Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wind on Berk had always carried stories.

Stories told in the scent of salt and smoke—brine curling off restless waves, soot spiraling from longhouse chimneys, the copper tang of iron tools left out in the rain. Sweat, dragonfire, charred wool and singed hair. Even in peacetime, Berk was never clean. Never quiet.

But now, in the stillness left behind by war, the wind carried something new.

Wingbeats.

Some thudded like war drums across the sky, making the thatch roofs tremble. Others skimmed the air like snowfall—soft, strange, whispering rhythms that didn’t belong to Berk.

Not yet.

Dragons.

They circled the island like ghosts wearing flesh. Shadows larger than rooftops crawled across stone and snow. Chimneys bristled with scaled tails. Cliff edges bowed under massive claws. The very shape of the village had changed.

Where dragons once brought screams and swords, now they brought silence.

The kind of silence that tightened throats and sharpened glances. The kind that came before lightning struck.

Villagers paused mid-step, mid-sentence. No one ran. But no one quite relaxed either. Eyes tracked every glide, every shift in a dragon’s wings. Voices lowered. Children peeked around barrels and doorframes.

It wasn’t fear anymore.

But it wasn’t trust, either.

Astrid liked that. The fragility of it. The truth of it. Peace hadn’t arrived with a banner and song—it had dragged itself ashore, soaked in blood and ash, too exhausted to pretend. If they wanted it to stay, they’d have to earn it every day.

Stormfly trotted beside her as she descended the narrow trail from the cliffs, talons clicking against damp stone. The path was slick with mist from the sea below, but the Nadder moved with sure, powerful grace. Her claws left clean gouges in the earth—marks of presence, not destruction.

Her frill caught the wind like a sail unfurling, gleaming where sunlight struck it. Her scales shimmered—deep sapphire laced with molten gold, colors shifting with every breath, like waves reflecting firelight. She looked like something carved from the bones of storms.

Like the warriors in the sagas Astrid had loved as a child.

They hadn’t left each other’s side since the Red Death fell in fire and ruin. Since the battle that turned the skies to flame and the ocean to steam. Since the old world cracked open, and something new—stranger, quieter—began to bleed through.

But even now, Astrid was only beginning to understand the creature walking beside her.

Flashback – The Arena Doors

The old arena stood blackened and broken—its once-proud stone walls scorched by fire, its iron chains warped and twisted like the remains of a bad dream. The stench of smoke clung to everything.

But behind the doors: life.

Heavy, waiting breaths. Claws scraping softly in the dark. A heartbeat not quite hidden by the hush.

“Okay, guys,” Hiccup called, excitement shining in his eyes. “Who wants to go first?”

Silence.

Not one foot shuffled. Not one hand raised.

Even the wind stalled.

Hiccup’s smile tilted further. “Come on. It’s not like they’re going to eat you.”

Astrid stepped forward, firm and sure. “I’ll go.”

Behind her, Ruffnut muttered something about “axe-to-the-head syndrome,” but Astrid didn’t turn. Her eyes stayed on Hiccup—who gave a small nod, a flicker of relief passing like a ripple through his shoulders.

“I’ve got the perfect dragon in mind,” he said.

He moved to the nearest cage, fingers ghosting over the latch. The iron creaked as he undid it. The door groaned open like the breath of something ancient.

Inside, the shadows shifted.

A Deadly Nadder unfolded herself from the gloom—sleek, fierce, coiled like a spring. Her scales caught the firelight in iridescent glints. Talons tapped against stone. Her frill twitched, feather-like and sharp.

“Hey, girl,” Hiccup said softly. “It’s alright. No more chains. No more fights.”

The dragon tilted her head, sharp eyes glittering gold. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t roar. She watched.

When Hiccup stepped back, slow and careful, the Nadder followed.

Not caged. Not cornered.

Choosing.

Astrid swallowed. “The Nadder? Even after I…” she motioned vaguely to her head, “threw an axe at her head?”

