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Chapter Text

Warm light flooded Jack’s eyelids, and he came into consciousness in bursts of orange and yellow. His lashes were stuck together with sleep, and waves of dry heat lapped against his cheek — a comfort he had not felt in centuries — and he knew something was very wrong. 

Without opening his eyes, he tried to gauge where he was. Urgent, hushed voices floated from farther away. He was tucked into a scratchy blanket. He took in the crackling of a fireplace, the heavy smell of pine and peat — and most peculiarly, the natural warmth emanating from Jack himself. 

The voices did not appear to be close. He turned away from the fire and cracked one eye open. The wooden cabin he found himself in was cluttered with parchment and antique tools, while the fire cast orange light over a double-bladed axe mounted on the wall. 

Hold on . 

Jack sat up. Stared at the axe. Definitely not for show, that edge looks wicked . 

The murmuring and shuffling above him alerted him that his kidnappers? Friends? Was this another abduction via North’s toy sack situation — were upstairs. There appeared to be two pairs of pacing feet, but Jack couldn’t be sure, as in-between footsteps something hard clunked against the ceiling. Careful, he lifted the blanket, and stood. He bit back a hiss when his feet settled on the cold stone floor – and he immediately was woozy with dread. A coil of something awful in his stomach. What happened? His gaze flicked around for an exit. There — the door, bolted shut from the inside with a massive log. Jack grit his teeth. Too risky, too noisy. He searched the walls for windows, but there didn’t appear to be any. What kind of cabin didn’t have windows?  

The chatter resumed upstairs, but the footsteps and clunking noise began traveling towards the staircase, and Jack knew he needed to hide, then maybe he could sneak out when the door was unbolted — 

All this flew out the non-existent window when a hot puff of air against the back of Jack’s neck made him shriek. 

He whipped around so fast he fell on his rear. At first, all he could see was the darkness of the room unlit by the fire — then the darkness shifted, and opened reptilian, jade-green eyes. A low snarl revealed a row of bared teeth, and Jack scooted himself backwards until his back hit the wooden door. The creature advanced, its steps deliberate, pupils narrow gashes. Even when it crossed the threshold of the hearthlight, its hide remained as deep as a black hole, as oil-slick black as one of Pitch’s Nightmare steeds. Jack’s right hand felt empty and useless without his staff. He reached for the winter, for the wind, for anything, but received no response.      

Part of Jack wanted to laugh at himself, at the creature intent on devouring him, and tell it you can’t kill me, I’m already dead — but the racket in Jack’s chest and hot blood rushing to his ears told him with baffling certainty that was not the case any longer. 

The Nightmare was close enough for Jack to go cross-eyed when a strangled shout rose from behind it. Most of Jack’s vision was obscured by the creature, but he saw the waving of arms and a tuft of auburn hair. With a noise that almost sounded like a question, the Nightmare retreated. A boy rounded its flank, and, remarkably, unceremoniously, with a gesture so simple yet so impossible — shot Jack an apologetic grimace. Which meant. It meant.

He could see Jack , and he wasn’t an animal or spirit or figment of a memory, or even a young child. He was a boy, a man, close to adulthood if not there already, with stubble growing in. Jack felt himself flatline. Briefly, he forgot about the freaky shadow monster. Only briefly.

The boy scratched the Nightmare’s jaw with a gloved hand, which emitted a pleased hum that resonated throughout the small room. It closed its eyes and sat back on its hindquarters, finally giving Jack space to breathe.

“That’s your pet?” It was all he could think of to say.

Both the boy and the Nightmare regarded him, tilted their heads in the same direction. Jack barked out a laugh, then folded over to lay his forehead on the cool stone.

At least he wasn’t going to be torn to pieces today. He doubted he would satiate the appetite of this beast, anyway. Barely make an appetizer.

Clunk, clunk . The metallic noise and footsteps approached Jack’s head.

He noticed the boy’s boots first. Well, boot, singular. His left leg was cut short, a metal contraption taking the space where a foot should be. It looked unlike any prosthetic Jack had ever seen, all sliding metal parts and chunky bolts. The boy bent to rest on one knee, and Jack squinted through his bangs to regard the stranger’s face, avoiding his eyes. The boy was turned away from the hearth, and the firelight brimmed his auburn hair in gold. Jack could pick up scattered freckles despite the shadow cast over his face. He held his hands held out placatingly, palm up, and his expression was wide-eyed and cautious, but not defensive. He studied Jack’s face for a moment, then shifted his gaze to the floor. 

The stranger proceeded to speak, but in a language Jack couldn’t place, despite his hundreds of years of exploration. It had a weight and fullness to it that sounded Scandinavian, but the accent and the vowels were off. He had a nasally voice, and he spoke quickly, hands twitching a little like he wanted to wave them again but didn’t want to startle Jack. The Nightmare behind him watched, interested. Ready to pounce if it felt the tide change.

“I — I can’t—” Jack interrupted him. “I have no clue what you’re saying.” The stranger’s mouth formed a small “o” in surprise, then that thin grimace again. Jack got the impression he was embarrassed. 

A shift of heavy fabric next to Jack’s side startled him, his nerves on high alert, and he lurched away, springing up to his feet in a frenzied motion. The creature growled lowly, but at the moment Jack was more concerned about the woman in front of him. She was too close for comfort and wielded an axe that looked just as threatening as the one displayed on the wall and biceps the size of Jack’s head. She narrowed her eyes, adjusting her grip on the handle as it rested on her shoulder pauldron, which was a coarse metal, adorned with harsh ridges. Her thick leather skirt was decorated with spikes, resembling canine fangs. The stranger with the prosthetic, for his part, mostly seemed exasperated at this. He also got up, throwing his arms up in a janky arc and exclaimed something that pitched his nasally voice up. 

Taking the momentary distraction as a gift from Manny, Jack bolted towards the staircase. His steps felt labored, as if moving through pond-water with silt sticking to his soles, but he clambered up the stairs in moments, the startled yelps of the boy and his beast following him.

The room Jack burst into was small, with a slanted ceiling — there , a window, a sizable one, without glass even — a slab of rock sat in the corner next to a wool-laden bed, blackened and singed. Scattered parchment fluttered from the ground as Jack sprinted towards the opening and leaped onto the windowsill. His hands caught the frame of the window before he careened over the side. 

It was almost instinct. It was almost a memory. Toes over the edge. Jack could feel the wind against his hair, but he couldn’t really feel it. It wouldn’t carry him if he asked it to. 

Well. It wasn’t that far of a leap to the grass below. He leapt.

Jack braced for the impact, ready to take the momentum and barrel roll if he had to. It never came. He was yanked by his shoulders and propelled into the sky. For a brief, wonderful second, Jack wondered if the wind was actually there for him after all. Then he registered the claws sunk into his biceps, not hard enough to break the skin, but secure. The Nightmare had got him. And they were flying. 

From Jack’s vantage point in the creature’s grasp, a vast ocean lay before them, interrupted by spires of stone and scrubby pine trees. He looked up, and against the pinkish hue of the sky, the Nightmare’s form was in full contrast, wings and all. It had softer edges than Jack expected. Jack looked down — he never considered himself afraid of heights before, but usually he was never at risk of falling — at a colorful, rustic village below blurring beneath him.

It was inhabited by, and Jack struggled to find a better word for it — dragons. Winged reptilian beasts, petite to monstrous, decorated with a whole manner of patterns and textures, clustered on the rooftops and squawked at them as they swooped past. Lumbered along the thin roads separating the buildings, sleeping in nooks and crannies. Jack has seen the wonders of North’s workshop, the pastel Warren, Tooth’s menagerie of fairies. He was no stranger to the realms of spirits, but this was new and vibrant and marvelous.

A familiar voice broke through the rushing in Jack’s ears, and he realized the boy from before was riding on the Nightmare’s neck. He had to strain to see him, but he was there, seated atop a leather saddle. 

“Are you a spirit?” Jack yelled. He couldn’t quite see the boy’s face. He turned to address the Nightmare. “Are you? Help me out, here.” 

The Nightmare — dragon, or something — flicked its green eyes back to acknowledge Jack, and blinked once. In the light, it appeared less threatening, more amused at Jack’s pathetic leap from the window. It emitted a rumbling from within its throat. Rolled its eyes.

Jack felt a little insane. 

It was a good thing his athleticism often went overlooked — even before his afterlife, he was a spry kid, deft and sure-footed from climbing trees and traversing rivers (usually on some sort of quest to retrieve berries for Emily or clay for the children’s mud sculptures. There was a secret spot near the lake he harvested it from). He wasn’t the most imposing figure, and most folks, including the Guardians, saw his bobble head and knobby knees and regarded him as a nuisance at most. It was likely for this reason the Nightmare’s claws weren’t gripping Jack too tightly. Or maybe it assumed he’d have to be foolish to twist himself free this high up in the air. Foolish , it turns out, is Jack’s middle name.

For a moment, Jack was suspended — in the other, he crashed elegantly into the knobby hide of a large dragon. He bounced back, because he always bounces back, he’s unstoppable , and this time he skid into the slope of a tiled roof. The world became a tilt-a-whirl as he tumbled downwards, and at the last moment his hand caught a wooden beam, allowing himself to swing upright, shoulder screaming at the sudden jolt, and he fell further — a flock of dragons dispersed beneath him, the wind from their wings buffeting his face — then his feet slapped onto something solid. He ran, arms windmilling for balance. It was another roof, and he was careening down the long ridge, at the end of which rose a carved figurehead that if he had his staff he would have hooked onto as leverage for another leap, but in the present all he could manage was to leapfrog over it and hope for the best. 

He landed on a ram, hard, sat as if he were on a saddle. It honked, somehow still keeping its balance, and Jack let out a pained gasp, body crumpling over his groin. The ram shot forward, and now Jack was eye level with the villagers he had seen from above, clambering out of the way of the ram’s charge. They were burly, tall, decked out with furs and beards and leather armor. He craned his neck to look behind him at the crowd forming at the ram’s wake. Each surprised shout and flash of angry eyes meeting his was a reminder that Jack was not invisible anymore. Taking note of the obscene amount of metal weaponry glinting in the sun, Jack wished he was. 

The ram began to buck. Taking the hint, Jack rolled off, tucking his head and shoulders before hitting the earth. Clumps of mud clung to him as he stood. They had ground to a halt at a shallow cliff overlooking the ocean.

This ocean was not dissimilar from the coast of Massachusetts — not that Jack made a habit of visiting. It was dark, with the jagged edges and crests of North Atlantic waves. Gravel, broken shells, and seaweed-laden rocks swathed the beach in grey and phthalo green. A thick fog covered the water at a distance. Unwilling to lose momentum, Jack hopped from rock to rock, down to the beach, bare feet slipping over the damp stone. Where his weight should be feather-light, the impact stung. Where his footing should be sure, he faltered.

Jack’s back hit the wet gravel, and he groaned, sitting up on his elbows. His nose nearly clipped the point of the axe directed in his face. He scooted backwards, hissing when the heels of his palms hit cold water. 

Jack was confronted with a silhouette that was eerily similar to North. Jack squinted against the dawn light, noting the man’s broad stature and thick, braided beard. Horns curled from his helmet, mirroring the dragons from the village. He carried the weight of authority that neither the strangers Jack had met possessed. He could see it in the set of his brows, the assured, purposeful posture. This man was their leader — their chief. 

The chief’s eyes were stony. Jack took deep breaths to calm himself and tried to settle his gaze anywhere else. He’d never been regarded like this before. Like something to be feared, cautious of. It hit Jack then that he was as much a stranger to these people as they were to him. That he was an imposter in their realm, who spoke an incomprehensible tongue, with no clue how he came to be there or how to explain himself.

Appearing mollified by whatever meekness he saw in Jack’s posture, the chief withdrew his axe. Jack became aware of the nasally voice of the Nightmare-riding-boy babbling and ranting behind the man, but his figure was too broad to see around. For better or for worse, the boy seemed to be the friendliest out of the villagers Jack had encountered thus far. Given that he’s the only one that hadn’t threatened him with a weapon. A low bar, turns out.

