#flesh requiem

[onlyhurtforaminute]

PAGANIZER-FLESH REQUIEM

[batravatra]

I Love You...

Decided to draw the final moments of J with Tessa from the final chapter of pocketknife's (@nuzipilled) Requiem

Had to re-read the chapter several times for this. Yup, it fucked me up just as much the second and third times as the first time; was a mess for a while

[upsidedownsmore]

Tonatiuh Requiem

I made this Styanax drawing for a contest being ran by @medusacaptures for her 2nd Warframe creator program anniversary!! You can find the link to her post about it here! (though it's ending in like 7 hours as of writing this, oops lol)

You might also perhaps recognize the eyestrain colors from a certain Tennotober piece... :)

(...i was running out of time lmao)

Alternate colors:

Timelapse:

Kind of an unhinged one tbh lol, had a lot of struggles with the initial rough sketches as I tried to figure out what I even wanted this drawing to be. One of the recurring ideas was with something relating the parazon with Requiem mods with Styanax Tonatiuh, but it just felt like too big of a stretch and I couldn't figure out the posing fast enough

WIPs and grayscaled alts below the cut!

god he's so hot

[apocalymons]

happy pride to me from my headmates who won't stop calling me apocalysexual

[penumbralwoods]

so ive been trying to beat this glass frog for almost an hour and he hasn't shut up the whole time

[sahlestial]

i’m going insane while planning this bnha fic btw and i’m not even close to being done so…

[yandere-wishes]

｡ ₊°༺Meet me at our spot༻°₊ ｡

｡ ₊°༺Meet Me At Our Spot By The Anxiety༻°₊ ｡

જ⁀➴ Lost the ask for this but hopefully the Anon sees this and knows it's for them: excitedly chewing on legos OMG NO cause this is so juicy, like let me just rip out Jason's heart for a sec. Let me fill him with rage and break his heart a little.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ When Jason dies, he leaves a hole in your heart. One that you're certain the Red Hood can mend.

ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=♡=ᗢ=♡

Your sister doesn't appreciate the little bird that follows her like a shadow.

She says his presence is like an eclipse, an eerie, tiring thing.

Some day she'll miss the repartee, the attention, the "friend" she made along the way, someday when the boy lays in a coffin six feet deep, as little birds tend to do. She'll realize that he took a part of her with him. Buried beneath the earth, left to rot and waste.

Of course, she only grows more frustrated when you say such things.

When you remind her how fleeting and fragile this life is.

He was the happiest of them all. Cheerful little bird following his father through the shadows, chirping in joy as he skipped to echolocation. Playing with a naive kitty who never fully understood that they were meant to be enemies.

It's funny looking back, realizing how fickle children truly are. How you used to joke so earnestly about eating him whole and plucking his feathers from between your teeth. As you both sat on a skyscraper's edge sharing a juice box. Jason would laugh, would throw his head back, and kick his legs.

"That'll just mean we'd be together forever. I can haunt you from the inside."

You do truly wish it had been you that had killed him. That you had gotten the chance to peel the meat from his bones and savor their flavor upon your tongue. You would have enjoyed the crunch and pop of the cobalt between your teeth. Enjoyed finally, finally being able to crack open his skull and unburden him of his terrors.

But in the end, the kitty cat never reached the robin.

No, it was in fact the clown that gobbled him whole.

There's a part of depression that's relatively saccharine. The isolation and the silver of worry you feel, sweating off people when they note the vibrations of melancholy you emit. You see your mother's concern and your sister's vexation. You like how it makes you feel powerful. Like a divine decree to burn and kill. But you never do go after the clown. Your mother had forbidden such fruitless endeavors.

"I don't need you in a coffin as well".

Still, you long to wring the Joker's neck between your claws.

You had met him in the dark of an alley almost three months ago.

Requiem is held here often, in the shadow of your skyscraper. The armistice sanctuary where the two of you had spent the final quarter of your nights. No war, no fighting, just two kids in masks lying in the moon's gentle rays.

Your bag of jewels slumps over your shoulder. It feels like the weight of the world.

In the dark, a red thing moves. The ground shakes under his steps as the gloom slips off his body. He is rejected by the dark and unwanted by the light. "What you got in the bag Kitty Cat?" his voice is distorted, like an echo escaping a pit.

You jump, clawing for his arm upon descent, but the fabric he wears is too thick, the attack never reaches his skin. He uses your confusion to land a kick between your ribs. You slid over the concrete street, friction slivering the side of your uniform and the flesh beneath. When you look up again, he's seized the jewels and is halfway through scaling a nearby building. He turns to you, the white eyes of his mask sink into the crevasses of your soul. His fingers touch the side of his masked head in a mock salute.

"Haven't lost your touch sweetheart"

You spend most of the day sleeping in the sun, the only bearable thing left to do. You dream in shades of sugar plums and lilies. Sweet things that keep the bitter nightmares away.

It's gotten so hard to wake up lately.

So hard to stay awake.

Batman once told you that time heals all wounds. Maybe when you're older you'll forget the frantic patter of your heart when Jason smiled at you.  

A shadow blocks the sun, making you stir. Red menace that bears death like a perfume. When you look at him, your body chills. You choke on foreign nostalgia. Deja vu pricks at your bones trying to engrave itself upon the marrow. Why does the Red Hood feel like a forgotten memory? Like a lullaby, your mother used to sing.

He doesn't leave, he just stares. Unblinking white lights instead of eyeballs. Trained on your body. You feel naked under his gaze. It's almost as if he's torn you apart and memorized every little detail about you. Refusing to sew you up again. He leaves you an open cadaver for his cruel entertainment.

Hours pass, he only ever stares.

You've stopped sleeping since that day.

His ghost haunts you. Flickering in the moonlight as you sink beside an alley wall. When you look up, Jason is there beaming down at you. Jejune, unscarred in every way. You feel phantom kisses across your knuckles.

Just a street cat and her dead birdie.

When did depression and insomnia become such good friends?

"I miss you" you whispered, as tears slid down your cheeks. You blink, trying to relieve the irritation in your eyes. When something blunt and cold presses against your forehead. He's there, the red menace, the annoying thorn that wedged too deeply into your flesh. Pointing his favorite handgun at your head. You almost wish he would shoot.

When the light hits his helmet just right, it's like an open head wound.

"You look so ethereal in the moonlight, like a corpse bleeding out."

He's taken aback by your statement, he tenses, his fingers twitch. In anger or shock, you aren't quite sure. "You're really disturbed, you know that kitty?" His tragicomic lilt tastes so irritably sweet. You can't help but laugh like a madman.

Maybe Batman was right, maybe time does heal all wounds.

Maybe you've finally found your eschar.

When Red Hood punches you, hard enough to fracture bone, you can't help but relish in sickly-sweet sentimentality.

He's so familiar but you just don't know why.

Osteonic, pneumonic your body remembers while you do not.

"Keep throwing punches like that and I might think you hate me, darling." You blow him a fake kiss before he sweeps your feet, making you fall back.

He straddles your hips, pinning you to the ground. You gave him a fake pout before his hand is on your throat. Squeezing, harder and harder. It's like he's trying to push stars inside you, making you connect them and form constellations to say everything he never can.

Spots dance across your vision as you offer him a final giggle.

"Come on kitty, I thought you could take a little roughhousing."

It happens again.

He's so haunting in the daylight. Like a ghost twice dead.

He's staring

He's always staring

You didn't need to see his open casket

You would have thought him sleeping

He's dead he's dead he's dead

You say it so often these days it's like a mantra.

Jason, Red Hood.

Where does one begin and the other end?

You can't keep pushing the ghost of your childhood friend into the first new vigilante in town. But you can't help it.

It's like Jason's been reincarnated.

Like he's finally returned.

You've taken to reading Hamlet.

Not because you want to.

But because you feel like the answer to these phantoms lies between the ivory pages.

Or maybe it's because you wish to study Ophelia's madness. In hopes of finding a cure for your own.

You feel like Ophelia drowning in the river creek.

You feel like Hamlet arguing with apparitions.  

"I hate you." He screams one night, he's been chasing you for the better part of an hour after your recent heist at the museum. You laugh and throw him a kiss as you jump to the next building. But midair Red Hood tackles you, using your body to cushion his fall. Your bodies rest entwined atop that familiar skyscraper. "I love this place" you mutter from underneath him. "I used to come here with my best friend when we were young. It was..."

"...Our spot" he finishes. He lets out a bitter chuckle that sounds more like a profanity aimed straight at you. He stands again, knees keeping you pinned down, digging into your hips. His fist collides with your face again. He does it so often now you've come to almost love them.

"Jason" you murmur as the blood trickles down your nose, you feel something in your eye pop as you laugh. "You remind me so much of him".

Red Hood stands taller. For a second the world stills. He reaches behind and pulls up his helmet...

There's a popped blood vessel in your eye. Or many a concussion has bloomed within your skull. Regardless the vision flickering before you can't be real.

"I've got you under my skin" he murmurs as he lays a chaste kiss upon your cheek. "No matter what I do, I just can't get rid of the thoughts of you." He pulls your body up and embraces you so tightly. You only whisper his name like a scared prayer. Inhale his scent like ichore. He's too solid to be a ghost. Or maybe you're finally dead.

Jason buries his face in your neck. Muffling his sobs as he bites into your shoulder, letting your taste erupt inside his mouth. He's missed you, he's missed you more than anything else. It hurts knowing you'd be willing to replace him with someone else. Hurts that you fell for the first wise-cracking man in a mask that you met. But it's okay, it's fine, he can punish you later. For now, all that matters is that you're right where you belong.

At your spot, with him.

"I'll never leave you again kitty, I promise"

[amiinkles]

Grief

Alt version below cut

Ok yeah I'm thinking about minos lore again...

Listening to the requiem leitmotif makes me so sad for him everytime...I can just imagine him crying in the flesh prison while knowing that his own corpse is dismantling the very thing he built and treasured, the people he loved too much

My own sort of hc for him as that he weeps a lot after dying by Gabriel's hands, not from being stuck in a prison or dying a painful and unjust death, but because he is imagining how much his people are suffering

In a way I kind of see a bit of a link with the God in Ultrakill, forever haunted by what they have done to their 'children'

But idk maybe I'm just talking out of my ass here lol I just really love adding my own interpretations and such to existing lore, and Ultrakill lore also pokes at my religious trauma a bit

I hope you like my rambling cuz there's gonna be a lot more coming..,.

[bluetooththereptile]

The Crimson Snuff

(Yandere vampire family x female elf reader x yandere elven family)

(The video is not mine, original post, It's from the anime vampire hunter D bloodlust )

[Again, as I usually say in everything I write, English is not my first language, so if there is any mistakes made in creation of this text, I apologize]

Note: this text is inspired by this post.

Another note: for better imagination I recommend seeing costumes of the movie Le reign margot and the anime vampire hunter D blood lost for the general atmosphere of it, for more inspiration you can also look up Requiem chevalier vampire by Olivier ledriot. All of the characters belong to me, and if you'd like to read more of this universe, I'd love to provide. This is my take on some tropes of manhwas and if you are the type to love the obsessive family over long lost daughter or something like that, I'm tired of them lol. Enjoy this while listening to the harpsichord playing!

Another another note: it's sort of a sci-fi fantasy gothic setting

I was thinking of making this longer than other stuff I've made since it's oc and I'd like to ramble about details.

Tw: yandere tendencies, mentions of death, torture and injuries, emotional and physical abuse, racism (fantasy races).

@shenryu-sama

"Damn..." your phone fell from your hand and hit the mattress with a soft thud as you tried to process what you had just read "How can someone be so...cruel?" You mumbled to yourself, your voice muffled under your blanket. Holding your hand against your mouth, You felt your stomach churn as you tried not to recall the scene you had just read, but the image relayed in your mind over and over. You had read far worse things, but why this one stuck in your head and made you so sick, you didn't know. You looked at your phone's screen which was set to low brightness to not hurt your already throbbing eyes since your nightly habit was catching up with you, and watched the words dance under your unfocused gaze as you remembered the scene, your imaginative mind trying to create it for your mind's eye.

"As he strode about the sacred garden, the flowers that pulsated with the holy energy of the goddess perished in the vicinity of his dark Aura that lingered on his person, their withered petals turning to ashes with the soft gust of wind his floating cape made. The statue of the saintess of the household cracked with the sheer magnitude of his very presence, her open arms falling off of her marble-carved body onto the dead soil. No creature of the night had reached such power, not without feeding from the countless souls ripped off their mortal flesh by their sharp claws, and yet...he seemed to have exceeded the qualifications of the dark ones, their heads bowed in respect to the depravity of their creation.