“She might respect you,” Hiccup said with a wry shrug. “Or she might be terrified. Hard to say.”

He took her hand gently, guiding it forward until her palm hovered just above the Nadder’s beak.

The dragon didn’t move.

Her breath was hot. Her skin was smooth beneath the scales—like sun-warmed stone, unyielding but alive.

“She,” Astrid said, eyebrow raised. “You’re sure?”

“Nope. Just a hunch. You can ask her later.”

Astrid smirked.

She crouched slowly, never dropping eye contact. The Nadder’s wings twitched but didn’t rise. Her pupils narrowed.

“Hey,” Astrid said quietly. “Sorry about the axe. Can we try again? I’m Astrid.”

The Nadder blinked once.

Then she leaned forward and nudged Astrid’s hand with her snout—deliberate, gentle.

A low warble rumbled in her chest.

Not a threat.

A beginning.

The moment.

Back on Berk, Astrid leaned against the fence post near the goat pen and watched as Stormfly gleefully scattered the herd.

Goats squealed and fled, hooves slipping in the mud. Stormfly darted after them with wings half-spread, tail swishing, eyes gleaming with playful menace. She gave a victorious chirp, teeth flashing.

“Stormfly,” Astrid said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re terrorizing the same goats we need to milk tomorrow.”

Stormfly turned her head and trilled, utterly unrepentant. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Astrid crossed her arms, trying to look stern. But her mouth betrayed her with a grin.

She was learning things.

Stormfly loved heights—the cliffs above the Cove, the peak behind the forge, the roof of the Mead Hall. Anywhere the wind was strong and the village looked small.

She loved fruit, especially tart berries and green apples, and plucked them from Astrid’s hands with delicate precision. She fetched with purpose—gear, cloaks, spears. Once, she proudly returned with a still-smoking torch. Astrid never figured out where she found it.

She hated salted fish.

One sniff and she’d sneeze explosively, flinging seawater and scales like shrapnel.

After storms, she preened with methodical obsession, licking her talons clean and smoothing each scale until she gleamed.

She loved being bathed—splashing in the shallows, letting Astrid scrub behind her horns while she chirped in contentment.

But thunder?

Stormfly folded in on herself.

Tail curled under, wings drawn tight, frill pressed flat. She tucked herself into Astrid’s side and trembled like a hatchling.

Fierce.

But never too proud to be afraid.

Astrid understood that.

Because she saw herself there.

Stormfly didn’t just respond—she mirrored.

When Astrid paced, Stormfly tapped her claws. When Astrid clenched her fists, Stormfly’s frill flared. When Astrid snapped a glare across a room, Stormfly rumbled low in her throat.

“She’s your second shadow,” Gobber had said once, watching them spar. “Only she’s pointier.”

It was true.

But Stormfly was more than a shadow.

She was smart. Independent. Fearless—but not reckless. And definitely female.

Snotlout had once tried to “confirm” that.

Stormfly had stolen his helmet, crushed the strap with her beak, and launched it so far into the bay that even the tide didn’t bother bringing it back.

Astrid had watched the arc, the splash.

“Guess that answers that,” she said dryly, and left him sputtering on the sand.

The name came later.

In the half-collapsed ruins of the armory, Astrid sat with her Nadder beside a cold forge, brushing soot from her frill.

“You fly like lightning in a storm,” she whispered. “Wild. Brilliant. Untouchable.”

The dragon made a soft, contented sound and rested her head in Astrid’s lap.

From then on, she was Stormfly.

They trained every morning, before the sky turned gold and the village stirred.

Tight spirals, daring dives, spike-throwing precision so sharp it could split a tree trunk. Stormfly moved like instinct had been hammered into her bones—like flight was something she remembered from a time before birth.

And Astrid trusted her without thinking.

They didn’t just move together.

They wove.

Stormfly anticipated her before commands were given, adjusted before Astrid leaned. It was more than a connection.