Gaze flitting around himself, Jack noticed a semicircle of curious villagers and dragons gathering around him. They kept their distance, but the only feasible exit Jack had was towards the ocean. Not ideal. In this sort of scenario Jack would shoot up into the air and catch the wind somewhere safe, but he was grounded in the most finite way possible. The chief was speaking to him in a low tone. He barely registered it. His vision felt blurred, the bodies of the crowd smudging together. A phantom chill prickled his neck. He hadn’t had goosebumps in three hundred years. He was breathing hard, and sharply, and when did his clothes get this tight? His hands grasped uselessly at air. Where was his staff?

The scrape of saltwater in his mouth. Jack was falling, buffeted by winds that were not his own. He hit the water like a thunderclap. The ocean current, unlike any force Jack had felt before, was a hungry maw, and it drew him underneath as softly and violently as a swallow. The throat of the ocean crushed him.

He must have lost it then, when did he have it last —

He was flying, he remembers flying. He’s flown over the Atlantic so many times now, the North winds rushed to greet him with fondness. His staff was held loosely in his grip, without thought to its being, like an extra limb, like an old friend.

Sandy told him there was an influx of dreams in the northern wilds. Dreamsand he’d never seen before, silvery and iridescent, leaking out of hollow tree trunks and between the plumage of bird wings. His symbols formed and reformed deftly above his head, so quickly Jack had to ask him to repeat himself several times. That was why — he was searching — he hit something — was hit by something? 

A crack ran through Jack like the snap of a tendon. And he bled — well, not bled, but everything inside him cried to escape outwards, expel from his skin, from under his fingernails. He was falling, and the water was a throat and the winds would not could not aid him.

He was breathing? He was breathing. He was breathing.

It was not like before, how could it be like before? The cold, cold lake was merciful. The ice froze his limbs and his life in a moment. 

The Atlantic wrung him out.

A croon, long and warbling, resonated in his left ear, snapping Jack out of his reverie. He turned his head sharply, coming face to face with a pair of bug-like, crossed eyes. A very small dragon was sniffing at him. Its head was almost too large for its dark green body. Twisted horns spiraled from its skull, one of them broken shorter than the other, and a tiny horn sprouted from its snout, nestled between two flared nostrils. It blinked at him. Jack, at a loss, blinked back. Another trill at his hip warned him it had a friend, and before Jack could protest the first dragon was halfway up his chest and the second had curled itself under his arm. A third, this one a yellowy tone, attempted to land on his head and nest there, but could not find a steady enough perch. Jack swatted at them, but they persisted, a couple more deciding Jack’s lap was the best place to rest their eyes. They were hot like little candles, and a chill Jack did not realize he contracted from the ocean breeze and damp stone began to dissipate. They reminded him of kittens. He laid his hand on the imp on his chest, still supporting himself with one arm so he didn’t fall in the surf, and scratched the scales of its cheek. It trilled at him, happy with Jack’s attention, and Jack half-gaped, half-smiled at the creature. There was a time when he had surprised Emily with a garter snake — god, she cried so much, he felt awful for it —  a laugh escaped him. His body rumbled with the chatter and warbles of the dragons in response. Its scales were pleasantly velvety under his hand. His heart rate slowed with the unified breaths of the entourage. The dark green imp licked his chin and he let his head fall back. He was exhausted, and confused, and now surprise best friends with a bunch of therapy lizards. The immediate fear response he felt had at least gone — left him with a clinging unease. 

There was a tap on his arm, and he opened his eyes to view a short, almost Sandy-sized elderly woman with a tall staff. Another one of those bobble-head dragons perched on her shoulder. The rest of the crowd remained where they were, giving the woman a respectable amount of space. She had wide eyes, not unlike her creatures — for they were hers, this Jack did not doubt — a tiny pointed nose, and a grim mouth, which remained pressed closed and silent. She took her staff, and using the end of it as a stylus, began to make marks in the gravel. A lumbering giant loomed above her — similar in size to the chief, but with a braided mustache and one hand replaced with what looked like a spatula — examining the dashes and lines she was quickly etching. Jack watched them also. It was less like writing, more like drawings or hieroglyphics. Wait, was the stick figure with the spiky hair supposed to be him?  

When the woman was done, the man behind her began speaking, translating her chicken scratch to the audience. Jack was still. Involuntarily, he held tightly to the little dragons in his arms. The bearded man reached out the spatula to Jack, then realized his mistake and switched to his flesh and blood hand for Jack to lift himself up. Most of the dragons tumbled off of him, apart from the dark green imp. He was led by the small woman through the crowd, past the boy and his Nightmare, past the girl with the hefty axe. The larger man kept a beefy hand on his shoulder, shielding him from seeing much else. The chief fell into lock step with them. The little dragon settled into his chest. He struggled to feel anything else except the warmth from its scales and the weight of the hand on his bicep. The deep tones of the people’s foreign tongue blurred together in his head as if it were porridge. Or alphabet soup.

Jack kept walking. 

The great hall Jack joined the chief and advisors in was lit with torches, and adorned in tapestry. When the massive doors opened and wind was let in, the tapestries shifted, and the woven dragons on them appeared to flap their wings or release an unfurled tongue of fire. At the center was a massive wooden table wrapped around a fireplace, marked up by what Jack assumed were blades. Of the chief’s advisors included the spatula-handed man, the Sandy-sized old woman, another tall man with a severe face and black beard, and the nightmare boy — without his nightmarish dragon. They were arguing some, whispering some. Blackbeard often cast Jack suspicious glares. Spatula chimes in very little, leaning back in his chair and settling his wooden peg leg on the table. Although Spatula was often musing, often quiet, he placed himself at Jack’s left, between him and Blackbeard. Whenever Blackbeard turned to shout something at Jack, Spatula leaned forward to pick at his fraying boot leather, blocking his tirade. The nightmare boy hovered close to the chief’s side, speaking with him familiarly, waving his hands and pacing, waving, pacing. He reminded Jack of a buzzing horsefly. The chief occasionally lifted a beefy hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Jack was invisible again, no longer the center of attention, but also far too visible. So he retreated into himself, scratching the little dragon’s chin. 

It was almost like one of the Guardians meetings. At least during those, Jack could choose not to speak. Just let the oversized rabbit and North rattle on, and maybe sneak a jibe in to lighten the mood. For spirits dedicated to enriching the lives of children, they were a bunch of bummers. 

The last time he saw Sandy, his wide face was creased with worry and uncertainty. 

Jack told him, I’ll be back in a jiffy .

The hall fell quiet. The chief placed both hands on the table, leaning into it. Jack gnawed on his lower lip, and shifted in his seat, disturbing the dragon. It chirped at him, shooting him a bug-eyed look. The horn on its snout was chipped at the point. The Nightmare boy seemed tired. And annoyed. His scrunched up brow and hard frown was comically misplaced on his gangly frame, in contrast with the threatening statures of the other men. The boy leaned toward the chief, then, and muttered something. His voice was softer, with a thin, pleading edge to the end of his words.

The chief sighed, turned his head to regard him. His gaze was hard, unyielding, and the boy matched it.

Jack held his breath.

The chief gave a brusk nod. His fists clenched and unclenched. His eyes were dangerous as he faced Jack. He knew what they meant. He saw them enough from North, albeit not to this intensity, when the old man considered just how far down he should write Jack’s name on the Naughty List. 

Don’t cause any trouble .

Jack was fucked.

He had white hair. The stranger. Hiccup had only ever seen hair that white on old folks, on Gothi, and not many warriors got old enough to have a full beard of grey hairs in the Barbaric Archipelago. It was the first thing about the stranger he noticed, which was lucky, as it might as well have saved the boy’s life.

Toothless knew something was wrong before he did, alert and concerned in a moment — how he could detect the stranger’s scent through the briny ocean air, Hiccup couldn’t fathom. Maybe he heard the boy somehow, his earfins twitching and attuned to the blood pulsing weakly through his veins. Then Hiccup spotted the white speck in the waves.

When they plucked the stranger out of the water his dark clothes were soaked through, so waterlogged and heavy Toothless almost miscalculated his grip and dropped him. They managed to heft him on the front of the saddle, and his skin was terribly cold even after the hooded coat was discarded, and Hiccup’s head felt stuffed and empty all at once, echoing with the possibility that they were bringing home a corpse. If he hadn’t spent so much time goofing off, reluctant to return to Berk so soon, maybe he might have — would he have been too early — 

The stranger spasmed, kicking Toothless in the jaw, and Hiccup’s never been strong but he needed to be then and so he was. He turned the stranger onto his stomach over Toothless’s neck, lifting him a bit to relieve the pressure on his lungs as he hacked and vomited saltwater over Toothless’s side. He passed out again but at least he was alive and not kicking anymore so Toothless could resume his breakneck pace home. Hiccup held on and held on and pressed his ear close to the boy’s cold mouth so he could hear him breathe.

The stranger looked better, less dead, sat across from Hiccup in the mead hall. The blood had returned to his face. His hair was dry, dandelion puffy, and shorter in the back. A cowlick stuck out from behind his right ear. The hollows of his cheeks were gaunt and his eye sockets were tucked deep enough under his eyebrows to cast shadows but maybe that wasn’t the near death experience, maybe that’s just how he looked. He hovered close to Gobber’s side — Hiccup was grateful for Gobber’s steadfast presence in all this. Spitelout fumed on his other side, glaring holes in Gobber’s helmet in the direction the stranger was sitting, but the stubborn blacksmith wouldn’t give an inch. 

“I don’t like it.” His father’s voice was low, considerate. “Hiccup. The fact that he’s here, alone, with no search parties returning with evidence of a ship…”

“We’ll never get anywhere if we scare him too bad,” Hiccup insisted. “Please, dad. I know he means no harm.”

The edge of Stoick’s mustache twitched. “You know, hm?”

“Call it a gut feeling.”

Stoick fell silent. The hall held its breath. 

He nodded, curt, decisive, pinning the stranger with his gaze. Wisely, the stranger looked like he would jump out of his skin if a sheep bleated at him too loudly. 

Stoick turned to leave, clapping a hand on Hiccup’s shoulder. He held it for a moment, firm. “Get him to talk,” he said. Hiccup resisted sighing with relief just yet. “Don’t let him wander.”

“Thank you, dad,” Hiccup breathed, because it was always worth saying, because he meant it.

Stoick hummed, and strode out of the hall, yanking a protesting Spitelout with him. Gobber watched them go, stretched, scratched at his back with his spatula. “Could’ve been worse.” He gave Hiccup the eyebrow. “You got him, now, boy?”

“I got him.” 

Before departing with Gobber, Gothi reached out with a small gnarled hand and patted the stranger’s cheek. Wide eyed, the stranger jerked back, dislodging the terrible terror on his lap. It chittered and readjusted itself, unwilling to give up its new favorite napping spot. Instead of being offended, Gothi’s eyes softened. She dipped her head to both of them before hobbling off.

Then they were alone. The mead hall had never felt so cavernous.

Hiccup cleared his throat. Made his way over to the stranger’s side of the table. The stranger watched him without watching him, eyeing him approach from his periphery.

“Um,” he pointed weakly to the terrible terror in the stranger’s lap. “She uh. Seems fond of you.” 

The stranger stood, gripping the terror under her armpits, her tiny legs scrabbling for purchase. She squawked, indignant. He turned to face Hiccup entirely, chin lifted. Held the terror like he might chuck her at Hiccup if he made any wrong moves. Smart. Well, stupid , to anger even the smallest of dragons, but smart. The stranger was shorter than Hiccup, not by much, and he was struck by the force of the boy’s eye contact, now that he had it.

His eyes were brown. Hiccup knew that. He just hadn’t seen them so clearly before. 

Cautious, Hiccup pressed two of his fingers to his own chest. Keep it small. Keep it true. “Hiccup.” He drew his name out. Tapped his chest again. “Hiccup.” He offered a smile. 

The stranger didn’t budge. Flicked his eyes from Hiccup’s face to his hand and back again. Squinted at him. Hiccup shifted under the scrutiny, uncomfortable, but never let his smile drop. He didn’t dare. “Hiccup,” he tried again, just in case. “My name is Hiccup.” His voice, as quiet as it was, echoed in the empty mead hall.

