’s dark blue eyes and trying not to lament the fact she hadn’t been there for him growing up, that she’d missed five years she could never get back.
She felt the world still as his eyes swept over her, fear and anger lighting a fire in his eyes. She saw his hand reaching for the axe strapped to his back, and Astrid’s heart plummeted.
The visor, she realized, he doesn’t know it’s me.
Moving quicker than he could, Astrid surged forward, clapping a hand over his mouth and another hand to stop him from reaching the axe. Pivoting and using her strength, she turned and threw him into the Hofferson home before slamming the door shut behind her.
She didn’t care if it woke her parents up.
Igniting her axe to provide some light in the dark room, she lifted the visor up to show her face.
“Gunnar, it’s me,” she breathed, her voice trembling with both joy and grief. “It’s Astrid.” She smiled, eyes examining his face and seeing how much he’d changed. How much he’d grown up.
He was taller now, the same height as her. The soft features from his childhood were gone, replaced with a hardened frame of lean muscle, probably from combat training. His jaw was sharper, and his shoulder broader. A warrior’s look, something she’d always known he’d become. Just like his big sister.
She thought Gunnar might hold a grudge and braced herself for pain and yelling. For a bitter where were you or a broken why did you leave.
She’d prepared herself to hear the hurt in his voice, to feel the sting of his resentment.
But she hadn’t prepared for the way his eyes went cold, for the loathing that settled in them like frost.
She hadn’t prepared to see malice.
There was fury in his eyes, an unsuppressed rage he wore on his face even after she told him who she was. She was so distracted by it she almost didn’t see him to continue reaching for his axe.
Instincts took over as he threw the axe at her, her thoughts taking a backseat as her body moved on muscle memory alone. She deflected the axe with her own but wasn’t prepared for Gunnar to tackle her and drive her into the floor.
Using her legs, she pushed him off her and scrambled to her feet, watching as Gunnar grabbed his axe from the floor.
“Gunnar, wait!” Her voice cracked. She was visible, he should have realized he was fighting his older sister by now. But he didn’t seem to care.
Astrid tried again, “Gunnar, stop!” He wasn’t listening. He swung again, the blow rattling her arms as she blocked it.
She pushed him but he came again, swinging the axe, and Astrid blocked the powerful blow only for him to strike at her again.
“Gunnar, it’s me! Your sister!” She shouted with her voice cracking, no longer caring if her parents woke up.
Why is he doing this?!
She had sparred with him when they were children, laughing as he tried to best her with his tiny wooden sword. But this wasn’t sparring. There was rage in every move, his strikes fueled by something deeper than anger.
This isn’t like him.
She somersaulted past him to put some distance between the two. Her heart hammered in her ears and her stomach was in her throat. He should have recognized her by now, even with the helmet. He should have stopped. And it was tearing her apart that he hadn’t. Like he didn’t care she was his sister anymore.
The thought frightened her.
“Gunnar, it’s your sister!” She repeated, her voice breaking from the strain and the heartbreak.
He has to recognize me. He has to!
“Shut up, demon!” He yelled furiously before charging her, axe raised.
She blocked it again, muscles screaming from the relentless of his assault, and fought him off when she heard footsteps thundering down the stairs.
Her parents.
She felt their eyes on her as she locked up Gunnar’s axe, trying to ignore how he was just as tall as her now, and she heard a choked sob from her mother.
“Astrid?” Her voice called softly, and Astrid spared a glance over towards the steps.
Ingrid Hofferson stood there, a hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. Beside her, Ulric Hofferson looked on in stunned silence, his expression unreadable, but his fists clenched at his sides.
She’d finally come back, and it felt like she was an intruder in her own home.
Gunnar took advantage of her distraction, twisting their entwined axes out of the way and throwing a punch that struck her in the jaw, knocking Astrid to the ground.
Dazed, she looked up, eyes watering as Gunnar bore down on her with nothing but hatred.
“Why?!” She screamed through the tears, but Gunnar hardly reacted as he raised the axe above his head.
She heard her mother scream, saw her father rush to Gunnar and stop the axe mid-swing. She saw the look in Gunnar’s face.
“Let me go!” He tried wrestling the axe away from Ulric, “She’s a monster! She betrayed us! She betrayed us all!”
Astrid scrambled away, backing up towards the door in shock. She felt the tears flowing down her face, but she couldn’t dwell on it.
Eventually, Gunnar wrestled free from their father and charged at her again, ignoring Ingrid and Ulric’s pleas to stop.
Knowing she didn’t have a choice and with the whole village probably waking up at this point, Astrid steeled herself for the fight.
As Gunnar struck her axe, she struck back with equal force, fighting for space and a chance to disarm him. Each time their axes collided, she could hear her mother’s shriek and her father’s shout for them to stop, but she knew she couldn’t stop.