It was kinship.

Sometimes, Astrid spoke. Not commands—just thoughts. The kind you say when no one else is listening.

Stormfly listened.

One night, they perched high above Berk’s sloped rooftops, the sky stretching wide and star-washed. The sea below murmured like it remembered the battle too.

Stormfly curled close—warm, solid, steady.

Astrid leaned against her, arms wrapped around her knees.

“I think he’s going to wake up,” she said quietly. “Hiccup. He has to.”

Stormfly didn’t answer. She just blinked once. Then let out a low, musical trill—gentle, like the sound of a promise being kept.

Astrid closed her eyes against the wind, against the ache.

“And when he does,” she whispered, “he’s going to be proud. Of us. Of you.”

Overhead, another dragon passed by—silent wings whispering over the rooftops like a prayer.

And for the first time since the battle—

Since the ash fell like snow—

Astrid let herself breathe.

Chapter Text

It had only been a week since the Red Death had fallen—its titanic body swallowed by the sea in a hiss of steam, fire, and fury—and already, Berk was alive with noise again.

Dragons screeched across a sky still streaked with soot. Children dashed barefoot through the scorched, smoke-laced alleys, trailing singed ribbons and half-burnt sticks like war trophies. The village itself was a patchwork of half-mended rooftops and ash-caked walls, with charred beams poking skyward like broken ribs.

And amid all that chaos, the loudest arguments bloomed like weeds in summer sun.

Most could be traced to a single source.

Well—two heads. One dragon. And a pair of gloriously deranged twins.

“Barf is clearly the smarter head,” Ruffnut announced from atop a sagging fence post, as though proclaiming law from a throne. She tossed a fish like a gauntlet—overripe and glistening—which arced through the air and slapped wetly onto the ground in front of the Zippleback’s left head.

Tuffnut recoiled, gagging. “Are you insane? Belch is the strategic one! Barf’s just a flammable drama queen with wings and an attention problem!”

The dragon in question—long-bodied, mud-streaked, and draped across what remained of their family’s collapsed longhouse—made no effort to intervene. One head blinked slowly, the picture of lizard-like boredom. The other belched smoke in Tuffnut’s direction, then bit off another chunk of the splintered log they were sharing like a chew toy.

Barf (if Ruffnut was to be believed) chewed with wild energy, tail twitching in short, irritable bursts like a cat sizing up a bird. Belch (Tuffnut’s designated genius) simply sat back, smoke curling from flared nostrils, letting his sibling do the manual labor.

“See?” Ruffnut grinned like she’d just solved algebra. “She’s creative. A thinker.”

“He,” Tuffnut snapped, snatching up a stick like a pointer in a lecture. “And a slacker. Possibly morally opposed to contributing to society.”

Flashback – The Arena Doors

“Uhh… is that thing supposed to have two heads?” Tuffnut’s voice cracked, halfway between horror and awe.

The Zippleback slithered forward, long and low, twin necks weaving through the dust-heavy air like smoke trails. Both heads hissed in eerie harmony, tongues flicking out in tandem, their eyes glowing a sickly shade of gold-green like bioluminescent swamp water.

“It’s hideous,” Ruffnut breathed, visibly enthralled. Her grin stretched too wide, the way it always did when something felt dangerous enough to be fun.

“It’s perfect,” Tuffnut whispered, already completely gone.

Hiccup, flanked by a wary Astrid, just sighed and took a cautious half-step back. “Yeah. I figured you two might go for the unholy gas-bagged monstrosity with twice the heads and none of the boundaries.”

The dragon snarled, low and metallic, and exhaled twin spirals of smoke that curled into vaguely threatening shapes—possibly a skull. Or a loaf of bread. Hard to say.

Ruffnut clapped her hands. “It’s like looking in a scaly, flammable mirror.”

“Only with better teeth,” Tuffnut added. “We’re naming the left head Barf.”

“And the right one Belch!”