His smirk grew more sinister as he watched the massive mansion burn in the purple flames of his mages, the once blue-colored roofs now in flames, the top-tier wood turning to cursed coal that would never burn for anything holy, the screams of the inhabitants locked inside, in the air. He stood and watched, circling the small locked box between his fingers as he usually did, the smooth surface of the metallic box reminiscent of her soft skin, was a balm to his senses, well, at least the senses that were not numbed to the world outside, his hollow mind filled with nothing but carnage and...her.

"Ahh sweetling, not even he is burning as good as you did" his whisper was lost to the wind feeding the frenzied flames, and a soft scoff left his thinned lips "Even if he claimed to be the purest" he spat the word to the statue of the saintess that stared ahead, just as he. The familiar numb feeling in his mind reached downwards to his nonbeating heart, as his thumb gently pushed the button of the lock to make the box's lid open gently with a soft click, he didn't want to waste even a speck of the crimson powder inside "May I sweetling?" He asked in mock gentleness as he buried the tip of his claw into the powder "Bon appétit" he murmured with mockery, bringing the snuff to his nose and inhaling the finely grounded dust.

His eyes fluttered in ecstasy, the wide pupils moving upwards before rolling  "Ahhh sweetling" he called once more for his lady, her pure ashes coming down to his nasal cavity, coating his mouth in her taste, her perfume mixed with the ashes filling his senses, the tip of his pointed ears warming, just like a blushing boy...well, as much as his corrupt body would. "Watch sweetling, watch as I avenge us" he gestured to the State raised to ashes "Watch as they burn just as you did my beloved, I made them pay, just as I did you"

You wanted to throw up, what kind of a sick man would literally cannibalize his wife through snuff?! You trashed about in frustration, this villain was something else! Sure most villains were sick and twisted, but this bastard was supposed to fucking love his wife! What was all of this?! Why did it bother you so much though? It seemed like the scene made your own flesh burn, ack! This cursed novel sucked!

"Aaaaah!" You muffled your frustrated scream in your pillow, trying to be silent in the dead of the night. With a weak stupid protagonist who was supposed to be a Mary Sue "saintness" and a dumb male lead who didn't know boundaries and was toxic to his teeth, you didn't know how on the website's loaded server the author would manage to make this story make sense, which it did not! Plus the art style sucked! Ugh! After a few chapters of bodies proportioned so badly that made any good artist cry, you had switched to the novel to find any redeeming qualities since some stories were better in novel form but nope! It was still horse dump.

You scrolled past the text to read the comments, your eyes moving from one to another, everyone agreed with you on that, the novel sucked, many had thought it was because of the translation but a few had said it was just the same in its original language, a few had said the world building and the villain were the best parts and yet the compliment wasn't that good given the genuine sickness of the villain's character, UGH! Well the villain was as obscure as a shadow, you hadn't seen him in his drawn form, and you thanked the universe for that, after reading that scene you didn't want to associate anything with him!

Puffing the stale air of the covers you had pulled over your head you finally let it slide down, inhaling fresh air. You reached out for the VR headset you had managed to sneak out of your cousin's place, which they didn't even care about one bit since they were busy with their new gadgets, and put it on, making watching something light-hearted and nice or playing animal crossing would help you relax your mind, but as you shifted to sit up with the headset on, your phone from your mattress on the floor and you cursed under your breath, reaching down blindly to find it.

Your fingers moved on the floor, searching around, you bit your lip to focus, reaching a little further down without going off the bed, your lazy self not wanting to leave its warmth, but then you knocked the glass of water on your nightstand and it fell on your head, you gasped from the shock of it all, freezing, not just because of the water but also from the sharp "zzt" sound coming from the headset oh shi-

.

The sound of bombs could be heard in the distance, the troops of goddess Mekt kept bombarding the fallen city of Balna, but you knew the cavalry troops were on their way, everyone knew, and that was why there was a sense of dreadful urgency in the air that was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. The scent of the burnt flesh was in the air, making you sick to the point you thought you'd throw up by the polished boots of your kin, knowing whose flesh it was made it far far worse.

"I...I can't..." your voice shook as you clutched the large rifle in your hands, your limbs shaking from the weight of the weapon loaded with silver bullets. Your gaze looked upwards, in the dim light of the night, the shadows of the torches painted the pale faces of the company mounted on their steeds, the animals agitated from the noises and the sense of impending doom of the darkness that came with the approaching cavalry, their neighs jolting you here and there, the blood on your dress clung to your corset and skin.

"Just as incompetent as your mother" The ancient elf gritted his teeth in frustration, his sharp pale gaze on your person, his pointed ears sharply pointed upwards in a sign of anger and irritation.  "Do as you are told, woman!" He hissed, reaching forward to grasp your hair, pulling it so hard that you thought a chunk of the strands were ripped off "I said kill them! Have you gone deaf?!" He shook your upper body by your hair, your scalp burning "You are the only one who can kill them without their curse infecting you! Do it before it's too late!" He threw you back onto the ground, your face hitting the stoned ground, the warmth of blood dripping off of your bruised lip.

Your blurry eyes turned to the tall couple embracing each other a few feet away, the dark cape of the male draped over his mate, holding her head against his chest in an attempt to hide her from the danger of their inescapable death, his own eyes set upwards onto the stars, you'd think the silver-haired vampire was thinking of his home planet, he had so many times told you of his sweet memories from his lands, where he had flourished and thrived. Maybe in his own faith and hope, he thought his dark soul would join his ancestors in an eternal dance with the dark ones, maybe he thought this fate wasn't going to be the end of the love he shared with his beloved.

"I can't-" You didn't want to harm them, no, you could not, not when they had accepted you in with open arms, and not, especially when they grounded him- a pained gasp left you as pain coursed through your veins, the magic-infused staff of your father hitting your back over and over as the elven lord unleashed his frustration upon you, "I said pull.the.damned.trigger you incompetent pathetic excuse of an elf! Do it before I end them with you just out of spite of seeing you flayed!" He kept hitting you down, the voices of the couple before you muffled by the rushing blood into your ears...or maybe it was your own blood?

"Ardana!" A voice called, nearly beast-like, mixed with the frantic screams of the female vampire "Let me go! Let me go to her Eckhart! My child!", the beastly growls and demands of you being left alone though soon silenced the female one "Let her go! Let her go you filthy elves!" your haunched form didn't have to turn to see the caged vampire to know from where it was coming from, bound with silver cuffs, his flesh burning by the blessed alloy, his mind a frenzy both from the pain and the weight of his mate being beaten down in refusal of killing his parents.

You refused to do as you were told, your limbs crawling to hold onto the leg of the elven lord, your blood-covered limbs clutching onto the silky fabric of his robes, your will long fused with titanium. You knew the death of the dukedom's lady and lord would mean chaos, you had many times rethought your actions over and over, dreadful of the destiny carved out for you, but the staff's attack on your body were turning unbearable, your muscles giving in onto the beatings as your father let go of his long-held fury, making you his punchbag. You needed to buy time and it'd be over! Just a few more seconds and the cavalry would be here, just a few more...seconds...and your fate...and his...would change...

"ARDANA!"

The gravity of the ground pulled your unconscious body down, your soul long gone into the realm of dreams that you couldn't feel the pain of the impact "My sweetling! No! NO!" The desperate roars of the bound vampire were soon mixed in with the sound of the hooves of the mechanic steeds, your father's horrified gaze not leaving your bloodied form as he was pulled away by his men, his lips calling for your mother, his hands shaking with remorse and guilt.

It'd be worth it...right?

.

Cuteness Aggression is real, you had realized it early on when you were swallowing the fluffy head of the feline creature on your lap as you kissed her over and over, her fur getting into your nostrils but you could careless when you were squeezing her gently, and the cat actually enjoyed it! Trifine she was, a good-sized feline with sharp baby blue eyes and white fluffy hair, her meows soft and girly-like, her presence always glued to your side, she was a gift upon your coming of age ceremony, and the magic-infused animal was with you ever since. Her ears twitched as a butterfly sat on it's head, looking like an airplane with a look saying "Really now?" You giggled, scratching it's chin to which she swooned into, making the blue insect fly away into the gardens below.

"Mæa?" The cat looked up in confusion as you stopped kissing her head for the 45th time that hour, looking at your wide saucer eyes, those globes wanting your attention all the time, but the maids were busy braiding your hair and needed your head to be steady. You petted her head with an apologetic "It'll be done soon" your voice coming in a rather breathy feminine voice, which you had yet to get used to, yet still it felt odd using it. Trifine purred in contentment as she made biscuits on your thighs, letting the stress of waking up too early out, uncaring to the bustle of the maids in the room as they did your daily routine of getting ready, her pink bean toes leaving marks on the fabric of the towel draped over your lap.

Your gaze went to the reflection of your face in a small round mirror held up by a maid as she smiled at you, her bright eyes round and lovely "What do you say, your ladyship? Is the new hairstyle to your liking?" The round face of the dark-skinned elf stared at you through the reflection, framed by the clay flowers around the mirror, when Aradana had to respond, you did "Aye, it is quite lovely" Your long pointed ears twitched in delight as your shapely fingers touched your cheeks. It'd be embarrassing if you were to realize how expressive your ears were, letting on for your any emotion, that was why many ladies wore lace hats that restricted the movement of their ears and held them in place to hide their true emotions, just as they did by hiding their faces behind their fans.

The maids smiled at your satisfaction, they had trained hard to learn how to handle the unique hair texture of of the sun elves, which was rare in these grounds, but they were learning, and your mother was pleased. One maid powdered the golden-colored braids to ensure their health, the powder laced with a sweet calming perfume that filled the aura about you, giving your person an even more pleasing presence and soothing the spirit of anyone about and you. They dabbed your scalp with purified pomade to trap moisture, it's cool texture making your scalp tingle, and you couldn't help but shudder at its effects.

Who knew being pampered felt so good, even if the body you were in was a complete stranger to you a few weeks ago. That electric shock the headset had put you through had sent your consciousness out of your body, and somehow, in some way, by the will of a sick deity or something, you had ended up in another world. At least the VIP care you got was nice. Baths and showers every time you wanted, the best beautiful flowing gowns that puffed around your shoulders, the glistening pearls and jewels in drawers upon drawers of jewelry cases. Yeah, being a noblewoman was nice, it felt like playing Barbie in real life, and by some miracle, which you had learned was the magic of the items you used, you didn't tire of it.

The voices of the maids echoed in the vast chambers, the soft hums and even occasional singings giving a background noise to the opulent residence. They diligently polished the floors and dusted every nook and crony, the skirts of their uniform dresses tucked under their belts, their bare legs in full view, low-heeled shoes petter pattering about, their short ears hidden under their clean and purely white bonnets. Where humans used skin color for segregation, elves were ranked by their ear size, which about yours...they were...something. as long as the palm of your hands they were. The soft appendages were delicate and took extreme care to maintain, just like the ancient Chinese tradition of growing your nails long as a sign of nobility, highborn elves of every branch that were created by Mekt had longer and more expressive ears. The priests said Mekt adored pointed ears, which favored the nobles, but you knew it was all bullshit to secure power, elves and humans weren't much different in the grand scheme of things.

Your perfectly filed fingers ram through the soft fur of Trifine, the fluffy gal purring a storm, gently batting imaginary flies around her. The maids cooed as they pampered the feline as well, offering it snacks and brushing her long tail that moved about as if it had a mind of its own. You sighed softly, giving Adarana, or you, to be honest, another look. You had screamed your head off when you had woken up to realize where the hell you were. The damned headset had sent you to a very dangerous place and from the looks of it, you had no way out of it.  

Your eyes moved about to hide the tears of frustration, your cute button nose twitching a little in an attempt to scrunch up. Your chambers was something out of a commercial in size respectively, with a large marble-styled bathroom that ran on magic-infused boiled water, a toilette that had flowered patterned tiles that shimmered under the candlelight, a whole dedicated prayer room with everything needed there, especially with a statue of Mekt, which you covered with a cloth, given your trauma with the scene you had read about her and the villain. Two walk-in closets filled with every fashion item imaginable, an office that you got your lessons in and met your tutors at, and a boudoir which was reserved for close friends, to which you didn't have any, only your mother visited you there for tea, and you had counted, exactly three window seats and 12 windows of different shapes in total around the living quarters.