The stranger’s mouth opened, closed, opened again, then — “Hiccup.” His voice was raspy, resonant. More baritone than Hiccup expected. He stumbled over the consonants, unsure of how they fit in his mouth. 

Hiccup’s hesitant smile transformed into a full-on toothy grin. “Yes! Yes, that’s it, that’s me!” The stranger took a step back, and Hiccup reigned in his twitching arms. No sudden moves, right, right right . “Hiccup,” he repeated, then nodded toward the stranger. “You?”

The stranger’s head turned to the side, and Hiccup ducked his own to follow it, afraid to lose eye contact, afraid to sever whatever understanding they had in that moment. Something like amusement glinted in the stranger’s eye as he renewed his inquisitive squint. 

“ Jack .” The stranger shrugged, and the terror grunted at the movement. 

Hiccup felt like he won something big. Like he and Toothless beat an obstacle course at record time. He exhaled a laugh, his cheeks smarting from how hard he grinned. “ Jack ,” he attempted, the syllable harsh just behind his teeth. “ Jack .” Again. “Did I do it right?”

The stranger — Jack — regarded Hiccup, and his expression was definitely creased with amusement now, his hold on the terror relaxing, lips twitching like he might match Hiccup’s smile. Hiccup felt giddy. He knew he did it right, he knew it. 

He knew he judged Jack right. He was gonna do this right .

Hiccup should have guessed the moment they left the mead hall there would be an ambush. Jack was behind him, thank Odin, the terror toddling along beside, so Hiccup could shield the newcomer with his body as Ruffnut crowded their space, making grabby hands over his shoulder.

“ Gerroff .”

“Quit hoarding the new guy,” Ruffnut huffed, standing on her tippy toes. “We’ve been waiting forever .” 

She was yanked back by Astrid, who had her other first curled in Tuffnut’s tunic, keeping him at arm’s length. He could see Snotlout and Fishlegs just over Astrid’s pauldrons, their dragons play fighting on the grass behind them. The whole gang was here. Fantastic. Not threatening in the slightest .

Hiccup braced himself in front of Jack, keeping his stance wide, and began shuffling to the side. He felt Jack hover behind him — good. At least he wasn’t running this time. The first mad dash caused a stampede. “Listen, I need everyone to be cool about this, alright?” Fat chance, but he might as well say it anyway. “You need to give him space. He’s gonna run if you don’t.”

“Not like he can go far,” Snotlout added, crossing his arms. Helpful . “We have our dragons.”

“Not the point, Snotlout.” Hiccup just needed to get to his house. Get Jack bundled up in fur again so he could rest. Maybe the hollowness in Jack’s face was just Jack, but maybe it was exhaustion, and Hiccup didn’t want to risk assuming the difference. The guy nearly drowned .

“ Nooooo wait wait wait, Hiccup, hold on,” Tuffnut whined, twisting free and hopping on one foot until he stumbled to a stop in front of Hiccup. Hiccup halted, and Jack bounced off his back with a grunt. “We have.” Tuffnut waved his sister over. Narrowing her eyes, Astrid let Ruffnut go. “A Welcome to Berk dance.” Ruffnut nodded like her head was gonna pop off and whistled for Barf and Belch, watching interested from the sidelines, to back them up. “For our guests. Because we’re good hosts.”

“The best hosts,” Ruffnut insisted.

“Guys, not the time,” Hiccup said, shaking his head. “Jack is tired, he needs to—”

“ Jack ?” Fishlegs this time. “Is that his name? It’s unlike any name I’ve read of, I doubt it derives from any nearby tribes—” 

“Hiccup,” Astrid’s voice pierced through the din. “What did Stoick say?”

“Yeah, dad looked pissed, he told me Stoick was gonna let you handle it which can’t be true — ”

“ A-one, a-two, a-one two three four ,” Tuffnut hummed under his breath, checking behind him to ensure Barf and Belch were swaying to the right rhythm. Ruffnut opened her mouth wide and lifted her hand over her heart. Oh gods . 

Hiccup couldn’t be more relieved for Toothless’s timing. He pounced neatly between Hiccup and the rest of the crew, crouching low to allow Hiccup to mount his saddle. Hiccup scratched his earfins as thanks, “ you’re a lifesaver, bud ,” and raised his head. Jack had his gaze locked on Toothless. He wasn’t blinking. Hiccup held out his hand, aware the distraction wouldn’t last for long. “Jack?”

Astrid shouted something. Toothless flapped his wings once so the others couldn’t get close. Jack regarded Hiccup’s hand. 

A smile, a real one this time, not a tilt of the lips, lit up the boy’s face. All the shadows lifted from him entirely. 

He bypassed Hiccup’s hand, clumsily situating himself behind Hiccup in the saddle. Flying together like last time, but so, so different from last time — Hiccup felt an arm curl around his waist. And thank the gods, it was warm. Dry. Alive.

“Let’s go, bud!”

The boy whooped as they took to the air — and it was from excitement, not fear. Hiccup knew the difference.

They didn’t fly to his house. Not yet. An itchy feeling in Hiccup figured that’s where the others would be expecting him to go, and he loved their earnestness, he really did — but he recognized something in Jack he saw in himself. Jack would run, would fight, would grit his teeth and go until he burned out.

The boy seemed to have no sense of self-preservation, arms spread wide to feel the wind under them, stretching out his fingers as far as they’d reach. His knees bracketed Hiccup’s hips, but only lightly, and Hiccup knew Toothless would catch him if he fell, but it still made him nervous. Maybe he was accustomed to riding dragon-back? Was his hesitation earlier to mount the saddle about Hiccup ?

Toothless crooned, obviously getting an ego about their guest’s excitement. Without warning, he tucked his wings for a moment, Jack latching firmly onto Hiccup with both arms as the both of them floated above the seat as they dived. Toothless transitioned seamlessly into a barrel roll. Jack laughed as the world spun.

“Show off,” Hiccup muttered.

As Toothless righted himself, Jack leaned past Hiccup to pat Toothless’s head, next to his ridge scales, babbling something in his peculiar language. Hiccup could feel the thrum of his voice through his back.

Hiccup couldn’t figure him out. If he had flown dragons before, why did he appear so baffled at Berk’s cohabitation with them? His wariness and fear slipped almost immediately when a Terrible Terror landed herself in his arms, and Hiccup couldn’t imagine the guy being a dragon hunter. He lacked the viciousness, the grim resolve. Was he like Hiccup, the only boy who wouldn’t kill a dragon in his homeland, and was lost in awe at the revelation that change was possible? He certainly was built for the part, if Hiccup was any measure to go by. Was he friends with a dragon of his own? Was he — 

Hiccup turned his head to look back at Jack. He was beaming, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His hair was a windswept mess — somehow it looked more natural that way. 

Toothless landed on the tip of a thin pine tree, bending its trunk to support his weight. Not too far away was their pond. 

“Good flight, Toothless,” Hiccup told him. “Let’s take a rest, shall we?” 

They glided down to the pond, and Toothless bounded to his favorite spot, where a ring of earth was singed the most. Hiccup dismounted first. He held a hand out to Jack once more, who didn’t budge. The boy’s brown eyes were fixated on the sky, and he was breathing heavily, the tail end of a chuckle escaping. As he came back to himself, noticing Hiccup’s hand, a resigned veil slipped over his features, the corners of his mouth dropping slightly. Hiccup’s chest cramped up. 

His eyes were glazed with the same sadness Toothless had when his tail-fin prototype failed the first few times. Hiccup almost suggested they take off again.

Jack ignored Hiccup’s hand ( try not to think too hard about it ), but slid off Toothless’s saddle ( he did hesitate because of Hiccup, didn’t he? ) and landed gracefully, just as he had done bounding over the roofs of Berk. The kind of reckless gracefulness that one only acquired from confidence. Even when the landing was hard, he never paused to wince, just rallied and kept his pace. The more Hiccup observed his manner, the less he made sense of it. 

As soon as the boy’s feet settled on the ground, Toothless was up, curiously circling Jack. His earfins perked up and his pupils expanded to wide ovals. Jack chuckled as Toothless inspected him from a distance, warbling a inquisitive tune. Any wariness the pair harbored for each other seemed to have dissipated in the flight. Something tight in Hiccup’s chest began to unwind. 

“How rude of me.” Hiccup rested a hand on Toothless’s neck, and gestured between the two of them. “You haven’t been introduced. Toothless, Jack. Jack—” Toothless huffed, preened. “Toothless.”

Jack smiled. He raised a hand, searching — and Toothless knew the song and dance at this point. He bumped his nose into it, and Jack let out a laugh, rubbing his fingers on Toothless’s snout. He spoke in his own language, voice low, then — “ Toothless ,” he said, eyes flicking to the dragon for confirmation instead of Hiccup. Toothless snorted in recognition.

Yeah. Yeah . Anyone who respects dragons this much was alright as far as Hiccup was concerned.

“So uh,” he began, watching as Jack observed his surroundings. The pool was placid and still, reflecting the clouds crowding the sky. The boy did not move any closer, but stared at the water, idly petting at Toothless’s nose. “This is our spot. Me and Toothless, anyway. Not many people come by here, not even when we started training dragons. I mean, Astrid’s visited a few times, but this is our spot, y’know?” He trailed off, cringing at himself. “But you have no idea what I’m saying. So I don’t know why I’m talking.”

His sarcasm must have been obvious, because Jack turned his head away from the pool to raise an eyebrow at Hiccup. A smirk tugged at one side of his mouth. Hiccup felt a little embarrassed for being caught snarking.

“I mean — I know I don’t make any sense. I wish I could just — ugh .” After taking a moment to gather himself, Hiccup walked with purpose to the satchel attached to Toothless’s saddle, digging out his map. He spread it open on the ground, careful not to snag it on any twigs or stones. The charcoal from their last exploration two days ago was saturated the darkest, the rest already fading from use. Hiccup needed to go back over it all soon. Fix the smudged bits and render the islands he’s confident in the shape of permanently. Jack rested on his knees so peer over Hiccup’s shoulder. 

“Right. Um,” he waved his hand over the map. “Any of this…familiar? Maybe?”

Jack stared at him blankly.

“Okay, well…” 

On a scrap piece of parchment, Hiccup sketched a house. Slightly triangular, domed roof, simple lines. He motioned to the drawing, then to the map again. “ Þín heim ?” 

Jack took a beat. He snatched the parchment with the house from Hiccup with two fingers, then assessed the map, scooching closer to get a better look. Hiccup’s heart rate picked up, they were getting somewhere .

Slowly, Jack stood. Maintaining eye contact with Hiccup, he stepped back. And back. And back. Hiccup shuffled to one knee, wondering if he should follow, but Jack waved a hand to keep him where he was. He settled. Jack took another step backwards. Then, bending at the waist, placed the drawing on the ground.

Hiccup blinked at it, about three Toothless-tail-lengths away from where he was sitting. Jack shrugged, the arms of his ill-fitting tunic falling past his hands. He didn’t smirk, he didn’t squint. His face was open and sincere. 

“Oh,” was all Hiccup could think to say. “You’re.” He cleared his throat. Thousands of tiny wings fluttered in his head. They whispered something like possibility . “You’re a long way from home.” 

Beyond the map. Farther than Hiccup’s ever flown. Jack was from there . This means – it meant –

He realized he was pacing, unsure of when he got to his feet. “This…this changes everything!” Jack watched him with one eyebrow lifted and a hip cocked to the side. Not teasing, only — observing. Hiccup ran a hair through his hair just to do something with it. His hands kept grasping and flexing, and he wanted to hold something , like maybe his charcoal or Inferno, to expel all this energy somehow. “We have proof – you are proof – that there’s more out there! Outside the Archipelago! There’s so much we don’t know, so much we still need to discover. Jack! ” He stopped in front of the boy. “Jack, you’re the key to all of that!” He gripped Jack’s shoulders, grinning in a way he hoped told Jack things were going to be alright, that Hiccup would help him get home.