Her survival depended on besting her brother now.
She got her opening a few moves later, and wretched the axe from her brother’s hands and flung it into the nearest wall.
When Gunnar charged her again, she grappled him and flung him to the ground towards their parents, and Astrid leveled the axe towards them, their faces lit up by the flaming blade.
“Don’t,” she pleaded, trying to keep her voice strong but failing to stop it from cracking with anguish. “Stay down. Please,” she added tearfully.
“Astrid,” Ingrid muttered, “Astrid…daughter…”
Gunnar stayed put, eyeing her with derision, but otherwise unmoving.
“Astrid, my sweet girl, put down the axe,” Ulric begged.
She made the mistake of looking at them, and she saw how they ever so slightly recoiled from her.
She saw the look in her father's eyes, the way her mother tightly gripped Gunnar's tunic to keep him back from her.
They’re afraid, she realized as her heart shattered, they’re afraid of me.
It was becoming too much.
She wasn’t ready to face them again. She should’ve told Hiccup, she should’ve known she couldn’t handle seeing them again, not after how she left.
“I…” She didn’t know what to say. What can you even say? Sorry I left you and brought more shame to the Hofferson name? Sorry I never let you know I was ok? Sorry you never saw me for five years?
There were tears streaming down her parents’ face now, but Gunnar remained uncharacteristically cold, glaring at her as if she was an intruder holding the family hostage. With her axe still leveled at her family, Astrid thought he might not be fair off.
She lowered the axe but it kept it ignited, summoning all her courage into keeping her voice level, “I know we didn’t exactly leave on the best terms, and I know you think we’re traitors—”
“Traitors?” Gunnar sneered, standing up abruptly and shaking off their father’s hand on his shoulder, “Traitors?! After everything you’ve done, all the people you’ve killed, you think you’re only traitors?”
Is he talking about the war with the Dragon Hunters? She figured after Johann’s betrayal that he might’ve told Berk over the past year about the Dragon Riders and how they freed dragons.
“It’s war, Gunnar,” she said softly, searching him for any sign of understanding, “People die in war, you know that.”
Gunnar’s face darkened, and even her parents’ face blanched, refusing to look Astrid in the eyes. “Is that what you call what you did? Everything you’ve done? War? That’s not war, that’s barbarity!”
Her heart was hammering in her chest now. It’s not supposed to be like this. “I know you don’t agree with what we’ve done—”
Gunnar cut her off with a forceful step forward, “After you left, I thought you were just a traitor who fell for Hiccup’s lies and deceptions. But then a year ago, Johann told us what you all had done, what you really were.”
Astrid looked at her parents, but they were staring down at the floor, faces white and fists clenched so hard she could see the white knuckles.
She stood her ground, turning her eyes back to her brother, “They’re not lies. Dragons aren’t what you think—”
“They’re monsters—”
“They’re intelligent—”
“They killed Uncle Finn!” Gunnar shouted, his words cutting deeper into Astrid, “Or did you forget about Aurvandil’s Fire and the Flightmare?! They killed Uncle Finn and how many other Hoffersons?! For three hundred years, dragons have been terrorizing us! And you threw us away to join them!”
Uncle Finn. Aurvandil’s Fire. The Flightmare. Her heart creaked. She hadn’t forgotten about her Uncle Finn and the Flightmare, but her perspective changed when they rescued a Flightmare and learned more about it. How territorial it was, how it would protect its food, and, most importantly to her, how its mist paralyzed anyone hit with it.
They don’t know about the Flightmare’s mist.
She wanted to tell them about the mist. How it paralyzed victims and that Uncle Finn didn’t die frozen with fear. But that wouldn’t get Gunnar and their parents on her side. She needed to try something else.
“Not all dragons are like that,” she tried to keep her voice calm, “I can show you. We can show you all. We stopped the raids five years ago, right?”
Gunnar scowled at that. “Why should we believe you? Why should we trust you?” He spat. Her parents didn’t say anything.
Astrid pleaded with him, feeling like she was grasping at straws. “I’m your sister, why would I lie to you?”
He looked at her in the eyes, taking another slow step forward. “You’re not my sister.”
The words cut her deeper than any weapon ever could.
Astrid felt the air in her lungs leave her in a strangled gasp, and a sob tore from her throat before she could stop it. Another sob escaped and she felt her entire body recoiling as if she’d been gutted. It was as if something deep inside her had been ripped out, something that she’d carried with her since her brother had been born, leaving only a gaping void.
“You don’t mean that,” she choked out, feeling fresh tears run down her face again.
She felt weightless and untethered in the worst possible way, like she was falling through the sky without Stormfly or her flight suit. She felt like she was drowning, kicking and clawing towards the surface but no matter how much she struggled, she was only sinking further and further down.