So you had truly ended up in that damned novel huh? It wasn't a dream, your countless attempts to wake up which some may had been too painful than others reminded you of that but how did you end up here in the world of "The silver-spooned saintness", you did not know, maybe it was another version of the "Truck-kun" messing with you or it was a punishment out of nowhere or the sheer hatred of the stupid author, you weren't sure. And the title, whatever the hell that translated title means, sure, silver spoon in Korean meant being born of wealth, but still...you now HATED the damned title.

Speaking of the saintess, you rolled your eyes so hard that the poor maids thought there was something wrong, to which you just waved your hand, ignoring their confused glances. The saintess was the protagonist, the oh-so-powerful, beautiful, all-knowing Yuviel Palewand, Adarana's sibling and now...your little sister. How?! Why?! Why she author? Why she?! Yuviel had the personality of a fluffy white bread and oh you'd be cursed, she was just aa white to the core. Sometimes you flinched at how translucent her skin was, the author's obsession with white skin, a tall skinny body, pink hair, and purple eyes made you want to find the author and shove some sense into them, not even Asians themselves were that "perfect", which was alright! Yuviel looked bad in the art style of her story, but in person, she seemed so sickly it was...disturbing.

Yuviel had the typical childcare story plot line, the daughter of a long lost lover sent to an orphanage found in the worst condition possible, doted upon by her father and siblings, it would be a really good plot for fluffy fillings on the pages, which it was. Palewand state was a very gorgeous one, with lush greenery and a mansion so massive it rivaled a palace, which it had to, Balthinal Palewand, your father, was one of the few viscounts in elven domain of the planet Leril after all. Your three younger brothers were just as typical as one could be given a story of as Yuviel's, things were perfect, but you were there, and as an imposter in the body of the young elf, you knew things weren't as simple.

"Your" father was a high elf of the branch of the moon elves, pale, tall with gray eyes, he literally could shimmer under the direct light, his excessive use of silk didn't help either. He had an arranged marriage with "your" mother, Eponia of Woella, a sun elf, to strengthen the bond of the states. She had a fair build, with a full body and lovely dark skin, and you, Ardana, had inherited most of her features but still shared the same pale silver eyes with your father. Your father had cheated on your mother and Yuviel was the fruit of it, and he had the audacity to not only bring her in but shower her with more love than he had shown Ardana, which had made your mother resentful.

Eponia was not a woman of pettiness, she was wise and a lady through and through but Mekt's enemies be damned, if one were to say something bad about you, she'd gauge their eyes out. That was why you liked Eponia more than others, she was genuine and loved Ardana fully. None of these details were mentioned in the novel, especially, the fact that YOU were ENGAGED, to the villain of the story, in an attempt from your father to save YUVIEL from the clutches of a bloodsucking beast, oh you nearly forgot, on top of being a misogynistic, pro classism, and an asshole that had favorites, he also was racist to the bone. He had thrown you under the bus to save his favorite. Obsessive fathers like him made you sick to the bone, especially knowing one of the reasons she was so liked by his was Yuviel's likeness to her late mother, which the older maids had said he was obsessed with as well...ew.

At least the sons of the family were rather normal, well as normal as spoiled nobles could be, none of them had an inch of a hard spine, aside from Irtar, who was a young teen in elven years by the time you had gotten there, if the story would proceed as it did in the novel, the talented elf would go through so much. Surprisingly Eponia seemed to like you more than she did her sons, Curufor, your eldest brother and the heir to the Palewand state, had told young Ardana it was because Eponia always wanted a daughter, that was why she had put up with Balthinal and gave birth to three sons only for the fourth babe to turn out as a female. Good thing you had Ardana's memories. That was how you had escaped the skeptical gaze of Mellion, the middle son, who seemed to stare right through your eyes and reach your soul, your mother always disliked how much that piercing gaze was reminiscent of Balthinal's, to add salt to the already festering wound of Eponia's resentment, none of her sons looked like her either, you could see why she was so attached to Abrana, in Leril no bride had the chance to take any maid or lady in waiting of her father's state to her new home. The Palewand family was well, at least "functional" to a degree, Abrana was always grateful that none of her siblings turned against their family as most elves did.

Racism was prevalent in Leril which was actually acceptable to any elf, not only on the green and lush planet of elves but also in the whole universe Abrana knew of. The elves from different planets shared the universal hatred of any races other than their own, thank Mekt they are not racist to their own- oh right...the ear size thing...Mekt had some explaining to do, but nah, according to the scripture of Mekt's church, she was the bride to Kytvan, the lord of all, and not many dared to question her ways, aside from the dark ones, who themselves had their own can of worms that was spilled everywhere. But again, given how humans and orcs acted, you didn't think other deities were good enough to criticize Mekt. At least she had managed her creation better than others. Other planets were a constant mess.

Especially on Sevonad's dead soil, where Necropolis, the city of sin and decay, had festered like a plague, oozing puss and sickness. You had once seen the map of the dark planet and its moons and by Mekt! Why half of Senovad's surface was covered in a hulking hive city?! Necropolis was like a living behemoth of a parasite of metal and wires, withering with energy and countless towers that pierced the atmosphere of the planet, it had slithered into it's never dying core and rooted at the shadowed side of the planet that was stuck in its orbit and didn't turn its northern side towards the sunlight, which had given the nocturnal side of Sevonad the perfect condition for the creatures of the night to thrive in, the other side was under constant sunlight, and was mostly a never-ending sahara, deprived of any shade, literal demons roaming it's grounds. What were the dark ones thinking when they created this massive rock in space?

The readers sort of liked the worldbuilding of the story, a mixture of fantasy races in a universe of gothic horror with futuristic technology and magic, but the author hadn't had given much of the details, not to the clarity you had seen. There were three habitable planets in the Zorak sector, aside from the planet of humans, which in itself was like a fantasy version of Earth, named Sabra, they had the same state of tech as the modern days, fused with magic and conflict, hardly reaching for the stars since vampires sabotaged their endeavors in an attempt to keep them trapped for their own harvesting, though victims of vampires colonization, even the orcs didn't like to touch them, why? Given that you yourself were human in spirit, you knew why.

There was Sevonad, the dark planet, Sabra, Leril, and the fourth and the most barbaric one, Adigog, a planet covered in the bile-like greenery that seemed sickly from the outside, home to orcs and other fantasy races that were too barbaric for the other planets, good thing they hadn't developed technology to the point of space travel, which you didn't think they were capable of, given the constant tribal wars they went through. Diegord, their god, was just as repulsive in nature in mythology and scripture as his creations were, always harassing Mekt. It was a solid world-building, and further from the planet sectors of Zorak were other sectors, which were not mentioned in the book or in the maps you had seen, it seemed they didn't want to interact with Zorakians, and the ships coming in and out of the three planets of the sector didn't venture out of its borders either.

Life in Palewand state wasn't that bad, Eponia watched over you, doted on you, babied you even...yeah sure...Life in Palewand state wasn't that bad, well aside from the constant stress of where the hell the story was going!

The silver-spooned saintess's story was of a struggling elf maiden that had taken sanctuary in the capital of Leril's monastery after a grueling war between vampires and elves, the typical saintess arch, and that included a very toxic elf prince, and the whole story was about them dealing with the villain of the story. Silvain Agarand and his pursuit of avenging the Palewand family by any means. 

Leril had been long under the colonization of the vampires coming from Sevonad as well, vampires had reached their claws to every single planet in search of new resources, greedy and cruel, they had taken the Eastern hemisphere of the planet for themselves and with use of their superior technology and Mekt's absence, since the priests said she had gone to a millennia rest after fighting off Diegord in the heavens. They had occupied the land and had extended their influence and power on the dark elves of the east, making the Drows their minions and thralls. For centuries it was total chaos on the eastern side, with the frontiers of the states close to the east in constant war with the vampires, but in the end, the elves, given the absence of their deity and patron to fund their mana, gave in, and relented to their terms, aside from letting the vampires suck up the resources of the planet, every century, from a chosen state, by random, a young elf would marry into the realm of the vampires on Leril and your family was chosen this time. At first, Yuviel was put up as an option given her perfect nature, which was the author's way of adding coal to the fire of fangirling for her, oh perfect Yuviel! So perfect that she was chosen to be the oh-so-pure sacrificial bride...yeah, you wanted to rip your hair out in frustration. Your father had changed the candidate to you, earning your and Eponia's scorn. And who was your darling betrothed? Yes, it was HIM!

According to the story, the villain Silvain Agarand, the Duke to the Agarand state, which was a large continent on the northern part of the occupied lands, was a sadistic mad vampire that sought nothing but the demise of Yuviel Palewand and her family, and he does to an extent, killing everyone but her and her youngest brother Irtar Palewand, who somehow with the help of the male lead and Mekt's blessing would get rid of the villain. You hadn't read enough to know what was going to happen, the poor grammar and also the all-over-the-place plotline of the story had frustrated you, but you still remembered one thing.

Arbana had died in the original plotline. Yes, because she was married off to that sadistic Agarand and Mekt knew what he had done to her, and now that your father had pushed the engagement onto you instead of Yuviel, you were going insane from the stress, so much so that even Eponia noticed and tried to argue with your father, day and night to make him see the absurdity of it all. He had finally relented and agreed to annul the engagement if the Agarands were not to respect the elven tradition of meeting the bride in person before choosing her. Which was impossible, given the fact that no vampire could reach Palewand state without being weakened to the stage of a mere thrall because of the pulsating veins of Mekt's mana in the land.

You huffed in frustration as you paced around your room, your pet cat looking at you in confusion as you frantically mumbled "Why me? Why me? Why me?!" The reality was setting in and it was setting in HARD! Not even those damned good-smelling tea or delicious snacks could calm you down, why on Leril's soil you had to be the "tribute"?! The night's dinner no matter how many times your mother had insisted was a good meal had made you nauseated with its strange aroma, and it didn't help your anxiety at all. The soothing tea that your mother had sent to your chambers was sitting in the corner, long forgotten and had turned cold half an hour ago.

You were going to kiss little Trifine in your arms as she let out a soft 'mrrp' of concern, before you heard a soft "squeak" coming from the window, you furrowed your brows and looked down at Trifine, the purring cat tilting her head as well, as if sensing something wasn't right. Trifine didn't make such noises, sure she had made some weird noises here and there like soft meows that sounded like she was singing but not a squeak-"Squeak"

You turned around, searching for where the noise was coming from only to find a small FLUFFY batling on the window's railings, any thoughts of your misery were thrown out of your mind as you met its wide crimson eyes "Squeak" It made another noise as it realized you had noticed it, perking up, Oh Mekt!...why was it so cute?! You put Trifine down, the feline looking up quizzically, not understanding why she was put down, as you approached the window slowly to not scare the batling, but the fluffball seemed unfazed, sitting on its small stubby legs.

"Hello" you greeted it with a high-pitched voice out of your excitement, and the batling just puffed its fluffy chest and squeaked again, as if greeting you back. Its large flap-like ears perked up, the flat nose twitching a little. You clawed at your chest "Ack!" It was so unexpected, you hadn't seen any bats like it before and surely there was not a place for them in the state's grounds. You tilted your head closer, refusing to give in to the urge of petting the creature. You couldn't help but coo as it rubbed it's head with it's left wing, fluttering it's wings before looking up once more, as if it was preening for your attention.

The batling crawled closer, it's leathery wings shuddering a little, maybe because of the unfamiliar situation it was in? It seemed curious and eager, which was strange, even for elves animals were still apprehensive of them. You tried to reach out to pet the fluffy white creature when another voice startled both of you, another white batling came screeching as it attacked the first one, you gasped and tried to do something but you realized the attack wasn't harmful, it was as if the second bat was scolding the first one by slapping it with its wings over and over. Before you could do something the second batling literally threw the first one off of the railings and then flew off, leaving you flagbastered and little Trifine confused as hell, the poor thing was sitting there looking up, a look of "What just happened?!" On her face. Well, that was something.

You were puzzled, shaking your head to clear your mind, You turned around to pick up Trifine once more before the first batling poked it's head in again "Squeak!" You giggled at it's persistence but- "You look even more lovely in person-" "EEK!" You screamed in shock hearing a very deep masculine voice coming from the batling, and it was so loud it startled the creature and it fell once more as it let out a loud scream with a voice that wasn't befitting of the manly voice "Ahh!". After you had calmed down, you looked down the window to see if what you had seen was real or not but down on the white rose bushes below the window there was nothing, maybe the meal had messed up with your mind? Your mother had said it was a special herb inside, yeah, maybe it was the game of the mind, but why did poor Trifine keep frantically meowing around you? Maybe she was startled by your scream as well, how strange...