Jack flinched. Like he did when Gothi pat his cheek.

He didn’t take Hiccup’s hand, before.

Hiccup snatched his hands back, quick as striking flint. “Sorry.” 

Jack shrugged again, his smile a thin line, and slipped past him to the map. Toothless was lying on his ashy bed, head lifted and watching with curiosity. He mrrped at Hiccup when he turned around.

“It’s okay, bud. My bad,” Hiccup assured him.

Jack crouched over the map again. Traced the lines of Hiccup’s drawings lightly with his fingers. Hiccup was still buzzing. He looked down, noticed the drawing of the house under his prosthetic. He picked it up, folded it, stuck it in his gauntlet. Took a deep breath.

Focus . Keep it simple. Keep it true.

He kneeled across from Jack, who lifted his head as he drew near. Grimacing apologetically, Jack raised his hand palm-up to Hiccup, showing off the charcoal staining the pads of his fingers. Hiccup chuckled. 

“Who are you,” he asked, only partly to the boy in front of him.

“ Heim ?” Jack answered. Home ?

What. “What?” Hiccup responded, a bit late.

“Hiccup home?” Jack said again, and nodded to the map, and Hiccup understood. 

“Yes! Yes, this –” he jabbed an enthusiastic finger at the blob on the map signifying Berk, “ m í n heim . Berk.”

“Berk,” Jack replied, then craned his neck to look around – “Berk?”

“Yes! Yes, that’s right!”

Jack leaned back, gave Toothless a pat on his bicep. “Toothless.” Then, he lifted his arms, flapped him like he was imitating a bird.

“Toothless er m í n dreka ,” Hiccup pronounced his words slowly. “ Dreki .”

“ Dreki .” Dragon .

“Yeah!”

Jack scrambled to his feet, a kind of bubbly lightness to his step, and he was squinting again. His head whipped around, taking in the alcove. He bounded over to the rock ledge, slapping it hard. He was grinning huge, almost like he did while Toothless was flying, and that felt like a win. Proof Hiccup was doing something right. He exclaimed something in his foreign tongue, balancing on one leg. What is this?

“ Steinn ,” Hiccup shouted back.

“Stonn?”

“ Steinn. ” 

“ Steinn! ” Satisfied with his pronunciation a second time, Jack pointed to the pond. He made no move toward it. What is that?

“Lǫgr!”

“Lǫgr,” Jack said, thoughtful, like he was learning a secret. 

Jack hopped from object to object, dug around in Hiccup’s satchel to pull out his sketchbook and extra prosthetics, scavenged for pine needles and bundles of heather and even a bug or two. Hiccup assisted his search, prompting him to go over each word a couple times until his trilled R’s matched Hiccup’s. This went on until the alcove was awash with orange and pink, fine rays of sunlight peeking from under the dense clouds as it set over the pines. They were standing by the shield Hiccup had accidentally lodged between two boulders and never bothered to remove, even after years, weathered by rain and moss and ivy coiling up the metal rivets. 

“ Skjǫldr ,” Hiccup said, tapping the rim. 

Jack made a face. “Sk-skold —” he paused to mutter something incomprehensible, and rubbed at the back of his head and yawned. Then he blanched. Like he was surprised such a sound could come out of him.

Hiccup laughed softly into his fist. “You’ve had a long day. We should pack it up, yeah?” He gestured with his head towards Toothless, who at this point was napping flat on his back, mouth open, one hind leg sticking in the air. Jack nodded, sheepish.

Except – he needed to explain – Hiccup chewed at his lip. Shifted his hands to his hips. 

“Wait.” Jack regarded him. He didn’t always meet Hiccup’s eyes, he noticed. Either his gaze was directed over his shoulder, or too low, on his chin. “I’m gonna help you. No matter what. Okay? I’m going to help you get home.” He wanted to push the thought into Jack’s head by sheer willpower. “ Heimr ,” he repeated. It was the most important word.

In the sunset, Jack’s stark white hair could almost be a light blond. His brown eyes left Hiccup’s chin, skittered across his face. Hiccup wasn’t sure what expression he was making. He hoped it was enough. 

Jack turned to descend the boulders down to Toothless, then tilted his face towards Hiccup. “ Heimr ,” he said. Deeper than usual.

Maybe Jack did understand him. Maybe Hiccup’s conviction alone was enough. Maybe it was only an agreement, it is getting dark and we must go . Hiccup followed Jack down, rubbed at Toothless’s stomach to wake him up. The not knowing ate at him, made his chest constrict. Jack leapt onto the saddle behind him, and despite the bags under his eyes, there was a hunger in the way he looked at the darkening sky. Hiccup wanted to ask him what he was feeling. What he saw.

One day he’ll find the words.

Hiksti . Jack reminded himself. He titled his forehead into the boy’s shoulder so his auburn hair wouldn’t lash at his face. Tǫnnlaus was flying at a leisurely pace, but the wind nonetheless howled. The torchlight of the village sparkled in the distance.

No longer the stranger, the nightmare boy. 

Hiksti .

Chapter Text

Jack refused to sleep. He fought against his drooping eyelids and nodding head, pinching himself or biting the inside of his cheek every so often to snap him out of a daze. The dark, pleasantly cozy cabin he returned to, Hiksti’s home (his heimr, Jack reminded himself), did not help. The scratchy wool bedding was where he had left it in front of the hearth, which had burned down entirely. Tǫnnlaus restarted it with a spark of firey breath, a sharp missile of blue light, which Jack had to gawp at. At any point in the last few hours he could have been incinerated. The fact that he wasn’t, how he managed to charm this island of dragon-riding-warriors into sparing his life, he couldn’t fathom. His track record with the Guardians hasn’t been that forgiving.

Before returning to his loft upstairs, Hiksti left Jack a mug of well water on a bench beside his makeshift bed. 

Not all of them were warriors.

Jack splashed his face with a portion of the water, rubbing at his eyes. He couldn’t fall asleep. Not yet. He needed to find the silver dreamsand Sandy was searching for. It had to be here . Berk, a realm unknown to the Guardians, must be the source. 

He fidgeted in place, watched the fire flicker down to coals once more. Finally, when the cabin was quiet a long while, Jack got up to explore. The hearth was situated in the center of the home, its construction square, sturdy, and uncomplicated. Jack tried to make out in the ceiling where the smoke was escaping to, but all he could see in the dark were thick wooden beams carved with interlocking symbols and a dim, cool light emanating from Hiksti’s loft above the staircase. The room below the loft was shaded enough the glow from the coals barely reached it. He’d seen a door there, before — he creeped over the wooden planks, felt with his arms outstretched to find the heavy door and press his ear to it. Low, rumbling snores emanated from behind the wood. Hiksti did not live alone . Goosebumps prickled the back of Jack’s neck, and he debated whether the risk of creaking the door open and waking the mystery person inside was worth it to assess the threat level they might pose. It wasn’t a long debate. His palms left the door, and he backed away.

Jack considered the barest hint of light illuminating the loft. Hiksti’s room, with the window he took a plunge out of earlier. He could get a good view from there.

Biting his lip, Jack crept up the stairs, each light step causing the old wood to creak. He paused. He didn’t hear anyone stirring. He kept going. Peeking over the staircase, eyes just above the loft floor, he surveyed the area — and met Tǫnnlaus’s cat-like eyes from across the room. That was mostly all he saw of the creature, the dragon’s lithe form blending into the dark. He made no move, and so Jack didn’t either. Moonlight spilled through the open window. He glanced at Hiksti’s bed. Slight snoring and shifting, nothing more. Cautious, he passed over the threshold.

Tǫnnlaus watched him still. Wary, but not threatening. Not a nightmare after all , Jack remembered thinking, the dragon’s smooth scales under his palm. His deep, even breaths as he flew. Just fierce, when he needed to be. When Jack gave him reason to be.

He tiptoed past Hiksti, making a beeline to the windowsill. He spared a glance at the boy, half sprawled out of his woolen blankets despite the chill. His prosthetic was propped up against the foot of his bed, and the fabric of his long-johns flattened unnaturally at the end of his left leg. His face was mashed into the pillow, turned away from Jack. 

A faint growl rumbled from Tǫnnlaus, and he hurriedly resumed his walk to the window. Despite Jack and the dragon’s tentative truce, he knew Tǫnnlaus would not hesitate to snap his spine if he made one misinterpreted move towards Hiksti.

He stood at the windowsill again, squinting against the night. He tucked his hands inside the sleeves of his tunic to protect them from the chilly night air. Hiksti’s cabin was situated atop a hill overlooking the village, close to the mountainous hall the Chief and his advisors corralled Jack to hours before. If Jack stuck his head out and peeked around the wall, he could see a pair of massive statues framing the doors — horned warriors carved out of the mountain itself and bracing their weapons against the world, guarding the island and its people. Berk . Torches glimmered red from the various cabins and huts below. The ocean was a black stain beyond it, apart from the dim reflection of a half moon, when Manny deigned to pull back the thick curtain of clouds surrounding himself. Jack wrinkled his nose, glowered up at the celestial pain in his ass. Although he could no longer feel the presence of the Man in the Moon, his mortal body limited to mortal senses, he just knew Manny was hiding from him.

Jack turned his gaze away, eyes roaming the sleepy village, the spires of stone and twiggy trees, the dark ocean. He sat down at the lip, feet dangling over the side. Silver . Sandy told him silver…

“I thought dreamsand was a part of you,” Jack asked, bending down so he could be eye level with the Sandman. “How do you know it’s not yours?” 

Sandy laid a hand on his own heart.

Tǫnnlaus sidled up to him, a silent, inky shadow. Jack was only aware of the dragon’s sudden appearance next to him from an ambient heat emitting from his scaly hide. He glanced at the claws settled next to his right hand, followed them up the hefty front legs to Tǫnnlaus’s wide face. The dragon huffed, not unlike how he startled Jack yesterday, but this sound was clearly concerned. Maybe a little unimpressed. The dragon’s eyes were half-lidded, and his pupils were not huge, but oval enough to let the low light in. Tǫnnlaus turned his head away from Jack to regard the scene beyond the window, ear fins flicking. Lazily at attention, as if he was on watch for the same silvery light Jack was. 

The colors of Berk at night reminded Jack of coals from the hearth, burning low. Even the moon was tinted gold.

Jack’s head dropped suddenly, and he bit his cheek again. Barely felt the pain. He rubbed the crust forming in his eyes. Tǫnnlaus rumbled. Jack ignored him, searching the landscape again for any glint of a silver wisp, but could only make out blurry, vague shapes. A solid form at his shoulder. Tǫnnlaus, close enough for him to rest his head on. Weak, Jack did. 

Tǫnnlaus did not regard him, but kept his eyes front and focused, reminding Jack of a cat hungrily interested in a bird on the other side of a glass. Oddly, Jack was soothed by this. He knew Tǫnnlaus couldn’t possibly understand what Jack needed to find, but the vigil the dragon kept was comforting all the same. Jack felt a leathery wing shield his back. Waves of exhaustion tugged his eyes closed. This time no amount of willpower could open them.

Hiccup woke to the rasp of unfamiliar laughter.

He struggled to sit up, his eyes sealed together with sleep. The sound was coming from behind him, accompanied by the shrieky cackling that could only be from one source — the twins. Rubbing his face and reorienting himself so he was no longer tangled up in blankets, he swung his legs over the side, left them hanging. He bent over, patted along the side of the bed for his prosthetic — got it . What were the twins doing here? Who else was here, and why hadn’t Toothless woken him up if there was an intruder —

He turned to face the window. Oh .

Right.

Toothless rested in the patch of morning sunlight cast by the big landing window, and next to him was Jack, shoulders hunched over and watching something unfold below them. His whole upper half shook when he laughed, his voice settled in his chest, making it throatier than Hiccup would have expected from the look of him. He was casually leaning against Toothless’s neck, as if they’ve been fast friends for months, instead of merely hours.

He shuffled his prosthetic on before approaching them. His entire face felt crusty with sleep, and he wiped at the sides of his mouth before clearing his throat. Both Toothless and Jack turned their heads – Toothless, like he was expecting him. His footsteps weren’t exactly stealthy. Jack’s face was graced with a soft smile, but the deep shadows under his eyes hadn’t lessened in the slightest. Hiccup wondered if they were worse.