But Gunnar starred her down, and she could see the anger in his expression, “My sister died when she ran off with Hiccup,” he spat out the name, “You’re not my sister. You’re just a demon.”
The words broke upon her like a wave on the rocks, shattering her resolve. She’d faced death hundreds of times out in the world. Dragons, witches, spirits, dreaded creatures and cruel warlords, and she’d always come out on top with wounds and scars.
But nothing had ever cut her so deep as hearing Gunnar say those words.
Her axe faltered, dropping slightly, and she saw Gunnar leapt forward, yanking the axe. It sent the two of them crashing to the ground.
You need to get out of here!
Summoning whatever strength she had left, Astrid shifted her legs and used Gunnar’s momentum against him. Twisting sharply, she drove her boot into his chest and sent him tumbling out the doorway and into the street.
He only looked back for a second before scrambling to his feet and running, shouting as he went. “Dragon Riders! Raise the alarm!”
Astrid spared a glance towards her parents, wishing there was something she could say to them. But she didn’t know what to say, or what she could say. Not now, not after the fight with Gunnar and not after they looked ashamed of her.
So, she turned and ran out the door, into the cold night and away from her parents. She whistled for Stormfly before slapping the visor down, protecting her tear-covered face from the biting cold wind.
She heard Stormfly’s squawk from above and signaled for her to land in the nearby square. There was no time to run to the cliff. Vikings were spilling out of their homes, some armed and some unarmed, and the sight of Astrid in her Nadder scale armor alerted many of those Vikings this wasn’t a prank.
She saw Stormfly land, spines raised and shooting fire at the feet of any Vikings trying to get close. One Berkian took a swing at Astrid with a hammer, but Astrid easily dodged the shot and kept moving towards Stormfly. Another came at her, and she inverted her axe to spray Zippleback gas in his face as she dodged his mace.
A group of warriors then blocked her path forward. Without hesitation, she yanked a small canister from her belt, Hiccup’s handiwork. She engaged the mechanism and threw it.
A blast of fluorescent blue mist erupted over their heads. Within seconds, the warriors froze mid-motion, their bodies locking in place as the Flightmare mist took hold. Astrid sprinted past, not bothering to look behind her.
Focus on getting to Stormfly. Just focus. Don’t think about them.
She leapt over a cart, but she wasn’t fast enough. One Viking hollered, and Astrid saw a group of them leap up and throw a weighted net, trapping Stormfly against the ground.
“STORMFLY!” She screamed, dodging and weaving the Vikings attempting to stop her.
She saw Vikings moving to restrain Stormfly, grabbing her nostrils, wings and legs, and saw Hoark moving toward her dragon, hands tightly gripping the axe and eyes fixed on the Nadder.
Astrid’s heart pounded. Odin, please. Not her.
The gods had listened to her prayers throughout their journey; in fact, they listened to all their prayers, it seemed.
She hoped they would hear this one as well.
She felt the familiar calm settle her, washing over her panic and clearing her head. She moved easier, dodging, blocking and rolling away from strikes, as if weights had been lifted from her limbs.
Something in the back of her mind told her to slow down, and she obeyed, only a second before the diving scream of a Night Fury filled the air.
Cries of ‘Night Fury!’ rang out across the village, and villagers all over ducked for cover.
“Astrid!” She heard Hiccup before she saw him, sprinting towards Stormfly with his sword lit and his handheld crossbow in one hand. Without losing stride, he shot a Speed Stinger bolt at Hoark, sending him crumpling to the ground, before taking cover.
The blast from Toothless was powerful, but exploded in the air right above Stormfly, sending the Vikings stumbling with ringing ears and temporary blindness from the flash. Astrid dashed across the square to her dragon, fighting and shoving the Vikings away from her dragon. With a practiced and efficient hand, Hiccup used his sword to cut the ropes holding Stormfly down, and when the net fell, Astrid leapt into the saddle.
“We need to leave! Now!” She shouted, and Hiccup only nodded, climbing quickly onto Toothless when he’d landed nearby. “Up, Stormfly!”
Her Nadder roared, powerful wings beating hard as she heaved them into the sky. Astrid felt the rush of cold winter air, the wind tearing at her armor, at the tears still wet on her face.
Berk shrank below them, torches flickering like scattered stars, the sounds of shouting growing distant.
She lifted her visor, letting her tears run across her face as the wind chilled them.
A moment later, she turned and saw Hiccup looking at her, his visor also pulled up, a similar expression on his face.
And in his eyes, she saw it.
The same grief. The same devastation. The same unspoken agony that was crushing her from the inside out.
Neither of them said a word on the entire way back to the Edge.
They didn’t need to.