And even more strange was- "The engagement will proceed as planned" Yes, the engagement wasn't annulled as much as your mother had wanted it to. Why? You didn't know "But why?" You spoke, making others look your way "I haven't seen the heir of the Agarand state and he hasn't seen me! It's...it's..." You trailed off to find the right words "It's ridiculous!" Your mother shouted, coming to your aid, standing up from her seat, the plates on the breakfast table moving at her sudden movement, Eponia rarely lost her temper like this, but it was her baby she was defending. "It has been decided woman-" your father sighed "I do not care! They haven't followed the tradition-" "They have actually, sit down and listen" Balthinal sighed, rubbing his temper, why breakfast needed to be complicated like this?

"He has seen our daughter" he started, everyone's head snapped in your direction to which you gave them a confused look back "I haven't-" "It seems the heir and his chaperone had entered the Palewand state last night in disguise of-" your mind started to reel as your father explained, trying to remember the past few nights, wait-so the batling-NO WAY! That explained the crimson eyes and the deep voice! Those filthy vampires could shapeshift! "It's unacceptable! I was in my sleeping gown and he-he has breached my privacy and dignity!" You tried to argue, but your father was busy cutting down the bread in front of him "It is decided, and they will send a company with offerings before taking Ardana for the engagement ceremony at the border" The finality in his tone made you stop, fuming silently, as a daughter you couldn't argue with your father further, and your mother didn't seem any better, and the 'pure' Yuviel was being handfed by Mellion once again, oblivious to everything.

It took only less than a week for the ceremonial party to reach

Palewand state, that you refused to leave your room, but curiosity got the better of you after the arrival of the company was announced. You and Trifine watched from the window of your chambers, your eyes widened at the sheer amount of gifts and carriages they had sent. You held up Trifine who seemed curious as well, wanting her to be the judge of it all just as you were. "Meow," She said "Yeah...that's a lot of carriages" you agreed with Trifine, looking down at the five full carriages colored black with the symbol of the three-headed hydra plastered on their doors in a glistening purple color. Your doom seemed to approach you in extravagant robes.

"Are they courting the daughter of a king or something?" Your father huffed as you and your mother watched the vampire vassals wearing dark Bautas to hide their faces from the glaring sun and bring in the many caskets of gifts. Your mother slapped his arm with her fan, making him give back a glare "Your daughter doesn't have anything less than a princess" Eponia huffed, fanning herself. You wished you hadn't come down to the entrance hall to see the gifts pouring in, but Trifine was restless and so were you plus your mother had insisted, she spoke of the vassals' need to see you up close to know your worth or something, whatever it was, you didn't want to touch even a speck of dust coming down the gifts let alone use them, but soon they'd be part of the dowery you'd be taking with you.

The caskets and chests were opened, filled to the brim with dresses up to date in fashion in silk and other materials, pelts of legendary animals, jewelry of any kind, shoes of different heights, books of different subjects, large vials of glistening perfumes, even a golden harp. Alright...maybe they were doing too much- "Five hundred thousand gold?!" Your father spat in disbelief as the vassals silently opened the gold chest, revealing the golden bars branded by the symbol of Palewand state, basically a payment to the father of the bride for giving an "asset" away, how convenient. You kept petting Trifine, showing disinterest.

"Darling" Your mother called for you gaining your attention as she gestured to a vassal approaching with a dark red velvet cushion in his hands, a glistening golden ring upon it "This is your naming ring my dear" She spoke softly, holding your right hand, gently caressing the back of it with her thumb, if you were going to leave, she'd try to make it somehow tolerable for you in any way she could. "Naming ring?" You asked and she nodded, your gaze on the vassal's hand, the realization that every vampire of importance had numerous rings on them setting in. "By accepting the naming ring you accept the engagement, at the ceremony of engagement you will be given another ring, and then another at your wedding, three rings, symbolizing the three...dark ones... and the three hydras of the house Agarand" Your mother fanned herself even faster, trying to keep herself calm, it was like giving up her precious little girl to the slaughterhouse, but she couldn't say no.

The vassal knelt as he offered up the pillow, his face and emotions hidden by the mask, which any vampire you had ever seen wore to protect themselves from burns. You hesitantly reached out for the ring and picked it up  looking at the glistening viper coiling around it "Who gives their betrothed a viper ring?" You scrunched up your nose in disgust, your mother chiding you in a murmur "Darling!" You knew your comment was rude but you had to let out your anger in some way. The horned viper was one of the three hydras of the house Agarand, but alas...it was rather heavy, and the ruby gems worked in its eyes glistened, reminding you of the eyes of the batling, oh that weasel Silvain-

You lowered your head and put it on your mother's shoulder for support as your father put the ring on your trembling hand, finalizing the betrothal process. "His lord and ladyship Agarand will be hosting the ceremony at the border by the Kalmas lake by the third full moon" the vassal spoke, bowing before backing away. Here it went, why couldn't you change the story of your doom like other characters in different stories you had read? Or it was just a hoax the author put in? Your will didn't matter, and the ring on your finger seemed very heavy, your blood freezing in your veins feeling it's magical grip around your heart.

The parting ceremony held by your parents a week later from the gifting was nothing short of a nightmare, everyone gave you either pitiful or disgusted glances, and women behind their fans whispered to themselves as you walked past them, their eyes narrowed in on your every action and Yuviel and your siblings weren't anywhere to be seen, probably coddling Yuviel or something, you didn't want to see them anyway. You felt like a sacrificial lamb paraded around, your mother refused to attend out of spite of your father, who tried to smile and failed miserably at every given minute, because he knew he was the one to blame, and the nobility for once were siding with his wife instead of him, because he was taking his child away to hand her to bloodsucking wolves.

You had wept the night before your parting, the company sent by your new family would leave before the break of day since the exchange spot was a day away, and vampires could not stand in direct sunlight. Your mother had wept her eyeliner off the whole time, Yuviel as well, though you didn't show any emotions, other than a soft hiccup when Trifine was taken from you, it was direct orders, no pets, servants, or belongings of the bride would be transferred with her, upon the engagement ceremony, which the bride had to attend alone, she'd be reborn as a lady of the night. Poor Trifine kept meowing as she looked at you, and you swore you could see her cry, your maids wept too, it was nothing like a happy parting, but you didn't blame them either.

Your mother kissed your face over and over, pulling the hood of your cape down to cover your face "Make sure to eat well alright my little mouse?" She caressed your face, not wanting to tear up again at your trembling lips. "Woman-" "Just shut up and let me say goodbye to my daughter!" Eponia snapped at her husband before she guided you into the carriage, putting a blanket on your lap as she fluffed it up for you, trying to hold back her tears "If anything happens..." She trailed off, there was no turning back now was it? She reached out and put a small vial in your hands "Dying with dignity is worth more" She whispered, and the realization dawned on you.

The carriage's door closed and enclosed you in it's darkness, leaving you alone to digest the reality that Eponia had given you the poison to kill yourself with, but the irony was, you didn't seem to dislike the idea either, after all, the war was away for less than a year, and your sealed fate wasn't that better either, maybe you'd do it to spite the dark ones and the Agarands.

In the carriage you were on your own, refusing to touch any of the gifts put there, glaring at the hidden portrait of your to be fiancé inside a velvet-covered box, you hadn't seen him yet, but his audacity and rudeness as well as his apparent character from the novel made you want to set the portrait on fire. Your head rested on the soft inner padding of the seat, rocking softly as you listened to the hooves of the mechanical horses touching the road, your family had sent nothing but the gifts the Agarands had sent for you with you, no dowery to your name, a literal nobody entering the maws of death.

You had fallen asleep from exhaustion and mental fatigue, the company reached the massive tents set beside the lake that shimmered under the moonlight before you could know it. You woke up by the knock on the door of your carriage and your heart started beating faster and faster with each knock after you had jolted out of your sleep, your breath quickening, what if he were to set you on fire here and there?! You didn't want to turn into snuff of a sick and twisted man!

The door of the carriage opened on its own letting the chilling breeze of the twilight time in, your nose burning from the cold. You finally managed to gather up your courage and leaned forward to see you were at the other side, meeting a full group of maids and ladies in waiting in dark purple clothing did courtesy upon seeing you "Your ladyship" one of them spoke with eloquence, gesturing with her gloved hand towards the tent behind them as her fingers fluttered. "Come forth" She beckoned, holding her other hand out for you. Taking her hand you left the carriage, her pink-colored eyes downcast in respect as she guided you toward the tent.

You entered the clothed walls of the tent, shuddering at the coldness of the atmosphere, the ladies in waiting gave you demure polite smiles ss the maids unfastened your clothing to have them removed. Your cape left you, their hands diligently unfastening the buttons of your dress. Too nervous to protest them practically undressing you in front of the eyes of each other you relented, listening to them whispering soft measurements and discussing the needed jewelry and powders, not looking up from their tasks. None of the Agarands had attended you yet, and it felt rather refreshing, you didn't want to meet any of those silverheads.

The cold hands of the dampier maids were covered with gloves, their silence rather comfortable, but you still missed your own girls, which you were sure missed you as well. The golden dress you wore was changed with the latest gown coming right from Sevonad, the ladies in waiting made sure to mention that, the purple gown sat right under the airy chemise, that your corset was tied up, apparently the Agarand's family color was purple, which showed their closeness to royalty. White stockings with soft garters were put on, the underwear soft as cotton on you.

A lady in waiting of yours offered her hand for you to take after your hat was fitted on your head and a fresh coating of powder was put on your head and shoulders "This way your ladyship" She guided you out of the tent, letting you step on the occupied soil, belonging to the frontlines that decades ago were covered in the bodies of both races, their deaths still heavy on the atmosphere. The lady guided you towards the largest tent, the guards, their faces hidden behind their helms saluting as you walked past them, your lace shoes dipping onto the fresh doed grass, your gait slightly limping at the heavy skirt of your new dress.

Upon your arrival at the main tent, a soft violin tone started playing, your head didn't move to find the one playing, it seemed like a piece of music to your funeral. You looked up to see the tent having a makeshift alter made of wood in the shape of the dark ones' church you had seen in pictures of your studies of Senovad, with a curtain cutting it's space in two, basically hiding the two betrothed from each other until the end of the ceremonial process. A subtle hint of incense was in the air and it's sweet hints could be felt on your tongue, maybe if you lived long enough you could ask the name of it from the maids. Your marvel at the scent in the air was cut short as your eyes landed on something or rather someone particular.

You gulped down the lump in your throat that seemed to gnaw at your windpipe, your breath shuddering at the hulking figure's back facing you, his board shoulders adorned with epaulettes glistening with a dark silver color, his cape reaching down onto the floor. Why was he so...HUGE?! How on Sevonad's dark soil they fed him? Or better to ask WHAT they fed him because from the width he seemed he could eat two men whole and still have some place left in his stomach for seconds. Now the scenes you had read about him were ringing more and more horrific, your legs shaking under the skirt of the gown. He didn't move his head, the pony-tailed silver hair of his perfectly still, but the subtle twitch of his pointed ear gave you the signal that he had realized you were there.

"My child" a smooth male voice called you out of your shock, and your attention snapped to the other tall figure behind the alter that had appeared out of the shadows, his face chiseled with the shade of the light of the torches around you set on his deathly pale skin. His crimson irises were deep set in hunter-shaped eyes, his arched brows tilted downwards, and his silver hair was combed back, pomade glistening on his tresses as a lovelock fell from the lace collar of his clothing. He seemed like a marble statue that had come to life by the will of the dark ones, wearing a dark doublet that was adorned with golden stripes, the deep cuffs of his clothes set in place with buttons that seemed made out of pearls, the hose upon his stockings weaved with precision. The emblem of the purple-colored hydra on his chest.

Within a blink of an eye, the tall silvered-haired vampire loomed over you, using his super-powered speed. Given the emblem and the way he had called you, he'd be none other than Eckhart Agarand himself, the Duke of the northern fronts, and the lord and master of the Amethyst Peak. Your soon-to-be father-in-law leaned forward to take your hand from the lady in waiting in his, the red gloves on his person thick to the touch. The large palm of the ancient being dwarfed yours, your hand looking like a child's in his, oh right, you had forgotten royal and pure blood vampires were twice the size of a normal one...nice. He petted your hand with his other hand, gently, as if to soothe you, a fatherly smile upon his glistening lips, you had heard vampire men used balms for their skin because of lack of moisture coming from their bodies, but seeing it up close was something else, from the close distance you could take the hints of roses of it.