Hiccup gave them a long, slow stare that teetered somewhere between pity and dread. “That’s… wow. Okay. That’s definitely a choice.”

“It’s destiny,” the twins chorused.

They stepped forward in perfect unison, palms out. Both heads paused. Then, like a pair of judgmental snakes, dipped low and pressed warm snouts against outstretched hands. The contact was instant, electric—rough scales, huffing breath, and barely restrained energy thrumming beneath the skin.

It felt like being struck by lightning wrapped in leather.

They mounted backward at first. Fell off once. Then twice.

Third time was chaos: they scrambled on the right side up just as the dragon gave a roaring, twin-throated snort and launched them skyward. Necklaces flapped, boots came loose, and the wind whipped their whoops into wild laughter as they careened, screaming and ecstatic, into the clouds.

Barf and Belch had since claimed the ruins of what used to be the cabbage shed behind the Mead Hall—a once humble storage nook, now a blackened crater intermittently filled with teeth, smoke, and flaming underpants.

Most villagers gave the place a wide, terrified berth.

After Belch accidentally gassed a drying laundry line and Barf lit it mid-sneeze, Gobber suggested constructing a perimeter. Ruffnut called it “spontaneous art installation number four.”

The twins, however, were obsessed.

They spent hours crouched in the ashes, scribbling notes on fish-stained scrolls and debating ferociously over each head’s quirks.

Barf, per Ruffnut, was reactive, easily distracted, and deeply offended by seagulls. She was also a collector—particularly of bent fish hooks, tarnished medallions, and anything vaguely shiny, all stashed beneath a favorite rock like some sort of reptilian magpie hoard.

Belch, according to Tuffnut, was cerebral and a touch sinister. He showed an inexplicable obsession with neatly stacked firewood, which he sorted obsessively by grain pattern. He’d bite anyone—anyone—who messed up the pile.

They could operate independently for all of five seconds before snapping at each other, tangling tails and wings like a ribbon knot made by a sleep-deprived squirrel.

“They’re basically us,” Ruffnut said proudly as Barf joyfully obliterated an abandoned fence.

“Only scaly,” Tuffnut agreed, smirking.

“And with better coordination.”

“And fewer concussions.”

Training was… creatively disastrous.

Stormfly responded to hand signals. Hookfang required threats, dominance, and mild arson. Meatlug loved hugs.

Barf and Belch responded best to screaming.

“Barf—aim for the far barrel!”

“No, Belch—smoke first! THEN fire!”

“Barf, don't listen to him, the left sheep! THE LEFT SHEEP!”

“Belch, ignore her brain fog, go for the one with the ugly horns!”

The Zippleback often did all of the above at once. Sometimes flawlessly. Sometimes disastrously. Once, they turned the practice field into a smoldering field of singed grass and blackened targets. And once, Belch sneezed right in the middle of a sharp turn, accidentally setting Tuffnut’s pants on fire.

Astrid, observing from a safe distance, didn’t even flinch. “How do you two function as dragon riders?”

“We thrive on chaos,” Ruffnut answered without shame.

“It’s our love language,” Tuffnut said, patting out embers on his trousers.

That evening, as the sun spilled molten gold across the sea, the twins lounged atop a craggy cliff that overlooked their village. The wind tugged playfully at their tangled braids, scattering ash like tiny embers through the tall grass. Nearby, Barf and Belch lay entwined in a slow, ancient knot—both heads resting heavy and warm against the sunbaked stone.

“We never did figure out their gender,” Ruffnut said softly, her voice drifting with the coming dusk.

“I said Belch’s a boy,” Tuffnut replied with certainty.

“And I said Barf’s a girl,” Ruffnut countered.

“So... they’re both?”

“Or maybe neither,” Tuffnut shrugged.

The dragon huffed, both heads exhaling in sync, before lazily rolling onto their side and flattening an unfortunate goat that had wandered too close. The goat didn’t even flinch—long used to such antics.