“Good morning,” he offered, plopping next to Jack on the sill. His voice cracked from lack of use. 

“Goothan morgan.” 

Hiccup blinked at him. “Almost. Góðan morgun .” He fought to keep his voice clear. Deliberate.

“ Góða –”

“ MORGUN! ” Ruffnut called from below. “So kind of you to join us.”

Hiccup glared at the twins, but he doubted its effectiveness with his bedhead. “This is my home. Where I live .”

“ Hiksti heimr! ” Jack pitched in, eyes lighting up at the word he recognized. Hiccup’s chest felt warm.

Tuffnut choked. “Did the newbie just say something real?”

“I think he did, brother!” Ruffnut wore a smile that showed off all her teeth. 

The twins were accompanied by Barf and Belch, although the dragon was mostly distracted by the massive canvas banner tied between the saddles on their necks. They tugged it in opposite directions, annoyed. In messy painted runes it read, CONGRATS ON BEING ALIVE . Barf hissed out some gas, and Belch struck their teeth to light it up, which then was followed by screeching and wild hand-waving at the flames from the twins. 

Jack lurched forward, shouting and sweeping out his arms, as if the force of his gesture would buffet the flames away. He careened over the edge of the landing, and in a smooth motion, Toothless caught the neck of his tunic between his teeth. Hiccup staggered to his knees, leaning beside Toothless to make sure Jack was alright; the boy dangled halfway down the facade of the building, and other than appearing a bit disgruntled, was unharmed. 

“You can’t keep doing that,” Hiccup wheezed, his frantic heart beginning to settle.

Barf and Belch rolled on the grass, suffocating the flame, and thoroughly ripping the banner to shreds. The twins mourned the loss loudly. Jack tilted his head up to catch Hiccup’s eye, and shot him a sheepish smile. 

What kind of person runs towards a fire like that? Hiccup recognized the irony as soon as the thought crossed his mind.

Toothless dropped Jack with an agitated rumble, letting the boy only fall a short distance to the ground. He landed on his feet, knees bent to catch himself with ease. With the stranger on the same level as them, the twins forgot the desolate remains of their banner. They began talking at Jack once more, their voices overlapping. 

Muttering a curse, Hiccup scrambled for Toothless’s saddle and proper clothing for himself. Leaving Jack alone with the twins wouldn’t kill him. Probably. He shuffled into a fur-lined tunic, belting it loosely — he would fix it later — and snatched his cloak off the ground for Jack. With winter fast approaching, the thin tunic provided to Jack last night to sleep in would not protect him against the chill. It was already too cold to leave the landing pad open as it was, but both Toothless and Hiccup treasured the fresh air and natural lighting. Forgoing the stairs, he gathered up Toothless’s prosthetic and saddle with the cloak, like tying a satchel, and straddled Toothless’s neck. The night fury took his cue and descended to the grass in a smooth glide. 

Barf and Belch, now free of their accursed banner, approached the stranger with curiosity. Belch snuck in to sniff at Jack’s white hair, which made the boy start at the unexpected closeness, whacking Belch in the schnozz, and Barf let out a wheezing rumble, obviously humored. Belch snuffed and retreated, but did not probe further. 

“You’ve won them over already,” Ruffnut told Jack. “Needy bastards. Don’t we give them enough attention?” 

“More than enough,” Tuffnut agreed, scratching Belch under the chin. The dragon warbled happily.

Jack glanced between them, lost, but an amused smile lingered on his features.

Now that he was within range to intercept shenanigans if necessary, Hiccup busied himself with tending to Toothless and donning his tailfin and saddle. After dumping everything he needed on the ground, he offered the cloak to Jack. The boy stared at it for a moment, blank.

“You should take it,” Hiccup said, giving the cloak a shake.

Jack did. He swooped it around his neck, fiddled with the clasp. It drowned his slim figure more than it did when Hiccup wore it. His pale head looked a little silly poking out of the dark brown fabric, the contrast striking.

He turned to the twins. “You guys are here early.”

“Never got to our Welcome to Berk demonstration,” Ruffnut griped. “Not much of an audience now, though. My solo is a triumph deserving of applause.”

“No audience could do it justice,” Tuffnut said, giving his sister an encouraging pat on the back. Then, as an aside to Jack, “my part is better.” He swung his arm out and wrapped it around Jack’s shoulders. The boy stiffened.

He was uncomfortable, Hiccup knew he was uncomfortable. His flinches, the restlessness in his gaze yesterday. But he didn’t flinch away from Tuffnut, or shrug him off. Was this alright? Was Hiccup misreading things? Was he only nervous around Hiccup — has he done something to upset him, or was he only being overly cautious yesterday because of how new everything was?

Jack was very still as Tuffnut continued to blab. He did not want to assume, didn’t want to overstep, but — just to check, just to be safe — Hiccup grimaced, tugging on Tuffnut’s horns to pull off his helmet. He grabbed for it with a shout, letting Jack go.

Jack’s shoulders relaxed. That was all the reassurance Hiccup needed.

“What was that for?” Tuffnut grumbled, shoving his helmet back on.

“Time for breakfast?” Hiccup asked, pivoting. Ruff and Tuff nodded in tandem. “We can show Jack the Great Hall.”

That made the twins brighten up.

They started off towards the mead hall, Hiccup tilting his head at Jack to tell him to follow. Jack did. He walked leisurely next to them — the boy had a long stride despite his height. Ruff and Tuff started to bicker, Hiccup wasn’t sure of what, Ruff sneaking a deft hand to pinch at Tuffnut’s nose. He swatted at her, grumbling “what’s with you guys picking on me today”, as she cackled — Jack joined in, his voice a rumbling note beneath her treble tone. 

In Hiccup’s head, he kept seeing Tuffnut’s arm around Jack’s shoulders. Gothi’s hand on his cheek. He replayed the image of Jack slipping past him to ride on Toothless, turning over each moment in his mind a thousand times. Jack’s hold on his waist. 

He thought of Toothless. He thought of being fifteen and certain he would get his hand bit off but reaching out anyway. He let Toothless make the choice. 

Hiccup gnawed at the inside of his cheek. 

Jack wasn’t sure what to make of Skarka and Harki at first. He’s pretty sure those were their names, anyway. They called each other “ systir ” and “ bróðir ” often but it sounded suspiciously familial and English until Hiksti greeted them in turn for Jack’s benefit. They had to be siblings, maybe even twins — their fox-like eyes, blond hair, and toothy grins mirrored one another's, and as Hiksti led them toward the hall at the highest point on the island, they constantly jabbed and tittered at one another. Sometimes Skarka would whisper to Jack, which was incomprehensible for reasons other than the language barrier, but it was clearly teasing, and her brother would get huffed up and offended until he was paid attention to again. Occasionally Jack would look to the side and be faced with a large, unblinking dragon eye, as one of the heads of Skarka and Harki’s double-headed dragon decided to crane their long neck from behind the group to inspect Jack closely. He kept a respectable distance between himself and the creature’s jagged underbite.

As they neared the hall, Jack tipped his face up to gawp at the stone statues of warriors. Stone teeth weathered, domed helmets peppered with what Jack assumed was tiny dragon scat. He pictured the therapy lizards crowding his space on the beach as if they were pidgeons or seagulls, squawking in the morning and stealing sandwiches on the beach. With a flourish of hands, Harki held open the door as they entered. It was the Stóra Salinn, Hiksti leaned close to tell him. What a mouthful. Most of their native tongue was a mouthful, all trilled R’s and vowels that sat heavy in the back of Jack’s throat. 

The Stóra Salinn was clearly important to Berk, with its intimidating entrance and interrogation table Jack sat at for the chief’s advisors and…it might also be a dining hall, of sorts? Very few villagers were present, and those who were supped at warm broth or gnawed idly on meat. Hiksti began passing out slabs of dried meat he retrieved from the cellar, husky and salty, reminding Jack of beef jerky. Tǫnnlaus warbled at him, annoyed he wasn't offered a slice, but turned his nose up when he got a closer whiff. Hiksti comforted the big beast, seemingly with the promise he could have all the breakfast he wanted later. The twins descended on their meat, tearing at it messily, then began regaling Jack again with their mouths full. Jack leaned back to avoid the spittle. 

He craned his head up, to observe the hall now that he was no longer worried he’d be dragon food. Dreki food. Dreka food? Jack wasn’t sure what the difference was — Hiksti had referred to dragons as both. The ceiling stretched up, and up, and up. Past the reach of the torchlight, into the rafters. Jack caught flashes of scales and blinking eyes, reflective in the dark. Dragons were embedded in this island’s bones.

When he came back to himself, there was someone new seated next to him at the table. A tall, heavyset boy, tufts of blond hair sticking out of his comically tiny helmet with dragon wings. Hiksti introduced him as Fiskifœtr , and he scooched closer to Jack, a little sheepish, but vibrating with a bubbliness and curiosity difficult for him to contain. Shyly, Fiskifœtr untucked one of his myriad of pouches on his belt to pull out a small deck of cards and pressed them into Jack’s hands. He began speaking deliberately slowly as Jack inspected the cards, turning them over individually with two fingers. They were made of stiff parchment, one side adorned with plain, uncomplicated symbols. The symbols struck Jack as eerily similar to a runic alphabet — what was it, Elder, Younger Futhark?  

The accent, the hefty weaponry, the decorative but robust knots and swirls carved into the architecture, the draconic wooden decals over every door — it clicked. This culture was indeed Scandinavian, an early settlement off the coast of Iceland, Jack guessed. Viking . 

Huh. He thought the Vikings-wearing-horned-helmets thing was a myth. 

He glanced quizzically up at Fiskifœtr, lifting the cards as an implied what are these for ? The boy clasped his hands together in front of his chest, seeming at a loss for what to say, in a manner he hadn’t already attempted.

Hiksti snuck a hand around Jack to pluck out one of the cards. He had produced a stick of charcoal from somewhere, Jack wasn’t sure (Hiksti wasn’t dressed in his armor getup from the day before, but that’s not to assume he didn’t have a myriad of utility pockets tucked out of sight). On the table, Hiksti laid the card out flat and began to draw next to the runes. Jack, the twins, and Fiskifœtr crowded around Hiksti to watch. It was a quick sketch, similar to the little house he had drawn the day before. A sheep, depicted as a puffy cloud with matchstick legs and big, goofy snout. 

Hiksti leaned back. “ Fær ,” he said, tapping the image. 

Flashcards . Fiskifœtr made him flashcards.

He had barely been here a day, and the boy had deduced he was struggling with communicating and had made this for him. Jack beamed at Fiskifœtr, overwhelmed. These beefy, intimidating, dragon-whispering Vikings were all a bunch of softies. Jack clutched the other cards tight to his chest and nodded rapidly to Fiskifœtr, who had begun scratching his stubbled chin and averting his gaze, clearly pleased with himself.

“Thank you,” he said, hoping his earnestness was felt through his tone. Then, “ Fær? ” 

The gang answered in a chorus of words Jack had come to associate with yes, that’s it, well done!

Jack rolled the word over in his mind. He spent a winter in Reykjavík decades ago, stirring up trouble with trolls, but never spent much time absorbing the language. The trolls were swiping folks’ socks, but only the left ones, and Jack couldn’t resist the thrill of the heist. It would be no fun to take from the townsfolk, as there was no danger of him being seen and caught — it was substantially more exhilarating to steal the socks back from the trolls. It was a battle for quite a while, but soon Jack grew bored and flittered elsewhere (he wasn’t sure whose pilfered socks were whose, so he dropped them off in random houses, next to the fireplace to keep warm. North chewed him out for inadvertently starting a trend and shouldering the Guardian with the responsibility of filling Christmas stockings every year. Jack had forgotten the holiday season, as he often did, with time as pliant and restless as it was — in his defense, he had no control over what mortals believed or made tradition). 