"I apologize for this meager ceremony my dear" he started, the smooth voice rolling out of his bright white teeth like notes of a flute "But my beloved had insisted upon meeting you sooner and could not wait to prepare a better ceremony, she has promised for a grand wedding in return" he petted your hand once more, but oh your eyes was set on those two sharp fangs on his person, from that angle you were sure you were just like a pray to him. Thank Mekt the Agarands were one of the view nobles that adhered to the lifestyle of using artificial blood, which in the eyes of their kin made them seem like radicals that had lost their minds.

"Come" the duke guided you to the free spot at the left side of the curtain, and you tried your best to not look at the way your soon-to-he fiance was, holding your gaze forward. "It must be very cold, the dews are turning to crystals" he muttered to himself, waving his free hand to send a servant to fetch you a coat after the end of the ceremony, the telepathic order of his followed without question. The senior Agarand guided your hand to a small iron bowl set upon the alter, putting it there with your hand's palm up, he cleared his throat, and the hand of your betrothed reached out as well, your stomach dropping at the large clawed digits on his long-fingered hand, the limb already covered with different shapes of rings, just like his father's "Ah" the duke chuckled softly, taking your reaction, if wide eyes and your hand shaking as enthusiasm WHICH WAS NOT! Tell your son to not touch me! Ever! You wanted to yell at him.

As he started reciting prayers to the dark ones he picked up a small blade, holding it onto the flame of the candles upon the alter, it seemed the duke had sensed your apprehensive look and he gently spoke "Do not worry my child, it'll only cut a shallow wound" he tried to reassure you, which didn't help at all, but you were to frozen by the cold and the weight of your dress to move. The blade moved on your skin, the painless cut opening, your blood dripping off of your hand into the bowl into soft drops, the Duke cut his son's hand as well, though after a few small droplets his wound closed off on its own, his blood mixing with yours, after a few moments and a handful of drops the duke reached out, rubbing a healing balm on your skin to make the wound close, wiping the access blood away "You did well" he praised, your heart thudding a little at the gentle praise. Damn him and his well-shaved goatee.

After a few seconds, the duke picked up the bowl and poured the mixed blood into two different silver lines cups adorned with symbols of darkness. "Hear me thee dark ones, for tonight I hath gathered the blood of my offspring and a child of Mekt, bless their union with thine hands, tie their souls, for may they never part" he offered the cup on your side to you, his son reaching out for his. The duke seemed oddly attentive for some reason. "I know it might seem rather...unsanitary, but it is an ancient ritual, drink my child, it is for the sake of the engagement."

You looked at the liquid, your lips not wanting to part as you circled the blood inside it. You parted your lips to protest but suddenly a raven made a loud crow, startling you into dropping the cup and it fell upon the altar, coloring it red the lady in waiting gasped "Bad omen!" But she was silenced by the sharp glare of the duke. "Mayhaps the dark ones have willed the blood to be offered to them" he tried to lighten the mood. "We can redo the ceremony at the Peak if you'd want to my child." You just stared at the spot made on the white altar, the redness of it making your stomach churn.

"She can have as much as she likes" the same deep voice you had heard from that batling on that night spoke, and the curtain moved to reveal your now fiance "I can cut myself all over if she wants me to", and your eyes set upon his, the spitting image of his father, with a smile that seemed sweet for a man of his stature. Silvain Agarand...the villain, the sick man himself. But why was he looking at you like a bashful boy?

.

Waking up to the soft hum of engines, you tried to roll around in the small space of the medical sarcophagus, but you were restrained down by its confines, the sensors inside beeping in alarm. Thinking you had once again slept in you tried to reach out for your alarm "I'll get up" you mumbled sleepily to your non-existent phone, your voice muffled by the air mask on your face, trying to turn it off as you heard the alarms of the metallic casket encasing you in its padded interior, your hands clawing at the soft cushions that had held your wounded form as it had healed you for days on end.

You soon were jolted out of your sedated rest by the door of the sarcophagus nearly being ripped open "Darling! Oh, my sweetling!" Your eyes snapped open hearing the frantic sound of Silvain, your ears perking up and aching since you hadn't used them for days. Silvian was panting loudly, his teeth bare as his monstrous side fought to come out to posses it's mate his eyes wide, bloodshot red with his tears of blood. He quickly reached out for your hands, gripping them firmly but not harshly, his chapped lips kissing your fingers over and over as he thanked the dark ones for their blessings. He looked a mess, his stubble had grown and brunt against your palms as he grazed his face to them, wanting to feel your warmth on his ice-cold flesh.

"Oh my beloved" he sobbed, your dazed mind not nearly registering that you had been nearly regenerated whole by the cloning technology of the ship's medical wing, the physician and your appointed nurse carefully administrating tests on you, trying to see if you were fully conscious or not. "Bless be the dark ones, she's healed fully!" Doctor Halden whispered to himself as he checked for your cognitive presence, the brain waves without any problems. Silvain let out a gasp of relief as he resumed kissing your fingers, his breath shaking "Blessed be Holodor, lady of blood, blessed be Semias lord of flesh, blessed be the mother to the soul, Deidron, thank thee for thy kindness, I shall bathe thine alters in the blood of thine fallen enemies for decades to come" he kept mumbling prayers, his eyes closed.

Valeria was by your side within seconds, after she was notified of your waking. The vampiress tearing up at the sight of you in that condition, under the weight of many wires and tubes, holding her handkerchief close to her face to wipe the blood made tears staining her plain cheeks as she approached, her rose-colored dress fluttering. "Oh my sweet child, are you in pain?" She asked softly, so distressed you could swear she'd faint within seconds if you were to whimper. Eckhart joined his wife, holding her shoulders, and leaned towards the sarcophagus, his brows knitted in worry "You are nearly healed my child, there is no doubt you will be healthy as ever in the coming days" he reassured you, the paternal warmth in his voice evident as he swallowed down his distress, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"I-I am just tired" you finally spoke, surprised at how sluggish your movements were, as if you were using them for the first time, which given your newly grown flesh it wasn't that far from the truth. You inhaled to speak once more, to reassure the worried family but Silvain gently put his finger on your lips to silence you "Shhhh, rest, I am here" he whispered, kissing the back of your hands in small pecks, his eyes closing as his nostrils flared, his will holding the dam of his tears from breaking once more, you were alive, and the medical sarcophagus had healed you to the point of health without you being in too much pain.

It took two weeks in the medical wing of the ship for you to recover, Silvain and his family's physicians guiding you through the physical therapy steps, the heir of the Agarand state holding you in place with his hands holding your waist tightly, his hands guiding you through every obstacle, he was there when you walked again, he was there when you spoke once more, he was there when you wrote your first word once again, he was there, and he cared, with all his being. Also, he ruined lots of tissues because your man kept crying every day like a cloud in the spring.

You were glad the war was over, the Agarands had frantically gathered their belongings before the elven army had reached their state, and your father had seized the moment to get rid of your in-laws so he could marry you off to someone more profitable. The original Abrana had chosen that fate and ended up dead, but you had refused and well, you were at least alive.

After your recovery you could spend time the way you enjoyed it, roaming the insides of the spaceship, the castle like structure of it was filled with luxuries, branded with the head of the three hydras, specifically commissioned by the dark emperor for the Agarand family after the war broke on Leril, Eckhart was the dark emperor's second removed grandchild and he adored the Duke. The six months stay in the ship as it traveled to Sevonad from Leril meaning you'd have enough time to see what kind of the place this marvel of technology and gothic design was. You had heard the dark emperor rarely gifted his relatives such things. It was massive, with wings of different uses, the buttresses magnificent magical gardens that withstood the darkness of vampires being, literal ballrooms, dining halls, music rooms, and a gallery. The cargo was full of decades worth of artificial blood and frozen foods, ready to use in the hands of the staff.

In your endeavors you found the duke and a few dampiers in front of the chambers that were supposed to be Silvain's and yours after your subsequent departure from the medical wing, the small crowd discussing things in hushed whispers, Eckhart tried to brush off the situation, gently ushering you to spend time with his wife and the twin boys in the eastern wing, but you insisted and he finally shared that toxic gasses had leaked in the quarters for a while, and Silvain was lucky that he had spent his time on your bedside, away from it all. Oh...OH?!

Oh...you had heard the name of that gas before in Irtar's chemistry books...it was harmless to humans, but it seemed it caused severe brain damage to vampires or other races, humans used it for chemical warfare against other races before being occupied by the vampires, and given how it had been rumored that the elves had occupied the shipyard for a few weeks before giving up the station to the cavalry sent by the dark emperor himself, could it be that they had laced the air supply of the ship? Vampires didn't need to breathe but they had supplied air vents for their staff which were mostly thralls and dampiers, some even had human victims as pets and companions and they needed air, some said the gas affected the mana and corrupted it, which directly imbalanced the chemicals of the body and mind, but given that it had leaked through Silvain and your chambers things were piecing together.

In the original story, from what you have gathered and matched with your own memories you wouldn't even be alive to reside there since the feral Silvain would drain you of your blood and after he had come to his senses he'd cremate your body and his parents in his guilt to keep your memories with him, then the lonely new master to the Amethyst Peak was definitely poisoned to his fangs, given his habit of wallowing in his grief and sadness when he was overwhelmed with guilt, and subsequently, the small doses of the nerve-wracking gas would slowly lead him to lose his mind. And in his twisted delirium Silvain had turned your ashes into a snuff to consume you piece by piece, in a sadly macabre way of holding you close, the revenge he had of your family was to see them pay for their neglect of your life and decision...oh poor Silvie.

Now everything was clicking into place! The dukedom's couple living had changed the whole plot and storyline! With his parents alive, he had guidance to help him with his emotions, and certainly, you had lived, even if the injury you had sustained by the hands of your father was nearly as fatal as what Silvain would give you if you hadn't had refused Balthinal's orders and had killed Valeria and Eckhart. The twin boys were too young to help their brother anyway.

But Mekt knew, from the snickers of the dark ones echoing through the heavens, that your new weaved fate, wasn't going to be as bright as you had hoped for.

.

"Hnngh!" You tried to suck in your breath as the maids behind you pulled on your corset to tighten up your waist, the lace pulling being such a difficult task that two maids tried to pull the strings, making the air push out of your lungs even more "I can't breath" you managed to say nearly choked from the pressure of the tightly weaved fabric against your middle, the chemise beneath it pressing tight to your flesh, it wasn't your fault you didn't have an hourglass figure! You whined uncontrollably, your ears drooping in a show of distress, which was answered with apologetic glances of the dampier maids, whispering with embarrassed smiles muttering how they only followed orders, oh it was so awkward, you wished your own maids could be here to take care of things, you could at least joke with them about the situation.

Speaking of a tense situation... you tried to ignore the small shivering ball of fur on the nightstand before you, who had shamefully buried his head under one of the powder puffs there, his small body practically buzzing from how fast he was shivering. The maids giggled to themselves as they walked about with different items in their hands, finding the situation so endearing. You had come to realize that your mental image of the dark vampire that would be the monster of your life was all made up by your mind, because in reality, the tough dangerous looking vampire villain you had made up in your mind and had read about, was nothing short of a shy nervous wreck of a man that in elven years was actually even younger than you. Oh and he had a very bad habit, he'd shapeshift upon being overwhelmed. And after thinking he had seen his bride in her wedding dress the poor lad had turned into a batling and was hiding behind the large powder puff, refusing to get out even if his butlers were looking for him to get him ready for the ceremony, thinking it'd be of bad luck for your upcoming marriage, Silvain had walked in, bringing you a box of macaroons before he had shapeshifted into a batling. You knew he had chosen that form to avoid being scolded by you or his mother, knowing he could use the cuteness of his form against you two as well. But still, the power of a mother was more.

He peaked out of the powder puff upon hearing his mother calling for him, the vampiress giving him a scolding look before practically throwing him outside the bridal chambers like a ball so he could get ready. Valeria Agarand she was, a lady and nothing short of her husband, both in height and status, with sharp, high-boned cheeks, thin lips, and fox-like eyes, her gaze sparkling with wit and wisdom. You had come to know her as a cunning vampiress who knew how to manipulate people, he had your fiancé and her husband in the palm of her hand, which could be seen as toxic, but alas, nothing in your life was short of literally venomous anyway.

Duchess Valeria smiled softly as she looked at you up and down as the maids put the first layer of your dress on, the gown sitting on top of the inner cotton skirt, the white fabric soon covered with another layer, the weight of the heavy lilac colored wedding dress you could hardly breath "Oof" you whined once more, earning Valeria's chuckle as she got the long array of jewelry you'd be putting on for the wedding "Bear with it my sweet child, I remember I nearly passed out upon my own wedding" She turned to you, the pins in her raven hair glistening under the lights.