Suddenly, they both spoke in perfect unison: “Hey! I’ve got an idea! Barf, Belch, roar once if you’re male, twice if you’re female.”

Barf and Belch each gave a single, sharp roar.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut exchanged a glance. “Well, that settles it. He’s our dragon.”

They stretched back into the grass, eyes lifting to the sky. Above them, Barf and Belch arched their necks—Barf blowing perfect gas rings, Belch igniting them with a spark. The glowing circles caught the last rays of sunlight, shimmering like golden halos.

“You think Hiccup saw this coming?” Tuffnut asked, squinting upward.

Ruffnut shrugged. “He gave us the dragon. So either he believed in us…”

“Or it was a really twisted kind of revenge.”

They snorted and broke into raucous laughter.

In the quiet that followed, the Zippleback shifted, heads lowering slowly, noses settling gently into their riders’ laps.

Tuffnut blinked. “Are they... cuddling?”

Ruffnut scrunched her nose. “Gross.”

But neither moved.

They just sat there beneath the bleeding sky—strange, wild, and utterly at home—with a dragon that was too much, too weird, too dangerous.

Just like them.

And absolutely perfect.

Chapter Text

Berk was still rebuilding.

The village echoed with the symphony of recovery—wood splitting under axes, hammers pounding rhythm into beams, the crackle of forge-fire licking up chimney stones. Smoke rose in thin ribbons from every rooftop, tinted orange by the late afternoon sun. Dragons wheeled above like watchful guardians, casting fleeting shadows over scaffolding and thatched rooftops. The scent of pine resin, scorched timber, and singed dragon hide hung in the air like an aftertaste of battle.

And—unfortunately for Fishlegs—rebuilding meant lifting things far heavier than he was ever built to lift.

Still, amid the clamor and chaos, some things remained the same.

The wind still tore down from the cliffs like a pack of wolves, wild and full of teeth. The sea still heaved and bellowed below, foaming at the mouth like some ancient leviathan intent on swallowing the sky. The gulls still screamed overhead, as if nothing had changed.

And Meatlug still refused to sleep anywhere except Fishlegs’ bed.

“C’mon, girl,” he huffed, braced shoulder-first against three tons of stubborn, sleepy dragon flesh. “You have your own space now. Cozy stall. Fresh straw. Premium moss! I cleaned it myself—no mold! Just the soft kind you like!”

Meatlug groaned in protest, the sound vibrating through the floor like a distant avalanche. She rolled her massive body with the deliberate grace of a landslide and flopped sideways—her snout landing directly on his chest with a thud that knocked the air out of him.

A plume of warm, fishy breath wafted up and made his eyes water.

Fishlegs blinked, defeated. “...You win,” he wheezed, arms sprawled as he gave up entirely and sank into the straw-strewn mattress beside her. He’d lost this battle before—and by the looks of it, he’d lose again tomorrow.

Flashback – The Arena Doors

The gate groaned open, its iron hinges echoing in the stone chamber.

Hiccup stepped forward and unlatched the next cage.

The Gronckle’s cage.

Inside, a squat, boulder-shaped dragon blinked at him. Her massive eyes were wide, yellow, curious. Not frightened. Not angry. Just… watching.

“It’s okay, girl,” Hiccup said gently, holding out a hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. No one is ever going to hurt you again.”

The dragon didn’t flinch. Just blinked, then took a waddling step forward.

As the Gronckle emerged into the sunlight, Fishlegs leaned forward, his pulse hammering in his ears.

He knew her. Not this exact dragon, but her type—the Gronckle. Boulder-class. Flight-capable but awkward in the air. Excellent magma projection. Bone density 3.4 times that of a human. Strong enough to pulverize granite with a single bite—and yet…

There was something gentle in the way she moved. Something curious, not cruel.

“She’s watching you,” Hiccup said, suddenly at his side.