As was his nature, he never settled long enough in one place to become fluent in any language, not really. Nowhere apart from America, close to Hawthorne, where the English dialect he grew up speaking evolved with the endless turn of the earth and he evolved with it. Swapped his cloak out for a hoodie, swapped his thees and thines for you and yours .

As they wandered back out of the impressive Stóra Salinn and through the village proper, warriors cast inquisitive gazes in Jack’s direction, the twins causing enough of a ruckus to catch their attention — not that Jack’s white hair, his stature, his everything didn’t stick out like a sore thumb anyway. At each location they stopped, Harki gestured with his arms, speaking in a put-upon grandiose tone of voice. Fiskifœtr hovered, interrupting when he deemed it necessary. Likely correcting something. Jack could only nod, not understanding a bit of it, except for maybe…yes, he heard it that time. Steinn . Stone, rock. 

It was evident from the start Berk was a certified dragon paradise. The dragons’ needs were catered to with gusto and care, Hiksti and his crew proudly showing off the busy fly-through-dragon-wash and well ventilated leather tanning area for crafting saddles and reins, the nursery housing dozens of eggs carved into the cliff side, the vibrant paint of each building and dazzling scales of dragons stark and defiant against the dingy, gray ocean skyline. It was almost too spectacular, too dizzy for Jack to take in all at once. 

He found himself lost in thought at several points, wandering away from the group to get a better look at a decorative carving or villagers rebuilding burnt cabins. In the impressive dragon stables, he shuffled close to watch the iridescent scales of a thin, sharply accented dragon shift to camouflage into its surroundings. The creature preened its wings, but when Jack got too close, it narrowed his eyes into slits, smoke curling from its nostrils. He raised his hands in surrender and backed away. Tǫnnlaus finally got his breakfast at one of the troughs dispensing fish, and he happily munched on haddock with the twins’ two-headed dragon while the gang continued their trek through the village. When Jack had returned from watching a delicate egg hatch at the nursery, smiling so wide at the wonder of it all his eyes watered, the twins had found a chicken. The rotund, head-empty bird was tucked under Harki’s arm. 

Jack didn’t question it.

One of the last places they visited that day was what Jack could only liken to a gladiator’s arena, settled across a thin bridge on a rocky peninsula off the coast. It bothered him to be above the ocean as they crossed over, so he kept his eyes forward and focused on nothing but the tiny braids in Hiksti’s hair. The arena was an impressive scale, open air, and cut deep into the ground. Jack assumed spectators climbed the jagged cliffside for a better view or leaned over the edge, bracing themselves on the short barrier. It was bare apart from a few decorative flags spanning the edge – what was far more interesting were the competitors.

Jack recognized them. The blonde, stocky, dangerous-looking girl from when he first woke up rode atop a similarly dangerous-looking dragon. A crown of wicked spines rose from its head, its tail rose-stem prickly. The dragon had only two feet, from which massive clutching claws curled, but it was quick, darting back and forth across a makeshift obstacle course in the center of the arena. The other competitor wore a helmet with spiraled horns, black hair sticking out like straw around his ears. He wore a sneer, and his curled lip and square jaw patchy with stubble reminded Jack of Blackbeard. The dragon he was riding was tinged a rusty scarlet, and it slunk across the wall of the arena, gripping the porous stone with bat-like claws protruding from the joint of its wings. 

The twins whooped as they approached the arena, clambering to lean over the barrier and heckle the competitors. The chicken squawked, contributing to the noise. Jack ran up with them, breezing past Hiksti and Fiskifœtr to get a closer view. He caught himself before his torso completely cleared the railing. His mortal body had so much momentum . 

The obstacle course was littered with difficult terrain, the axes nailed blade-up and spears projecting from the ground. Scattered taller pillars provided some reprieve. This wouldn’t have been a problem to avoid for a dragon, given its capability of flight, but at the center of the razor-sharp maze was a cage bolted to the ground, made impossible to access from the air or to land on by gnarly barbed wire. In the cage was a ram, quivering in fear, its beady eyes wide and skittery. Blackbeard Junior was playing defense, circling Girl Danger from the air and spitting long tongues of flame whenever she got close to the cage. Girl Danger danced across the pillars, guiding her dragon to keep its wings tucked close to its body, only using them when absolutely necessary — it made her more of a target. Both her and her dragon’s gracefulness and purpose were captivating to watch, and despite the high-stakes game, Jack found himself hollering along with the twins whenever she made a tight escape from Blackbeard Junior’s onslaught or spectacular maneuver. 

Girl Danger had a clear shot into the cage – she went for it, claws outstretched – then faster than Jack thought was possible, Blackbeard Junior blocked her way, his dragon entirely self-combusting . Jack felt himself gasp, the shock sending him out of his body for a moment. Girl Danger’s dragon opened up her wings and buffeted backwards just in time to avoid the inferno. Her expression was frustrated, stray hairs clinging to her face with sweat, but not surprised. When the initial burst of flame died down, Blackbeard Junior and his dragon were there, still whole and (mostly) unburnt, but a constant wave of fire licked around its scales, originating from the dragon itself. Its eyes narrowed into horizontal slits and it growled, low and threatening.

Not counting his encounter in Pitch’s domain, it was the most fearsome thing Jack had ever seen.

The twins jeered, and Blackbeard Junior, after snuffing out a flame on the tips of his hair, jeered back at them. Jack felt a shift of air next to his shoulder – Hiksti had come to rest on the barrier next to him. The boy caught his eye, then pointed to Blackbeard Junior with purpose. “ Hornasi ,” he said, deliberate, then repeated the gesture to Girl Danger. “ Ástríðr. ” Jack grinned his thanks.

Their game didn’t last too long after that. Hornasi had clearly used his signature in an attempt to intimidate Ástríðr, but she was unfazed, returning to her mission objective with vigor. Deftly, her dragon snatched a javelin from the ground with its claws, tossing it up into her waiting hand. She feinted a throw, which Hornasi entirely fell for, then skirted past him, swooping into the cage and snatching the poor ram, emerging victorious from the other side. Jack yelled alongside the twins as she made her victory lap, raising her fists in the air, the ram dangling from her dragon’s hold. 

A sudden blast of white-hot heat against Jack’s front made him stumble back, falling on his rear. Hornasi’s dragon crawled over the edge of the arena, its flames still blazing over its narrow face, and it advanced on Jack. He scrambled back, gravel digging into the heels of his palms, his mind fading to white noise. When he was a spirit, heat was uncomfortable, but not unbearable – he had a tendency of depleting the temperature of any room he was in. As a mortal, the wall of heat scraped against him like sandpaper. 

Then it retreated. Jack took a deep inhale of clear air. And Hornasi entered his vision, staring down at him with a sneer. 

He scrambled to stand, pleased that at his full height the guy had to look up at him. 

“Try and intimidate me now, shortstack,” he cracked a nervous smirk, relief and adrenaline pulsing through him.

Hornasi’s face puffed up so his eyes were kind of bulgy and his cheeks tinged a deep red. He jabbed Jack’s chest, hard, shouted something he couldn’t understand. The guy definitely picked up on the insult, even if he didn’t understand it. 

“Not so scary without your freaky lizard, are you?” Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to rile up strangers with an affinity for slashing weapons and fire-breathing lizards, lizards that could ignite themselves on fire , but now that Jack felt in control of himself, he couldn’t wrangle his smirk away.

“ Hornasi! ” Before Jack could get poked again, Hiksti jankily inserted himself between the two of them. He waved his arms in his uncontrollable fashion, and Blackbeard Junior — Hornasi — backed off, if only to avoid getting an elbow in the eye. 

Hiksti babbled something, his voice taking on an exasperated edge, and Hornasi responded by wagging his jaw, pitching his voice up to a nasally cadence and parroting Hiksti’s speech back at him. The stare Hiksti sent him was somewhere beyond disbelief, his eyebrows hitching up so far on his head they disappeared beneath his bangs. Jack couldn’t help it. He chuckled. It was like watching the twins tease each other, except in the twins’ case they were both in on the joke. 

Jack’s voice caught Hornasi’s attention, and he snapped something universally clear in any language — “ what are you laughing at? ” which only made Jack commit to laughing harder. 

A raspy giggle echoed from behind him, and he whipped around to find the source. Ástríðr. Hiksti had noticed – he clutched a hand to his heart with a stricken expression – et tu, Brute ? She socked him in the arm, then for good measure, noogied Hornasi’s helmet. As she approached Jack, he almost expected to be caught in a headlock, but instead she held out her hand to shake. After staring at it for a moment like an idiot, Jack shook her hand, which was rather like attempting to shake an oak tree. She stared at him, baffled. Then took his whole forearm by his elbow and grasped it firmly for a moment before letting go. Huh . Jack tucked that one away for later. 

The sun was beginning to dip close to the horizon. On the other side of the bridge, Skarka, Harki, and Hornasi said their goodbyes, flying off to do whatever vikings with dragons do in the evenings. Hiksti, Ástríðr, her rose-thorn dragon, and Fiskifœtr stayed close to Jack, leading him back up through the village. Jack’s legs had begun to ache from the strain of being dragged from place to place all day. He frowned at them. Does being mortal mean he actually has to exercise for real? 

The group approached a squat series of buildings across from Hiksti’s home, overhanging the cliffside. A giant windmill turned steadily on the side of the cliff, its spokes visible above the curved roofs. It was mostly open air, a warm glow resonating from deep within, heated by a furnace brimming with coals. A blacksmith’s forge, mostly open to the elements. Jack wasn’t sure what the hanging sign shaped like a dragon’s tooth had to do with blacksmithing, but he didn’t have to wonder long. Spatula was hard at work, elbow deep in a lumpy dragon’s mouth. His prosthetic limb was replaced with a thin hammer, and he carefully tinkered away at a metal retainer wrapped around the dragon’s crooked back teeth. The creature was rotund and tiny wings sprouted from its back, seemingly too small to be useful. Its jaws were massive, dwarfing Spatula’s beefy arm, but the man whistled a meandering tune as he went about his work, unbothered. The dragon was obediently keeping its jaws open, but as Fiskifœtr approached it, it wagged its stubby tail like a dog and wrested free to greet the boy with a fond headbutt. The force of it only jostled Fiskifœtr, but would have crushed Jack’s ribs, he was sure. 

Spatula turned, cleaning the hammer of saliva with a spare rag. His gaze found Jack quickly, and his face lit up, his braided mustache accentuating his grin. Jack was glad to see him too. Spatula lifted his flesh and blood hand to clap Jack’s shoulder, and although he braced himself, the weight of it made him buckle slightly. Spatula laughed, his voice rather creaky, saying something to Hiksti and Ástríðr before making an aside to Jack, likely about the forge. Or about whatever he was doing with dragon teeth. Jack had no clue. If he gets back home, he’ll tell Toothiana all about Spatula’s area of expertise.

When , he reminded himself. 

When he gets back home .

As they entered the forge, he caught himself before he tripped over the thick tail of a sleeping mold-green giant — smoke puffed from the dragon’s snout as it snored, and Spatula shook his head at it fondly with a hint of exasperation. It looked similar to Fiskifœtr’s dragon, still outside visiting its master and Ástríðr’s dragon, with its lumpy body and stubby tail, but was longer and squatter. Hiksti led him past a table strewn with gadgets and gizmos and thingy-mabobs, interspersed with oversized dentist tools, and then Jack saw them. The Chief and his tiny wizened advisor, a tiny therapy dragon he recognized as the clingy one perched on her humped back. They were facing away from Jack and speaking quietly – or, at least, the Chief was speaking – deep in the forge, on a long wooden overhang above the cliff, next to the windmill. At the commotion, they turned their heads. The Chief’s expression immediately hardened enough to mirror the metal from the forge.

The urge to fly away struck Jack, his feet automatically attempting to kick off, which only made him stumble. Hiksti side-eyed him quizzically, and he recovered, averting his gaze.

The Chief and his advisor waited for them to approach. The little dragon with the chipped horn blinked owlishly from the advisor’s shoulder. There was no railing on the porch overlooking the cliff. They weren’t standing very far from it. What are heights to a dragon-riding society? What are heights to a winter spirit who until recently , didn’t care? 