"Oh how I wish my daughters were here to see the beauty of their new family member, but it'd take months for them to get here" She sighed, circling about to check if every item was up to her standards, oh right, a control freak, you had nearly forgotten that. Just great, a too friendly father-in-law and a mother-in-law that seemed like a fox in the form of a lady, this way their son was the least of your concerns at the moment.

The Agarands were a family of seven, two sets of twins, and Silvian was born out of the union of the duchess and the duke, and your fiancé was the eldest son of the family, Madge, and Benedicta, his twin sisters were older than him, already married to influential families back on Sevonad, you had heard Benedicta was married to the legendary general Rambrecht Werder, the conqueror of humans, Madge's husband was still a mystery to you, but he seemed even more important than Werder. Younger than Silvain were young twins Bernolt and Gerhart, who had just learned how to write and were busy wreaking havoc somewhere, always under heavy supervision of their army of nannies.

Your in-laws seemed to be busy in the bedroom, which was a very rare notion because one, vampires could rarely get pregnant, and five children already meant they were really busy with each other, something that others noted and teased the duke and his mate about often, earning their chuckles that sounded like money flying in the air, and two, vampires were rarely known for love between couples, but it seemed the Agarand's couple were passionate and their children had inherited it. Silvain was like a schoolboy in love.

The wedding ceremony surprisingly was a private one, in front of the immediate family members that could catch up, and a priest of the dark ones' monastery. It was set in the prayer room of the large castle you had moved into, fast and efficient, just as Valeria had insisted it to be, she knew the traditional wedding dress that was passed down through generations was taking a heavy toll on you, and right after silvain had put a kiss on your cheek the maids were taking you away to have you changed into a more airy chemise like dress, which Valeria was happy to see you in, calling it a fitting dress for a nymph such as you, which has made you blush. The rest of the night was spent on eating cake and getting to know everyone.

Life in the Amethyst Peak was strangely pleasant, especially after the second batling incident, you had realized Silvain was much more different than he was in the stories, your man was as heavy as a tank and just as large but he'd turn into a batling out of nervousness if he was in your presence, not that your love for cute things changed anything for the better. He'd either get squished in your hands as you held him, or end up covered in your lipstick as you kissed him, he had taken the role of Trifine for you, and you had seemed to adopt his batling persona as your pet and he had taken the habit of turning to the bat form of his when he saw you angry. Unlike many ironical protagonists of the novels you had read, you could see the signs, and hopefully, seeing how the Agarands were in private, you'd find a way to stop your fate from happening.

The peak had grounds covered in darkness fused fauna, which sounded scary only to the name because the flowers that only bloomed in the moonlight were as gorgeous as one can be, the ponds were covered in small mermaid-like nymphs that would sing and chirp, their eyes wide and unblinking. The castle was not even a dark shade of pink, but people called it so because of the marvelous Amethyst statue of a small snake in the middle of the garden that was a gift directly from the dark emperor himself, you shuddered every time you saw the serpent, as if the first vampire could see you through its eyes.

The family always considered your needs when planning their own events, they had hired a full chef team to cater to your palate, and made sure to have family dinner times from time to time, who knew drinking blood from different fancy glasses that warped and coiled was just as fun as eating a pudding that melted on your tongue? Silvain seemed to like it a little too much, his mother would always glare at his habit of suckling the blood out instead of holding the glass upside down. It was not manly she said, which the younger vampire would give sheepish glances at his parent in response, but he still kept doing it.

They made sure your chambers and the library you frequented were always warm, and Mekt knew how many coats and jackets Valeria had stuffed into your wardrobes because she had made sure you had a coat for every and any occasion. One time she had put on so many on you that you had to waddle about inside the cold Peak. They even let your mother visit, well at least her hologram would visit you through the portable antenna they had sent her, Life seemed to be smooth sailing, but no...Mekt had other plans for you.

The war between the elves and the vampires was inevitable, and so was your decision.

You'd soon come to realize that you had to choose, and this choice would change everything.

.

"You would like to see the new garden darling" Valeria spoke with a soft smile as she prepared the ribbon that was going to be on your hair, the cold hands of the dampier maids combing through your strands as they prepared them to be braided once more after a rigorous washing session with the finest oils Sevonad could offer. They had tried their best to treat your special hair type. 

"It is of fashion these days, I've seen the grand duchesses wear ribbons to royal balls" She spoke softly as she showed you three different rolls of red colored ribbon in varying width "What do you think? Threaded out of the finest we could find" Her crimson gaze was gentle and motherly, as if trying to soothe a stressed child, which you were, and fussy, so to speak.

You had not left your quarters after the Agarands had entrusted you with their firstborn daughter Madge, who was now a consort to a Grand Duke, connected right to the imperial family. Madge swirled the blood in her glass, looking at it's narrow flute, her gaze upon the liquid as it swirled around, as cunning as she was just like her mother, she could not continue to pretend that things were normal, they in fact, were not.

Silvain had nearly gone feral after the incident that had happened back on your home planet, and now back in the birthplace of the first vampires, Sevonad, it had taken so long for him to calm his senses down, long after you had healed by the power and grace of the technology of the dark planet. He had improved, so to speak, mentally. Improved, as much as to save face in public, behind closed doors he'd change, like a guard dog only loyal to it's master he had grown bipolar, with anyone but his mother and you, he was like a beast ready to be provoked. He was a mother's boy but still...this was too much. He had changed, but the family made sure to not have you notice.

Too much so that he stopped mid-air from killing the elf that had snuck to meet you, your youngest sibling, Irtar, but he had refrained from doing so by your request, which was more like frantic pleading as you had put yourself between him and the male elf.

"What flowers have you chosen?" You finally asked, not wanting to let Valeria down, everyone knew how much...bitter...she could get if not appreciated, which happened very very rarely, but when it did, even Eckhart himself would turn to a hiding place. You didn't blame her though, she did everything she could to ensure her family's happiness, she sometimes just...popped.

Valeria perked up "Oh darling we were thinking of doing a huge row of sunflowers! The artificial sun ray of the garden can grow so warm and cozy that it can nourish them!" The duchess clasped her hands together, the lace of her gloves making a soft pat sound. "How...how about roses? White roses?" You asked softly "Oh my child we can have white roses as well! How about tulips too?" You nodded, making the ancient vampire let out a happy chirp as she walked about. You had sulked for too long and you were tired of confining yourself to your quarters.

Madge gave you a thankful look before she pretended to read the small prayer book in her hand, which was a common tradition for expecting mothers, after all, she needed every single one of the dark ones to bless her child as well. You had heard Valeria prayed for a full week without feeding on a single speck of blood, which given Silvain's powers, she was very successful since many pregnant vampires would go mad without feeding within a day.

Speaking of Mr.husband- he hadn't forgotten his habit of showing out of nowhere, so you let out a soft "eep" noise when he appeared, kneeling before you, holding a box in one hand as he caressed your stocking-covered leg with the other "How are you doing my sweetling?" You put your hand on your chest, taking in a deep breath "Silvain Linus meinheart Agarand!" He chuckled, tilted his head to the side as his ponytailed hair fell onto his shoulder, giving you his best puppy-eyed look  "Yes?" He replied with the mischief of a young one in his voice, his sharp fangs showing themselves off "What is wrong with you?!"

"Ow" he pretended to be hurt when you slapped his head with a fan, but his insufferable grin wouldn't go away. Finally, he relented and as he put a kiss to the sole of your foot in his hand, feeling the white thin lace on his lips he looked up at you with an apologetic gaze "I know I know sweetling, I should always knock first" Holding up the box in his other hand. You were going to roll your eyes when you heard a soft meowl, your ears perked up at the sound and you beamed, for the first time, making your husband's breath hitch. "I uh..." he trailed off, not knowing how to speak for a second, holding up the box still.

You snatched the box from him, giggling uncontrollably as you opened it, to reveal a very round and fluffy calico kitten, lovingly collared "Saffie" The kitten let out a soft-pitched meow, it's pink mouth opening and closing before it tilted it's head, looking up at you. "Hello, honeybee!" You cooed and the kitten circled around in the box, giving you a twirl as the bell on its collar jingled in a proud parade of itself, as if already knowing how cute it was. "Meow" it called once more, making your heart melt even further.

Silvain watched you interact with the furry creature with a soft smile, his hand still caressing your foot in the palm of his hand, your happiness meant his, and he'd do anything to ensure it to happen. "It rhymes with taffy!" You held Saffie up, who had a face of "I'm already full of this bitch's shit". The atmosphere of the quarters lightened by your smiles and giggles, making the mood of others improve for the better. 

You wanted to pretend to not remember how your husband had shoved your brother into a pod and had ordered him to be sent back to your home planet, how the young elf had shouted over and over for you to come back home, that everyone had realized what you were trying to do for them, but to be honest, you thought poor Irtar had gone insane from the toxins of the war, yeah, he must have gone insane, you'd better be happy with the quarantine you were in before the duchess would decide you were "healthy" enough to leave the mansion.

Silvain had promised you a fitting home, which was a very spacious mansion close to where his parents' was getting built, that was why he had entrusted you with his siblings, who as equal as the heir to the house of Agarand in enthusiastic way of caring for you.

Life now wasn't that bad if you were trying to be honest. Necropolis was a city of sin and madness, but it was for the poor and the zombies lurking beneath the guarded borders of the protected neighborhoods of the nobles. Life was funded, and you were being adored, but why...why that damned feeling in your gut was warning you, again?

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[knight-hiccup]

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁₂

- 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝟏 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥

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

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

CHAPTER 12 - FINAL OF BOOK 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dragons ain't our kin."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's Hiccup!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Night Fury!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ART CREDIT TO THE TALENTED @alec-volturi This is Chapter 12 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr and Kristen my co-writers + beta readers ♡

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[mythmerth]

do you do fic rec requests at all? I am in serious need of some more canon era merlin fics, cos I feel like I've read all The Big Ones and more besides and I trust your recommendations implicitly <3

MAN lot of pressure with the implicit trust part Ill do my best ! yes I do fic requests, so sorry I’ve been busy recently but id love to find something for you!

Canon era merlin, the palate cleansers of merlin fics. I’m not sure if you’re looking for longer or shorter or what but I’ll put a few here that I don’t think I’ve mentioned much before but enjoyed!

I know why the birds sing your name by ironfamjam. This one’s longer and canon era, they’re out of the castle very quickly but it’s such a treasure. The found family in this one goes crazy, they give you the brilliant and powerful merthur belief in each other so well too. definitely recommend

Three Tasks by syllic is a shorter one, canon era but some fun lore divergence. This one makes me giggle a lot, really love the way arthur gives in to his need to impress like a bird in a mating dance along with the jealousy- if you haven’t read it I definitely say give it a shot!

Lastly I’ll put Requiem of a Forgotten Prince by kairennart and queerofthedagger! I like the unique dilemma Arthur is stuck in in this one, i think the situation itself really has the classic merlin vibe while fleshing out the issue seriously. Really a great canon era work!

