Chapter Text
"Your council has no jurisdiction over me." The man spoke quietly, but his voice carried like a ripple of fire and spread its tendrils across the entire hall, smoke choking the lungs of every one of the great and noble chiefs of the Barbaric archipelago. None of the other chiefs knew exactly what had happened on this island 15 solstices ago, but not even the thickest of them hadn't managed to pick up the basics. The blaze that'd lit up the island had been visible for miles, and the brutal condition the bodies had been in when a search party finally visited the island, twisted black metal blades sticking out of the heads of the half-charred chiefs, painted a pretty good picture. Somebody, someone cruel and cunning, someone who'd spun shadows and monsters to do his bidding had it out for them.
Someone like this man perhaps, although he didn't look like much.
He hadn't moved from where he'd landed when the Berserker guards had thrown him upon the floor in the centre of the hall. He was kneeling still, body held up by the arm he'd braced under himself. He'd spoken Norse with a clipped, careful accent, but not as though he was born a foreigner. He knew the words he was saying, but each vowel carried the slope of a different island, every word curving around a different strait. He was wearing a mask still (typical Berserker incompetence, particularly under the current leadership), a flimsy piece of metal and leather with only two holes for eyes, eyes that seemed to be trying to bore holes through all six chief's heads at once. His clothing was loose, those of a tradesman not a soldier; but with sleeves rolled up past his elbows to show the kind of patchwork of scars you only got from surviving a lifetime of war. They were trophies only the finest of warriors carried into Valhalla. It matched the heavy, almost angry set of his shoulders if nothing else of him. He had no space for a sword at his belt, the kind of narrow build that wasn't useful for anything, and those creepy ass eyes as sharp and piercing as a dragon's even with the mask and a curtain of shadows cascading over them.
And yet, somehow, this walking fishbone had snuck his way onto the most heavily guarded island on the archipelago, on the night when its security was at the max.
He couldn't have done it. Not unless he had help. Not unless this man, who had something cruel and cunning and ruthless about him was working with (or for) someone much much more cruel and cunning and ruthless.
And really, there was only one man that cruel, that cunning, and with enough reach to even touch the Barbaric Archipelago.
Drago Bludvist, back after 15 years.
Odd of him to send the human equivalent of a charred, declawed terrible terror to do his bidding.
Belittling too.
"You are on our land." Vladimir said, leaning forwards in his throne. Even from three chiefs down Stoick could smell the alcohol pouring off his breath (the Visithug had a permanent spot at the far-left end of the table, nearest to the window (that had been made 47 council meetings ago when Overbeedin the All-knowing had thrown Vladimir's grandfather through the wall) in hopes that the smell of their 'Vodka' would not knock out anymore Peacable chiefs). His great axe lay splayed across the table in front of him, a show of power that most of the other chieftains had done away with. Most of the other chieftains also had more than two thoughts to knock around in their heads, which may aid them in the whole decision-making thing. Stoick was surprised Dagur hadn't been the first to speak, but the still fresh-faced Berserker was instead looking at the newcomer with almost rapt attention, a gleeful smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. Vladimir went on, "Without invitation or purpose. You are lucky to have been bought in alive."
Alyah put a calming hand on his shoulder from the Peacable tribes neighbouring seat. She sat herself taller in her seat, looked down her nose at the intruder. "You speak our tongue as a birthright. That cannot easily be hidden by foreign clothes or accents."
The boy still did not move, did not seem bothered to get on equal speaking ground with any of the chiefs, or even with the two guards who still stood beside him. He tilted his head on its side, eyes narrowed and mouth twisting up into something that felt too knowing. He was unarmed and surrounded, kneeling on the ground. There was nothing for him to be cocky over.
"I speak the dragon's language just as well as I do Norse. Yet not one of you has accused me of being a deadly nadder."
Perhaps he had that to be cocky over.
If it was true.
"You're clearly not a dragon, boy." Stoick said, didn't feel the need to raise his voice when he already knew that everyone was sitting on the very edge of their seats waiting for his every word. There was only one man who could communicate with dragons. Drago Bludvist again. "Get a pair of wings and then I might change my tune."
From further down the table Dagur let out a high-pitched giggle. Stoick ignored it. The day he listened to a single thing that mad little red-headed freak had to say would be the day he stepped down and handed the throne of Berk to a Jorgenson.
From the seat to Stoick's right, the seat that every other chief had dedicated to an heir (except for Dagur. Dagur had an obscenely (unnaturally) shiny double-ended mace in his because he believed that declaring an heir was going to get him assassinated Roman style and that if he didn't get assassinated, he would live forever), Gobber was suppressing a smile of his own. Stoick didn't like it.
"Well," The boy said, dusting his hands off on his pants. He got to his feet slowly, with absolutely no intervention from either of the guards at his shoulders. They both carried axes, unusual weaponry for Berserker's, held out in front of them as though to prevent the boy breaking for the Chief's table.
He shifted on his feet, not out of nerves but like he was readying himself, moving with an uncanny kind of grace. Off kilter on purpose. When Stoick took a glance down at his feet he saw why. Only one of them was his own, the other a prosthetic made of two flattened metal rods and a set of springs and gears that confused Stoick, and very well could confuse Gobber too. It wasn't the natural sort of thing a man did. Every Viking, every descent man Stoick had ever known had strapped a chunk of wood to the end of their leg and moved on with their day. No-one had time to build whatever complicated bullshit nonsense this man had going on. No-one should have that much time.
The man was even thinner at his full height, all corded muscle and too narrow shoulders. A disgrace to his village, if he even had a village to come from.
"Well," The boy repeated, and the shadows had shifted to reveal the bottom half of his face, lips twisted up into a shark's imitation of a grin, like he knew how deeply Stoick had just been lost in thought about him. "I'm clearly not a Viking either, am I?"
"So, who are you?" Mogadon asked. He paused a moment, eyed the man in front of them all up and down slowly. Thuggory flashed a bright grin as the man's sharp gaze flicked to them. Only for a split second before he turned back to Stoick. "What are you?"
The boy took a slow step forward, his lopsided gait somehow the perfect kind of swagger Snotlout was always trying to perfect. It didn't look pretentious and cocky on him but self-assured and in control in an almost calming manner. Somehow, the guards crossed axes were just far enough in front of him to allow for the move, like the whole thing was some rehearsed stage play put on by village children too coddled to know the dangers outside. "A wandering tradesman, a man curious if you're evolved enough to be open to an alliance." He shrugged, rocked back on his heels just as casual-like. The shorter of the two Berserker guards stuck out a hand to steady him, landing on his lower back and lingering there. The other guard had nothing to say about this untoward contact. Which was weird. But everyone else was either Dagur (who was making eyes at the ceiling), Gobber (turned around in his chair, inexplicably glaring into the fireplace), or far too focused on bird-bone boy himself to take note of the hand still resting on his back. The crossed axes suddenly didn't seem so much like they were holding him back.
"An alliance? Vladimir scoffed. "What would you have to offer us?"
Stoick held up a hand. "We don't even know your name."
"I have many names."
"The one which your parents gave you. The name that the Gods know you by."
The stranger blinked, slow and languid. He shook the hair back out of his face, tipped his head up so the fireplace reflected out of his eyes. Dagur let out another high-pitched giggle. Both the guards shot him glares from behind their helmets, the taller one baring sharp teeth with the gesture. "I do not think the Gods know me, and certainly not by name."
Dagur giggled again.
Stoick wanted to crush his skull against the table.