The Chief leveled him with a serious stare. In the daylight, not in the shadowed Stóra Salinn, the man’s size was easier to take in. Jack was again reminded of North in his stature and build, although he had never seen a face this grave on North before. In comparison, the old woman’s height barely reached the man’s waist, and her eyes were soft, creased at the edges. He was struck with the feeling of looking in a funhouse mirror, like North and Sandy have been costumed and warped into entirely different people. Jack’s chest felt tight.

Hiksti stepped out from beside him, planting himself in the middle of Jack and the Chief. He moved his hands back and forth between them, slow and deliberate. He emphasized Jack’s name, then – “Jack, þetta er Durtur hinn Digri. ” His face screwed up a little, as if in apology. “Faðir…mínn .”

Faðir . 

The twins had referred to each other as systir , bróðir. It wasn’t much of a logical leap from there.

This was Hiksti’s father? Hiksti’s dad was the Chief of Berk ? 

The two couldn’t have more comically different silhouettes, with Durtur built like a mountain, fearsome and looming, and Hiksti built similarly to Jack, if not lankier. Now that he was studying them, however, they did have the same shade of auburn hair — although Durtur’s beard and thick, single braid was threaded with wispy gray and silver.

“Hiksti, you could’ve warned me you were royalty,” Jack quipped before he could stop himself. “I mean. Uh.” His eyes skittered nervously over Durtur’s unamused face. Should he bow? Jack didn’t really feel like bowing. Not a bowing type of guy. Were Vikings bowing guys? “Durtur. I’m Jack. Don’t, uh. Kill me. Thanks?”

Hiksti winced. Great. His awkwardness was universally palpable. 

After a tense moment of consideration, in which Durtur cast an unreadable look at Hiksti, Durtur extended his arm. It was about five times the size of Jack’s own, and rippling with muscle. Jack, remembering the greeting Ástríðr had demonstrated, took Durtur’s forearm, and tried to grip as firmly as he could. If the Chief was appeased by the return of the custom, he didn’t let on. He released Jack’s arm with a stern nod.

Not a welcome, not a condemnation – just an acknowledgement of Jack’s existence.

Hiksti breathed a sigh of relief. Jack felt like he passed an arduous trial by the skin of his teeth.

He felt a tug on his cloak, and he looked down to see the advisor smile up at him, close-mouthed. The little dragon used her arm as a bridge to climb up Jack’s torso, and he came face-to-face with a familiar buggy stare. The creature puffed hot air across his face, forcing him to screw his eyes closed, but he remained stock-still as the dragon found a comfortable cradle in his arms. He heard a soft chuckle at his side, and he squinted an eye open to see Hiksti failing to hold back a grin.

“You gonna keep an eye on me, huh?” Jack said, allowing himself to pet at the little beast’s crown. It trilled in response, settling into a purr. “Keep me company so I don’t freak out? You’ve got your work cut out for you, then. I’ve got so many reasons to freak out.”

He glanced back and forth from the advisor to the dragon, hoping the question was clear in his raised eyebrows. “Who is this, then?” He tapped its broken horn with a finger. “What should I call you?”

The old woman only tilted her head, unspeaking. Jack suddenly felt like an idiot. He almost wished for swirling dreamsand to appear over her head in shifting patterns he could decipher.

“I’ll uh –” Jack cleared his throat. Everyone was watching him. Expecting – he wasn’t sure what they were expecting. “I’ll call you Gizmo. Is that cool? I’ve been giving everybody silly names in my head.” Gizmo kept purring. Jack supposed he’d have to work at getting the dragon to recognize its new name. For as long as he was here, that is.

He realized Hiksti was speaking quietly with his father, retrieving Fiskifœtr’s flashcards from his tunic sleeve. There was a pocket in there too? Ástríðr stood with her arms crossed, just as authoritative as the man twice her size next to her.

“Jack,” Hiksti said, pulling out a card and showing it to him. The sheep. 

“ Fær ,” he offered after scraping his memory, sifting through everything he had seen that day. All the wonderful, frightening, baffling things.

Hiksti made an affirming noise, then took out another card – he must have been doodling on them all day. This one was easy. “ Heimr ,” Jack said. “Means home.”

Hiksti grinned, bright and excited. He gestured to Jack as if showing off a prize, look at how much progress he’s made , and Jack flushed under the calculating gaze both Durtur and Ástríðr pinned him with. Fiskifœtr appeared out of thin air from behind Jack, babbling in a way that matched Hiksti’s enthusiasm. The two began to ramble in earnest to one another, Jack caught in the middle, shifting his gaze back and forth between them. Hiksti kept waving the flashcards, unable to reign in his expressive arms, and Fiskifœtr held his fists up close to his chest, shaking them as he agreed with HIksti and added to the dialogue. After about a minute of this, Durtur pinched the bridge of his nose and commanded silence with one definitive, booming word. Hiksti and Fiskifœtr froze mid-epiphany. 

Everyone turned to Jack.

From that point forward, Jack’s lessons in Norrǿna began in earnest. 

“Aaaaand this is my hut,” Snotlout said, proudly patting the side of the building with a beefy arm, then gesturing towards the rune adorning the facade with a flourish. “See? Sól . For Snotlout. And Spitelout, I guess.”

Hiccup checked Jack’s expression — he appeared somewhat baffled but his grin hadn’t lessened. He craned his head to look up at the rune, taking it in. 

“This might actually be a good learning opportunity,” Fishlegs said to Hiccup. He began scribbling in his freshly bound notebook. It was brimming with notes and lesson plans. “Hey, Jack!”

Fishlegs fell into an animated talk with Jack, pointing at his diagram of the runic alphabet in his book and to respective members of their group - which then devolved into everyone on the floor of Snotlout’s hut trying to teach Jack how to write their names in Fuþark. 

This was a daily ritual for the group — dragging Jack around the village and bombarding him with new words to memorize. Hiccup and Fishlegs had planned to gradually get him accustomed to the way Norrǿna sounded, how to form words and pronounce them before delving into constructing sentences. He hoped the sheer magnitude of it didn’t overwhelm him, but the boy seemed to take it all in stride, his wit razor sharp and eager to learn. 

“No listen, if you draw the six vertical lines first, you can connect them with diagonals like this—”

Astrid huffed. “Snotlout, you can’t teach him the fancy way to write sól first, he has to learn the basics—”

“I can, because it looks cooler .”

Hiccup gave up after a while of listening to his cousin bicker and began doodling on his own sheet of parchment. Nothing too complicated, just interlocked patterns around the edges. While Astrid and Snotlout were still arguing about the merits of the Jorgenson method of writing sól , Jack sidled up to his shoulder and watched his charcoal scratch across the parchment. Hiccup caught his eye, rolled his eyes at his friends. Jack chuckled in response. His arm rested against Hiccup’s — Jack didn’t seem to notice it. Not when he initiates the contact. Hiccup couldn’t help but linger his gaze on where their shoulders met when Jack was distracted by Tuffnut’s sudden soliloquy about the long, sordid history of Thornston legal documents and loopholes. 

After Jack had successfully written all of their names, with Hiccup’s helpful doodles of each person’s face below them, Snotlout proudly nailed the parchment above the fireplace. 

“Should get it framed,” Tuffnut mused.

“It’s a modern art piece,” Ruffnut agreed.

Jack poked Hiccup’s shoulder, then flapped his hands like he had done when — “The runes for dragon, next?” Hiccup asked.

“ Drekey ,” Jack agreed, his pronunciation confidently incorrect.

The crew didn’t emerge from the cabin until well past suppertime.

It was close to midnight when Hiccup realized Jack hadn’t written his own name. He supposed there would be no equivalent runically, but then again, they did not think to try. He sat up in bed. Considered for a moment whether Jack would be asleep. Likely not. The past few nights he tended to wander, often to visit Toothless and stargaze. Or just sightsee – he and Toothless mostly kept their gazes fixed on the horizon, the forest, or the village. It was unsettling and tense, but Hiccup couldn’t pinpoint why. Despite his curiosity, he resisted joining them. It was important, he told himself, that Jack and Toothless got along. It just was.

Hiccup shuffled into his prosthetic, grabbed his sketchbook, and crept down the stairs. Toothless cracked his eye to watch him leave, but rolled over on his other side with a grumble.

He was right — the boy was awake still, watching the coals in the hearth with glazed eyes. His head snapped up as Hiccup’s prosthetic clunked loudly against the wooden stairs. “Sorry,” Hiccup winced. Jack just shrugged.

He made his way over to the hearth, sitting cross-legged next to him. He plucked at the cover of his notebook. “I was thinking,” he began, “if you would like to write your name? I’d like to learn how.”

Hiccup wrote his own name first on a blank sheet, passed it over to Jack. Jack raised an eyebrow at him, and copied the runes exactly. 

“No, not mine. Yours,” he said, and pointed to Jack with two fingers. “Yours, Jack.” 

Jack hesitated, but soon renewed his grip on the charcoal and began to write. He leaned over the sketchbook and Hiccup ducked his head to watch.

The writing was familiar, yet strange. The runes were sometimes curved, sometimes rigid. The sizes of the runes changed, with the first much taller than the others. Jack wrote loosely, and some of the lines of the runes connected together. He was done quickly. It was a simple name.

He offered the charcoal back to Hiccup and he took it. He tried to repeat Jack’s motions on the parchment as best he could. Jack . It felt more like he was drawing than writing. He drew it a few times more until he was satisfied with how closely it resembled the original. He wasn’t aware of the crease in his brows and his tongue sticking out as it does when he’s concentrating until he looked up to see Jack watching him intently, brown eyes dark and closed smile relaxed. Embarrassed, he stuck his tongue back in his mouth. His discomfort must have been obvious, because Jack began to laugh quietly, crows feet forming at the edges of his eyes.

Jack was leaning up against him again, pressing against his left arm. Hiccup kept drawing, making an effort to only use his arm from the elbow down, as to not shake Jack off. Below one of his attempts to write Jack’s name, he began sketching out a body — a crooked, impish stance. Jack’s hair was difficult to capture as a drawing, messy and too short to braid, but a few scratchy lines would be enough for now. He added dark folds to his cloak to emphasize the weight, particularly where a hand was raised to wave. Tilt his mouth just a bit. There. It was a serviceable caricature. Hiccup had done better, more accustomed to drawing dragons than people.

Jack took the charcoal with a deft hand. Hiccup let him, raising an eyebrow. Jack raised one back. Leaning over Hiccup’s lap, Jack added a heavy line, crossing it over one of his hands and curving it at the top. When he sat back, Hiccup could get a better look at it. 

It was a shepherd's crook. The kind they have to corral the sheep into their pens at night. 

Hiccup’s mind spun like mad. He gaped, wresting together the words, the right words, to ask is this something you lost? Is this something you need? Then to translate those words into gesture, into pantomime, into sheer willpower. Hiccup wished, not for the first time, that Jack could just look at him and get it . Because this — this shepherds crook, this simple line — it was part of Jack, at one point. He added it like it was an essential piece of him, like Hiccup and his prosthetic, like dad and his helmet, like Gobber and his mustache. 

Like it’s what made him recognize himself in the drawing.

Jack was watching him. Watching the gears turn in his head. He smiled, his lips tugging to one side, and he shrugged, as if he was self conscious about what he drew, as if he didn’t just drop a tantalizing fact about himself in front of Hiccup without warning. Jack tapped the side of his own head twice with his index finger, then shook his whole hand out, scrunching up his face as he did so. 

“You, I’m thinking about you, moron,” Hiccup felt himself say, but not process. He shoved at Jack’s shoulder, taking the charcoal from him once more. Jack didn’t flinch, just chuckled. Hiccup traced the crook lightly with one end. Glanced at Jack with his best what does it mean, what does it all mean face .

Jack only shrugged helplessly back at him. 

It wasn’t a non-answer. It was an I don’t know how to tell you . Which is fine. Wasn’t like it was going to haunt Hiccup’s every waking moment or anything.