I hope some of these work for you, and thanks for the ask! <3

[1343401]

requiem of the broken - prologue

pairing: bts x reader

status: ongoing

word count: 3.1 k

warnings: depictions of violence, 18+, death, non con, mentions of blood, vampires, selling of people

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the world was cloaked in shadow. a fog of rot and decay settled over the land, curling around the crooked spires of stone buildings, their outlines barely visible against the endless gray sky. the air was thick with an unnatural stillness, a silence that lingered like death itself. the sun had long since been swallowed by the dark clouds, casting a pall over the cities that had once thrived with life. now, only whispers of a time forgotten remained, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable.

vampires ruled now.

the nobility, their skin pale and ashen, their eyes gleaming with a hunger that could never be satisfied. they had been born of blood, forged in darkness, and their fangs were sharp, always ready to pierce the flesh of the humans who still clung to life. their power was absolute, their reign eternal. the cities were their playgrounds, the people their puppets. humans, once masters of the land, had become mere livestock, herded and caged like animals.

there were few humans left now, scattered across the land like forgotten relics. the race had been bred out, erased from history by the vampires who thrived on their blood. the women, those rare few who had the ability to reproduce, were the most coveted. they were kept in breeding houses, places where they were examined, tested, chosen to bear the offspring of the vampires. their lives, their bodies, no longer belonged to them. they were vessels, nothing more.

the breeding houses were cold, dark places, built deep within the heart of the cities. they stood like dark cathedrals, their spires reaching into the heavens, their doors wide open to the darkness. inside, the women were kept in small, stone-walled rooms, their lives reduced to a series of examinations and tests. at the age of eighteen, they were taken, led through long, empty halls, their hearts heavy with fear. they were brought before the vampires, their fates decided by the cold, calculating eyes of the nobility.

the girls were examined one by one. their bodies stripped bare, their bloodlines inspected with cold precision. the vampires were indifferent to their suffering, their eyes empty of mercy. those who failed the examination were discarded, thrown into the feeding programs, where they were sold to the highest bidder. their bodies were fed to the vampires, drained of all life, their blood fueling the eternal hunger that could never be satisfied.

there were a few, however, who were deemed worthy. these women were taken into the world of the nobility, given a place at the table of the vampires. they were not free, not by any measure, but their lives were less bleak than those who had failed. they wore beautiful gowns, their bodies adorned with jewels and silks, their rooms rich with comfort. but even they were not truly free. they were still tools, their blood and their wombs the only things of value.

the vampires had long since stopped being human. their eyes were empty, their hearts cold. they cared only for power, for the blood that sustained them, for the control they held over the humans. there was no love, no compassion, no mercy. there was only hunger.

the humans lived in fear, their lives reduced to nothing more than a constant struggle for survival. some tried to flee, to escape the clutches of the vampires, but they were always hunted, always brought back. there was no safe place, no sanctuary, no escape. the vampires’ reach was endless, their power all-encompassing.

in the city of seongjin, the heart of the vampire kingdom, the breeding houses were a symbol of power, a reminder of the dominance the vampires held over the humans. the name of the city itself had become a curse, a whisper on the lips of those who still remembered what it had once been. now, it was a place of darkness, a place where the vampires reigned, and the humans suffered.

the city streets were dark, empty, save for the occasional flicker of movement in the shadows. there were whispers, murmurs of rebellion, of hope, but they were nothing more than echoes. the vampires ruled with iron fists, their influence spreading like a disease, suffocating any spark of resistance. the humans had been broken, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of centuries of oppression.

the humans were nothing but tools to be used, their lives measured in blood. but there were those among them who still dreamed of something more, who whispered of a rebellion, of a world where they were no longer slaves. those whispers, though, were always crushed. the vampires listened, always. and they had no mercy.

the world had been broken. the humans had been lost. and the vampires had claimed it all.

the nobles, the high-ranking covens of vampires who lived in their lavish estates, were the true rulers. their names were spoken with reverence, their power unmatched. they controlled the breeding houses, deciding who would live and who would die. they decided who would be given a life of luxury and who would be sold for food. their whims were law, and there was no one to challenge them.

the coven of the damned had risen in silence, their power growing with every passing year. in the past few centuries a new power had taken over. a coven had risen from the ashes of an old world, their power unfurling like the wings of a phoenix. but this was no rebirth. this was a reign. the world trembled beneath their feet, crushed under centuries of bloodlust and greed. the vampires ruled, and with them, they had claimed the humans, those few who were left to be fed upon, and the select few women, their purpose far darker. among them was kim namjoon, their leader. his presence dominated any room he entered, his sharp jawline cutting through the air with an air of regality. namjoon’s gaze could freeze the very blood in your veins, his eyes glowing faintly when hunger took hold. and yet, there was something mesmerizing about him. something that, once captured in his gaze, left you with no escape.

he wasn’t alone, though. at his side, as always, was kim seokjin, the eldest among them. where namjoon exuded command, seokjin brought elegance, his beauty bordering on the celestial. his features were so perfect they could only have been sculpted by the gods, and his dark hair, sleek and always in place, framed his face like the softest of veils. seokjin’s deep brown eyes shimmered red when hunger overtook him, an alluring, dangerous reminder that beauty was not just skin deep. yet, despite the intoxicating allure of his charm, there was nothing kind about the way he looked at you. he was a predator. refined, yes, but no less lethal for it. he walked in perfect synchronization with namjoon, each step a promise of dominance.

together, they were a force. an unstoppable pair. but the coven was more than just these two. min yoongi was their shadow, the embodiment of mystery and danger. while namjoon and seokjin basked in the power of the light, yoongi thrived in the shadows. his dark, messy hair—a streak of silver marking his age—fell across his face, hiding the icy blue eyes that glowed with hunger. yoongi’s silence was more powerful than any scream. he watched from the edges, waiting. waiting for the right moment, the right victim. his clothing, dark and gothic, fit the nature of a creature whose mind was always calculating, always measuring risk. his power was in the unseen, the quiet moments before the storm. he wasn’t a man of words, but a man of action, his presence felt long before it was ever seen.

but there was also jung hoseok, who was not the same creature that the world saw in the light. his golden-brown eyes gleamed, burning with an intensity that could only be called dangerous. where the others carried themselves like kings, hoseok was a tempest, bright and full of fire, but beneath that brightness lay an ice-cold resolve. his hair, a chaotic mess of red and black streaks, was always wild, matching the turbulent energy that pulsed beneath his skin. his smile, so warm, so inviting, was enough to disarm even the most cautious soul. yet, hoseok’s smile hid the truth: he was a hunter, with instincts sharper than the blade he wielded. when he moved, it was like a storm breaking free of its chains. he, too, was a predator, but he wore the face of a friend before he sunk his teeth in.

park jimin, on the other hand, exuded a beauty so delicate, so refined, it was almost too perfect for this world. his porcelain-like skin gleamed in the darkness, contrasting against his dark, silky hair that was always styled to perfection. jimin’s eyes, golden, like the deepest of amber, would shimmer with a predatory hunger whenever he desired. his smile, sweet as it seemed, always hinted at something darker, something far more dangerous. he was their seducer, the one who could entrance any human with just a glance. but it wasn’t just his beauty that made him dangerous; it was the way he used it, the way he toyed with his prey. jimin was a creature of temptation and death, his elegance hiding the brutality of what lay beneath. in his presence, it was hard to know if you were safe or if your time was simply running out.

kim taehyung was unlike any of them, in that he didn’t need to be anything less than himself to be a force of nature. his beauty was the stuff of legends. sharp, defined features, violet eyes that seemed to pierce through your soul, and a presence that was nothing short of magnetic. taehyung could entrance anyone with a glance, his hair dark and shimmering with hues of blue and purple, like the night sky reflecting the stars. but it wasn’t just his beauty that made him dangerous. it was his unpredictability. taehyung was a creature of extremes. his calm could suddenly break, turning him into a predator you never saw coming. he wore the finest clothing, long, dark coats with intricate detailing, but his true power wasn’t in what he wore; it was in his ability to command any room, any situation, with a simple word or look.

and then there was jeon jungkook, whose presence was as imposing as the rest, yet even more brutal. his dark eyes, always so piercing, would glow an ominous red whenever hunger overtook him. his rough, tousled hair, mixed with his chiseled jawline and muscular frame, gave him an almost feral appearance, one that screamed power, that demanded respect. jungkook didn’t hide his nature as the others did. he was a predator, and there was nothing delicate about him. he was ruthlessness incarnate, never apologizing for his thirst, never hesitating to claim what he wanted. his skin, pale against the defined muscles of his physique, marked him as someone who had transcended human frailty. he wasn’t just a vampire, he was a force to be reckoned with.

together, they were a terror, a coven of such dark power that the world itself trembled in their wake. their hunger knew no bounds. their thirst was never quenched. but in the quiet moments when the blood had been drained and the chaos had subsided, they were left with only one thing: the search for something far rarer than any human they had ever consumed.

a human woman. one who could carry their bloodline forward.

the breeding program had been scarce. in the years that had passed, there had been few women who had been found worthy of such an honor. but there were whispers, rumors that a new one had been born. someone special, someone who could bear the next generation of vampires. and the coven needed her. for in a world where vampires had no way to reproduce on their own, the survival of their kind lay in the hands of these few women. and they were willing to do whatever it took to find her.

for now, they waited, their eyes scanning the world, searching for the next one. but when she was found, when she finally appeared, they would know. and then, there would be no stopping them.

the room was thick with silence, the air heavy and stale. the girls sat in tight rows on the cold stone floor, their faces pale and fragile under the dim, flickering candlelight. the older girls, those who had been here longer, leaned against the walls, their eyes glazed with the hollow weight of the days spent in this place.

nobody moved as kim yuri’s voice echoed softly through the room, carrying with it the promise of something darker, something unavoidable. she spoke of the vampires. of their hunger, their search for a woman who could carry their bloodline, of the breeding programs and the feeding programs, of the girls who had come before them and had never returned.

“…they’ll stop at nothing,” yuri murmured, her voice a low whisper that seemed to slither through the cracks in the stone. “they’ve waited too long. the coven will come for us. all of us. and we won’t have a choice. they’ll take us, make us what they need… use us for their blood, for their offspring, and then…”

her voice trailed off into a chilling silence, and for a moment, the girls around her were all still, eyes wide, trapped in the same suffocating fear that seemed to have no end.

but just as the weight of the story pressed down on them, a voice, sharp, defiant, cut through the air like a blade.

“stop.”

yuri’s words died in her throat as a girl, no older than yuri herself, stood and stepped into the center of the room. her eyes were burning with a fire that cut through the darkness, her stance unyielding, her voice trembling only slightly but holding a force that could not be ignored.

“you’re scaring them,” minji said, her voice firm despite the way her hands fidgeted at her sides, the anxiety curling in her gut. she was no stranger to fear, but the constant need to keep everyone from breaking under it weighed on her heart. “they don’t need to hear this.”

yuri blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing her face, but then she smirked, her lips curving in a cold, almost predatory way. she could sense the shift in the room—the unease growing even sharper now. “oh?” she asked softly, stepping closer, her voice lowering. “and you think they don’t already know what’s coming for them, minji?” she looked at the younger girl, her gaze piercing, full of mockery. “you think they don’t hear the whispers of their fates every day?”

the other girls shrank back, their heads lowering even further. some held their breath, unwilling to look up. but minji didn’t flinch.

“i know,” she replied, her voice tight with the effort of holding back the terror that threatened to consume her. “we all know. but there’s no need to make it worse.”

yuri scoffed, clearly unmoved by the challenge. “you think your pretty little words are going to change anything?” she snapped, her eyes narrowing, a dangerous gleam flickering in the dark depths of her gaze. “they’re going to be taken. they’re going to be used. that’s all we are to them. food. breeding stock.”

minji’s jaw clenched as she stepped closer, her fists clenching at her sides. she had to keep it together for them, for everyone in this room. “stop pretending like you’ve got all the answers. just because you’ve been here longer doesn’t mean you know everything. we all know what they want from us. but we don’t have to live in fear of it every single day.”

“fear is all we have left,” yuri sneered, her voice dripping with cold bitterness. “you can’t pretend we’re not living in the shadow of it. you think hiding away from the truth is going to protect you?” she glanced at the other girls, her words becoming crueler. “you think if you just ignore the truth, they’ll spare you?”

minji took another step, her breath shallow but steady. “i’m not hiding from it,” she snapped, her voice shaking but growing louder. “i’m not hiding from anything. but i refuse to let you make them think there’s no way out. you’re not the only one who knows what happens here. but they don’t need you to break them. i won’t let you.”

the room was dead silent as minji’s words hung heavy in the air, each girl silently weighing the force of what she’d just said. even yuri seemed to pause for a moment, her smirk faltering slightly as the quiet tension stretched between them.

the older girl’s eyes flickered with a strange, cold amusement. “you’re just a dreamer, minji. just like the rest of them.”

minji’s gaze never wavered, even as the weight of yuri’s words lingered. “maybe i am,” she replied quietly. “but if we don’t hold on to hope, what do we have left?

the silence stretched for a long moment, thick with the tension of unspoken things. the younger girls around them watched with wide eyes, their hearts pounding in their chests as they tried to process what had just happened.

finally, yuri’s lips curled into a sharp smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “we’ll see how long that hope lasts,” she said softly, turning on her heel and walking away, leaving the room to settle back into the heavy quiet.

as she left, minji stayed standing, her heart still racing. she didn’t know how to fix this place, how to stop the cycle of fear that gripped every girl here. but for now, she would hold on to something. anything. she wasn’t sure how long they’d have to wait, or how long they’d survive, but she wouldn’t let them be consumed by despair, not yet.

not while there was still a chance.

authors note: heyyy so like i told myself i wasn’t gonna start a bunch of fanfics out of fear that i’d end up not finishing them but like guys i literally just watched nosferatu and i’ve been nonstop thinking about that aesthetic for a fanfic so like i needed to do this. just a heads up this is gonna be really dark from the get go and also will probs be slower updates since i am still working on my other two works and plan on prioritizing those !!

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[anghraine]

I saw a staggeringly wrong post (I think from the same source as this take) about how TOS Kirk doesn't experience any meaningful suffering or angst, he just gets frustrated by challenges to his authority/command. The idea of him having real angst is just made up and projected onto him by fandom. Yes, this is the same James T. Kirk who feels the need to log this thought process: "No man achieves Starfleet command without relying on intuition, but have I made a rational decision? Am I letting the horrors of the past distort my judgment of the present?"

It feels almost like cheating to bring up the most obvious counter-examples tbh, but I actually find it really interesting that Kirk's most haunting fears/vulnerabilities throughout a bunch of episodes are so persistent and clear throughout the show as a whole. A major one, for instance, is his loneliness/dread of being abandoned to solitude. Ignoring everything except TOS:

"Dagger of the Mind":

HELEN: The machine wasn't on high enough to kill. KIRK: But he was alone. Can you imagine the mind emptied by that thing? Without even a tormentor for company.

SPOCK: He thought you'd like to know the treatment room has been dismantled and the equipment destroyed. KIRK: Thank you. MCCOY: It's hard to believe that a man could die of loneliness. KIRK [staring into the distance while the camera focuses on his almost blank eyes]: Not when you've sat in that room.

"Conscience of the King":

LENORE: At the party, you were such a brash young man. KIRK: And now? LENORE: Now somehow different. Not a ship's captain with all those people to be strong and confident in front of. You know, you're really very dear, aren't you? In some ways, very lonely.

MCCOY: Mr. Spock, the man on top walks a lonely street. The chain of command is often a noose.

"This Side of Paradise":

KIRK: Except for myself, all crew personnel have transported to the surface of the planet. Mutinied. Lieutenant Uhura has effectively sabotaged the communications station. I can only contact the surface of the planet. The ship can be maintained in orbit for several months, but even with automatic controls, I cannot pilot her alone. In effect, I am marooned here. I'm beginning to realize just how big this ship really is, how quiet.

"And the Children Shall Lead":

KIRK [provoked by the alien's powers into a panicked meltdown rooted in his deepest anxieties]: The ship is sailing on and on. I'm alone. Alone. Alone.

"Is There In Truth No Beauty?":

KOLLOS [through Spock]: But most of all, the aloneness. You are so alone. You live out your lives in this shell of flesh. Self-contained, separate. How lonely you are. How terribly lonely.

"Requiem for Methuselah":

SPOCK: The epidemic is reduced and no longer a threat. The Enterprise is on course five one three mark seven, as you ordered. KIRK: A very old and lonely man. And a young and lonely man. We put on a pretty poor show, didn't we?

[purple-eyesgreydragon]

Long ago before Narinder's imprisonment. Each of the Bishops of the Old Faith had a bitter rivalry with a god in the lands beyond. These other gods were admittedly stronger then their Bishop rivals. It was the Bishops' unity that kept these other gods at bay. Salvanis's rival was Shamura.

Their rivalry began before the two were even gods. Salvanis was the one who found the purple crown first. But in his hastened excited flight, he neglected to watch where he went and got caught in Shamura's web. The spider closed in, Salvanis quickly struggled free and escaped, leaving the purple crown behind in the web, to which Shamura claimed. Salvanis would later spitefully search for another crown to claim, the grey crown.

Salvanis constantly feeds on the dreams of mortals, not just getting sustenance and power, but their knowledge and secrets. Including those from the Bishops of the Old Faith's followers. Shamura didn't like Salvanis could penetrate the minds of their disciples. Salvanis couldn't stand light even when not physically being somewhere. Nightlights were sources some used to ward off Salvanis' reach, but only slightly. But hindered their ability to sleep, as darkness inspires sleep. Shamura created a better more effective alternative. They weaved their webs to make dreamcatchers, with the power to protect dreamers from Salvanis completely. With not the need for light, and having full assurance Salvanis could not feed on the minds, imagination, and knowledge of mortals. Salvanis of course didn't like it, the dreamcatchers themselves reminded him of how his rivalry with Shamura began. These two also never saw each other again after Narinder's imprisonment. Salvanis would relish knowing Shamura's knowledge and clarity slipped with their mind.

It's no coincidence each bovine bishop gets their colored copy of the red crown. The red crown couldn't originally divide itself into four copies. They are shadowed reflections of the Bishops of the Old Faith's absorbed power. Goat gets a shadowed copy of Shamura's power. An improved empowered version, making the Goat stronger with their raising faith in the Lamb. Because the crown copy carries Shamura's power, it is the perfect counter to Salvanis. The dream vampire was very displeased at the sight of Goat wearing a crown of Shamura's color.

Another reason Salvanis distastes the Goat. In relation to vampires and their reflectionless nature to mirrors. Since the Goat is a living reflection of the Lamb, Salvanis doesn't like that. Him a master of darkness, the Goat a shadow made flesh, not his to control.

The relic of Salvanis is his Ruby of Requiem. He wears on his collar. The First Dreamcatcher of Shamura can also be collected.

The reason Shamura doesn't have their bandages, is because the shadow shows them back before getting wounded. During the prime of the spider and the bat's hated rivalry.

Fun Fact: Bats have been known to get caught in spiderwebs.

[w0efulboopsoul]

𐌂𐌀ɽ𐌀'𐌔 Ꮤ𐌄𐌀𐌐ꝋ𐌍𐌔

Thrym’s Lower Jawbone and Teeth

Teeth: Both halves of Thrym’s lower jawbone remain intact, their teeth gleaming with an unnatural sharpness. Despite the age of the fossilized jawbone, these fangs are pristine, as if time and decay have no claim on them. They’re still capable of tearing through flesh and bone with ease.

Significance: These aren’t just trophies; they embody Thrym’s enduring strength and Cara’s deep connection to him. They are a primal reminder of the bear who once stood by her side, their readiness for battle a silent promise of his lingering presence.

The Jawbone Halves: A jagged monument to loss and divinity, the Jawbone Halves are more than mere bone—they are a covenant carved in ice, a fractured hymn to a god’s suffering. Each half of Thrym’s lower jaw, sundered cleanly by forces unknown, resembles a glacial shard torn from the heart of a dying star. Timeworn and gnarled by eons, the fossilized bone gleams like polished ivory veined with cobalt, its surface etched with spiraling runes that pulse faintly, as though breathing with the rhythm of Thrym’s spectral soul.

Physicality & History: The left half bears the scars of Thrym’s mortal torment: deep gouges from chains, hairline fractures from the chieftain’s cudgel, and a permanent stain of rust-brown where his lifeblood seeped into the bone. The right half, smoother but no less ancient, glimmers with an ethereal frost, its edges lined with tiny, crystalline teeth that shimmer like trapped starlight—a haunting reminder of the cub who once nibbled his mother’s nose beneath the auroras. When joined, the halves lock seamlessly, revealing the full arc of Thrym’s primal roar frozen in time, a silent scream that still chills the air around it.

Magical Essence: To touch the Jawbone is to feel the weight of a glacier and the whisper of a ghost. It thrums with a low, resonant hum, a dirge that vibrates through the marrow—a soundless lament for Thrym’s stolen innocence. When Cara clasps her half, it warms gently, as if cupping a handful of freshly fallen snow kissed by sunlight. Yet its chill never fades; frost feathers across surfaces beneath it, and in moments of sorrow or rage, its glow intensifies, casting shadows that twist into spectral visions of ice-bound forests and a caged bear’s despair.

Symbolism & Power: This is no passive relic. The Jawbone is Thrym’s tether to the mortal realm—and Cara’s lifeline to the divine. Its fractures mirror the cracks in his spirit, yet its unyielding structure embodies his unbroken will. Those who dare wield it without reverence find their hands numbed to the bone, their breath crystallizing in their lungs. For Cara, it is both compass and confessional: when pressed to her brow, it floods her mind with fragments of Thrym’s memories—the coppery tang of his mother’s blood, the suffocating stench of the arena, the honey-sweet oblivion of his first taste of freedom.

A Divine Paradox: Here lies the contradiction: a relic of death that brims with stubborn, seething life. The Jawbone’s magic is primal, raw, and unrefined—a storm contained. It rejects decay, its edges sharpening in winter’s heart and softening under summer’s gaze, as though Thrym himself still seasons the world through it. To hold both halves is to stand at the threshold of godhood, to feel the raw scrape of a glacier’s march and the fragile warmth of a spirit refusing to be forgotten. In the end, the Jawbone Halves are not just bone. They are a requiem. A promise. And, perhaps, a thaw waiting to begin.

Kira’s Dagger

Blade: Forged from Starfall Iron—a rare fusion of meteorite and iron ore—this blade is a deep, inky black. When caught in the right light, it sparkles like a star-strewn night sky, a hauntingly beautiful effect that mirrors the cosmos.

Hilt: Carved from the bone of a Sawtail—a creature renowned for its toughness—the hilt bears intricate carvings of Frostbloom Flowers. These delicate etchings were done by Cara herself, each petal and stem a labor of love in memory of her sister, Kira.

Emotional Weight: More than a weapon, this dagger is a piece of Kira’s essence, a keepsake that blends sorrow and strength. It cuts with both steel and sentiment, a constant companion that keeps Kira’s warmth alive.

This is more of a trinket than a weapon to Cara as she never uses this blade until she is taken to the Howa'ahian Palace.

Hidden Retractable Blade

Material: Crafted from the femur bone of a Wolf Drake—a cunning and ferocious predator—this blade is lightweight yet devastatingly sharp.

Design: Tucked within Cara’s hide gauntlets, it deploys with a flick of her wrist, its razor edge perfect for slashing or stabbing in an instant. It’s a silent killer, designed for speed and surprise.

Purpose: This is Cara’s last resort, a hidden trump card that ensures she’s never truly defenseless. It’s a symbol of her refusal to be caught off guard again.

Frost and Lightning Rune-Enchanted Necklace

Pendant: Shaped from Thrym’s shed ice, this crude pendant was carved by Cara into an awkward hammer-like form. It’s blunt on one end for crushing and pointed on the other for piercing or stabbing.

Enchantments: Embedded with frost and lightning runes, it pulses with energy—capable of unleashing freezing cold or electric shocks with a touch.

Strap: Made from the scarred hide of a BloodFang Wyvern, the leather is as tough and battle-worn as Cara herself, a trophy from a near-fatal encounter.

Significance: This necklace doubles as a weapon and a protective charm, channeling Thrym’s spirit to guard her as fiercely as he once did in life.

Small Claw Pocket Knife

Blade: Carved from one of Thrym’s shed claws, this narrow, slightly curved knife has a rough, hand-forged edge that reflects its origins in the wilds.

Handle: An extension of the blade itself, it features a decorative spiral loop at the top—ideal for hanging or quick access.

Utility: Small but versatile, it’s perfect for carving, skinning, or delivering a swift, lethal strike. It’s a constant reminder of Thrym, always within reach like a trusted friend.

Viper Cat Bone Shiv

Origin: This jagged, blood-stained shiv was Cara’s first weapon, carved from the bone of a Viper Cat in the slavers’ pits. It’s crude and brutal, a product of desperation that fueled her escape to the wilds of Howa’ah.

Sentiment: It’s a raw symbol of the terrified girl she once was—and the unbreakable will that carried her through. She keeps it as a memento of her survival, a testament to her refusal to surrender.

Thin Spears of Ice

Magic: Formed from Cara’s frost magic, these spears are translucent and razor-sharp, their icy chill capable of impaling on impact.

Tactics: She summons them in an instant, hurling them with pinpoint accuracy or using them to impale foes. They’re as fragile as they are deadly, a frozen extension of her rage and precision.

Bow with Blunt Forced End and Enchanted Arrows

Bow: Made from sturdy wood with metal-capped ends, this bow is built for versatility. The blunt tips double as clubs when arrows run out or enemies close in.

Arrows: Each arrow is tipped with enchanted runes—some crackle with lightning, others glow with frost, and a few carry a mysterious, darker magic.

Versatility: This weapon is both a hunter’s tool and a warrior’s lifeline, excelling at range and holding its own up close. It reflects Cara’s adaptability, her ability to fight on any terms.

Razor-Like Shards in Cara’s Hair

Description: These are razor-sharp shards made from either Thrym’s enchanted ice or the polished bones of beasts Cara has hunted. They are small, lethal, and seamlessly woven into her blonde hair.

Purpose: Designed to prevent enemies from grabbing her hair during combat, the shards act as a hidden trap. When an opponent makes contact, the jagged edges slice into their flesh, drawing blood and forcing them to let go. The ice shards, infused with frost magic, also chill the attacker’s skin, adding an extra layer of deterrence.