Hiccup rolled his eyes. Jack dropped his jaw in mock-offense. A small skirmish broke out over possession of the charcoal, but Jack ultimately won out because he blew in Hiccup’s ear. He staggered back, rubbing at his ear with his shoulder, and Jack yanked the sketchbook from his grip. 

“That’s cheating,” Hiccup grumbled, and poor sportsmanship must be universal, as Jack sent Hiccup a self-satisfied grin in response, squinty eyes and all. He flipped the sketchbook open to a random page, and Hiccup winced at his earlier sketches of hobblegrunts when he didn’t understand how the crest on their heads were structured. The anatomical studies got better, more sure as Jack turned the pages, keeping his fingers close to the edge of the parchment to not smudge the drawings. Deadly Nadders, Whispering Deaths. An anatomical rendering of a Timberjack’s wing claw. Hiccup’s scribbled runes taking note of every detail. Jack paused at a doodle of Stoick and Gobber, fumbling with tiny tools in their meaty hands. And hook. They were depicted more simply than the dragons were - thick lines, blocky silhouettes. A shapey beard and exaggerated scowl.

“I’m not very good at people yet,” Hiccup tried to explain. Jack tipped his head. Hiccup motioned to the drawing and emphasized a wince. “Dragons are more interesting.” Jack regarded the doodle with a gentle close-mouthed smile, then turned the page. He scooched closer to the fire, which was beginning to dwindle, in order to catch light on the parchment. He kept browsing, lingering over each sketch. Hiccup fidgeted, fighting the pride and satisfaction building in his chest. “I like that one,” he told Jack, pointing to a sketch of Hookfang. His jaw was unhinged, fire sparking in his throat, about to be unleashed. Jack grinned at it, shooting Hiccup a glance that could have meant anything but maybe it meant I can see why , eyes crinkling at the corners. He did not move on from that sketch for a long while. 

Astrid and Gobber liked his drawings. They complimented him on his inventions and accomplishments, and were confident in his ability to draft just about anything. His role as an innovator and naturalist in Berk earned him respect. His art served a function. His dad, sometimes, offered a gruff “ looks nice ” when he peered over Hiccup’s shoulder at whatever draft he was workshopping. 

Jack, though. Jack raked his eyes across each page, lingered on every detail, even if it was just a stupid sketch, even if Hiccup drew something for fun, like the doodles of Stoick and Gobber. He grinned and pointed out details that caught his eye, flicked his gaze to Hiccup to say without words what he thought of it. Hiccup’s face heated up watching him pour over the sketchbook, and he was too far away from the hearth to blame it on the fire. He just felt a bit exposed. Like every time Jack turned a page over he shone light on another side of Hiccup no one else knew about. Hiccup wanted to draw him something. Something he’d really like, something he would spend time admiring, that look in his eye. Hiccup wanted to draw Jack , as he was, shadows cradling his face as he curled over the sketchbook. The sudden urge made Hiccup feel selfish.

He cleared his throat, suddenly dry. “Um. I should really — I should really hit the hay.” Jack regarded him, tearing his eyes away from a drawing of Toothless’s improved tail prosthetic. He was examining the parchment so close his nose was lightly dusted with charcoal. Hiccup grinned. “You’ve got —“ he imitated dusting off his own nose. 

Jack went cross eyed, then swiped a thumb across his nose, only smearing the charcoal. He blinked at the smudge on his thumb, horror dawning on his face. He snapped the book shut, offering it back to Hiccup with an apologetic grimace. Something in Hiccup’s stomach lurched at the gesture.

“No, no, hold onto it,” Hiccup chuckled, pushing it back. Jack frowned at him. “I’ve got more where that came from, so. I can show you, sometime.” He’d really like to. 

Jack didn’t look convinced. Too many words for him to understand. Hiccup gave the sketchbook one last shove with the tips of his fingers, then went to stand, making his point. Before ascending the stairs, however, he paused. Jack had the book back open, accepting that it was alright for him to keep it, but was watching him leave. Hiccup couldn’t quite make out his face.

“ Góða nótt ,” he told him. Goodnight .

Jack’s teeth glinted in the firelight as he smiled in return. “Gootha nott,” he butchered. Hiccup acknowledged it with a nod, but didn’t correct him. It was enough.

The fog was thicker than porridge when Jack woke up, about a week into his surprise vacation in Berk. He resisted the call of the warm, dry hearth, and tugged Hiksti’s cloak tighter around himself. Jack Frost, warming his hands over a flame. Bunny would laugh until he fell over. The shutters of the landing window were completely closed during the night now, so Jack couldn’t keep vigil with Tǫnnlaus over the village. Heat needed to be preserved in earnest. Typically, Jack was eager for a drop in temperature – winter was his domain, after all – but trapped like this in mortal flesh, his explorations were limited by the oncoming snow.

It had been several days since Hiksti had shown Jack his sketchbook. Jack liked to fish it out during the afternoon when everyone was busy with their own duties, leaving Jack to study his flashcards. Sometimes, in the rare times he was left truly alone, he’d slip into the woods, unpracticed at being stealthy about it but no one seemed to notice. He’s made good progress sweeping the area for clues to the north of Berk, marking his path with discreet cairns.

This morning, however, he was headed East. 

The fog clung to his clothes as he walked towards the sheep pastures, and his bare feet and leggings were soaked. By the time he noticed he’d forgotten his boots, hand-me-downs from Ástríðr, he’d gone far enough from Hiksti’s cabin that it felt pointless to turn around. Would be a brief outing, then. 

A huff of hot air hit Jack’s heel. He started, looking down to see Gizmo tottering beside him. He chuckled. “You’re a sneaky girl, aren’t you?”

Gizmo acknowledged him with a mismatched, slow blink. As if she was amused Jack was just noticing this about her. The Hroða Hroða , which Fiskifœtr had told him was her species, continued to skulk in the grass, matching Jack’s gait. 

“I think you like making me jump,” Jack mused. “I think you do it on purpose.”

Another huff.

They reached the pasture from the top ledge. Sheep parted for Jack, or rather, they parted for Gizmo. The pastures were so barren that from there, Jack could survey the eastern ridge of the island – if the fog wasn’t in the way. Spires of stone and spindly trees loomed in the distance, faded behind a curtain of mist. Jack gnawed at his lower lip. “I didn’t plan this well,” he told Gizmo. 

Gizmo was stalking a ram, and sniped fire at its hooves, evaporating the mist for a moment before it filled back in. The ram bleated and shuffled away. Gizmo struck again, this time singing the wool on its back legs. The ram bucked, galloping off. Before Gizmo could pursue it, and before Jack could reign her in, her head perked up at the distinct sound of massive wings buffeting the air. Jack looked up, too.

Tǫnnlaus landed on a patch of grass to the right of Jack, sheep bleating and scattering to make way for the imposing dragon. Hiksti swung off his back, as graceful as he ever was, which was about the same as a seal out of water. He wasn’t dressed in his armor, but in loose, layered clothing strapped with a single belt.

“Aren’t you cold?” Jack asked, jogging to meet him. “ I’m a bit chilly, and that’s saying something.” He gestured to Hiksti’s attire and mimed a shiver. Hikski’s hair was a bit rumpled. What had gotten him up in such a hurry? “You alright?”

Hiksti hesitated for a second, then pointed bluntly to Jack’s bare feet, damp blades of grass stuck to his skin. He leveled a deadpan stare, which startled Jack enough he barked a laugh. “Yeah, I guess we’re both a bit underdressed.”

Gizmo pattered over to Tǫnnlaus, getting right up in his face, making him rear back on his hind legs in surprise. Gizmo yapped, then with a hectic and joyful skittery motion, bounded off a few paces into the grass and took flight. She paused when she had gotten a good distance away, then turned around expectantly to Tǫnnlaus, wings jankily flapping in the air. Tǫnnlaus rolled his eyes. 

“I think Gizmo’s getting out the zoomies,” Jack smirked apologetically, half shrugging to the dragon, who regarded him with a similarly exasperated air. Hiksti gave him a good natured shove. He said something with an edge of teasing to the dragon and Tǫnnlaus seemed to understand he was on babysitting duty. 

Before Tǫnnlaus lumbered off, however, Hiksti leaned over the saddle to untie something attached to it. He stood upright, holding a long wooden shepherd’s crook with both hands. Jack’s stomach swooped at the sight of it, the absence of his own staff suddenly obvious, the wound it left ripped open anew. It was dark, cured with some kind of wood stain that made it slightly shine. The curved hook at the end was delicate, much rounder than the snarled hook of his staff.

What had Hiksti brought this for?

He found himself unable to tear his eyes away from it, and Hiksti shuffled a bit under the scrutiny. Then the boy began to speak, his voice a higher pitch Jack recognized as nervousness. 

Hiksti took a few steps forward. Lifted the crook so it was horizontal, and presented it to Jack, palms up. Like he — it was —

“ Það er gjǫf ,” Hiksti offered. “ Ef þú vilt það .” 

It was for him.

Jack gripped the smooth wood of the crook. It was slimmer than his staff – less gnarls and texture. It was sturdy, though, carved and weighted for a purpose. Intricate carvings of interlocked rings and dragon scales curled up the side. He slid his hands down each end, giving it an experimental twirl. Hiksti watched him handle it with a searching expression. He kept biting the inside of his cheek and flicking his gaze from the crook, to Jack, and back again. 

“ Gótt?” Hiksti said, a lilt to the end of his voice indicating a question. The word was familiar. Good? 

Jack was already smiling. He wasn’t sure if he could stop. Excitement sparked up Jack’s arms and he wanted to leap to the top, perch on the crook like he would with his staff, but awareness of his mortal state prevented him from going for it. It would not hold him, he knew. He continued to wave the crook in methodical patterns. It was balanced, like a sword. Hiksti had chosen this. He had chosen this for Jack – why? Because of the drawing from days ago? It must be from the drawing. How else would he have known? Jack never asked for it. Hiksti noticed anyway. 

The boy had started to ramble without Jack cutting him off. He was scratching the back of his neck, his other hand waving around to emphasize words Jack couldn’t decipher. His nasally voice was pitched up and breathy, caught in nervous laughter. As far as Jack was concerned, Hiksti had nothing to be nervous about. He snagged him by the neck with the hook, drawing him down to press his forehead against Hiksti’s in gratitude. In his enthusiasm, it was more of a bonk.

“ Gótt ,” Jack assured him. “ Hiksti .” He was confident in his pronunciation this time.

“Oh,” Hiksti breathed. He blinked rapidly, but his hunched shoulders fell in relief. “ Þú líkar þat?”

Jack nodded, because it felt right. Hiksti smiled at him, then, a reserved but pleased smile, his teeth peeking out over his lower lip. 

Satisfied with this reaction, Jack pulled back, releasing the crook from Hiksti’s neck. He swept it in a wide arc over the terrace, enjoying the feel of the wood in his fingers. His staff was an extension of him, as much as his powers or memory was, and this crook could not replace that sensation, not completely – but it was a cool balm over the wound. For the first time since washing up on the shores of Berk, Jack was steadied. 

Nearby sheep narrowed their eyes with suspicion at the crook, wandering further away to munch on turf. Hiksti had crossed his arms, leaning on his good leg, watching Jack fiddle with his gift.

“You don’t know how much this – why this means so much to me,” Jack found himself saying. Hiksti didn’t answer. How could he? “I don’t know how to thank you. If I had my powers…I could ask the winds to lift you up, fly you further and faster than you’ve ever flown. I’d make you a snow day.” It was useless to explain, and Jack was at a loss at how to pantomime. He shook his head, attempting to rid himself of the awkwardness and giddiness building inside him. “I just. Thank you.” He took a grounding breath. “ Thank you , Hiksti.”

At the sound of his name, Hiksti perked up. His eyes were soft. He seemed to get it, crossing his arms and tucking his chin to his chest with a smile.

Weirdly, Jack felt lucky. Lucky that despite all that could have gone wrong, crash-landing on an island like Berk, the language unfamiliar and the inhabitants fearsome, dragon and human alike – not to mention the mortality rendering him useless – Hiksti was there for him. He cared.

It would take an eternity to thank Hiksti the way he deserved. But Jack would. 

One day he’ll find the words.