Fishlegs startled. “She has binocular vision,” he blurted, then winced. “I mean—yeah. I noticed. I’ve done, um, a lot of reading on Gronckles.”

Hiccup gave a crooked smile. “That’s why I think she’s perfect for you.”

Before Fishlegs could panic, Hiccup was guiding his hand forward, gently pressing it to the Gronckle’s wide, rough snout.

The skin was coarse and pebbled, like volcanic stone left out in the sun. Warm. Solid.

She didn’t move.

Fishlegs swallowed. “Hi there,” he whispered. “You, uh… you have excellent wing articulation. And very symmetrical jaw lines.”

The Gronckle gave a rumbling gurgle—and then, without hesitation, licked him from chin to hairline..

Back on Berk, Meatlug had adapted faster than anyone expected—faster than Fishlegs, certainly.

While the village buzzed with repairs and recovery, she carved out her place like she'd always belonged. No fuss. No drama. Just a patient kind of certainty, like a mountain settling into the earth.

She built her routine with the stubborn confidence of a dragon who knew exactly what she liked: eat (preferably rocks, though salted fish would do in a pinch), nap (preferably on Fishlegs’ favorite cloak), roll with relish in the village vegetable cart (much to the everlasting horror of Berk’s farmers), and shadow Fishlegs wherever he went, heavy and content as a rolling boulder.

She moved with slow deliberation, like she was conserving energy for something important. Her tail alone had enough strength to topple a loaded wagon—and once did, when she sneezed too close to the blacksmith’s supply cart. Her jaws could crunch through iron, though she usually applied them to her favorite pastime: pulverizing limestone until it crackled into pebbles between her teeth like candy.

But for all her bulk and brute power, she had a strange gentleness to her.

She seemed to know when Fishlegs needed stillness. When the weight in his chest got too heavy or his thoughts spun too fast, she would curl around him like a living wall, her wings arching overhead like a canopy. Her breath, slow and steady, grounded him. Sometimes she’d rest her chin across his knees, heavy and warm, humming deep in her chest until his pulse matched hers.

And yes—she was definitely a girl.

“She’s the best listener,” Fishlegs said to Astrid one afternoon, sprawled on the grass with a book open on his chest, Meatlug dozing beside him like a collapsed hill. “She never interrupts. And she hums when I talk about dragon anatomy.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “You sure she’s not just snoring?”

Fishlegs blinked. “That’s… entirely possible,” he admitted after a beat.

Naming her took longer than he expected.

Fishlegs tried everything.

He scoured weather-stained tomes in the Great Hall, tracing old Norse names with ink-stained fingers. He whispered mythological titles under his breath while Meatlug slept, tested elaborate draconic taxonomy terms on her during their walks through the village.

“Nokgrúnd.” “Velvikka.” “Granolith the Wise.”

None of them felt right. Too ancient. Too stiff. Too borrowed.

The name had to mean something. It had to fit. Like armor forged for her scales. Like the final piece of a puzzle he didn’t realize was missing until she waddled into his life.

And then, one crisp morning—sky washed in early gold and smoke curling from forge chimneys—she wandered into the village smokehouse like she owned the place. Fishlegs had only looked away for a second. By the time he caught up, she was already beneath the rafters, snout tilted up.

She found the largest salted ham hanging from the beams. And with one slurpy, unapologetic gulp, she swallowed it whole—bone, string, and all.

“Meatlug!” Fishlegs shrieked, arms flailing like broken windmill sails.

She belched. Loudly. Contentedly. Then thumped her tail against the floor with a crash that rattled the firewood pile.

She looked pleased. Proud, even.

The name stuck instantly.

Meatlug.

She wore it like it had always belonged to her—no questions, no argument. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t grand.

But it was true.

Training wasn’t a matter of commands or discipline. It was something quieter. Slower. Deeper.

Fishlegs quickly realized Meatlug wasn’t a dragon you told what to do. She didn’t respond to whistles or sharp orders. She responded to trust.

She followed kind words, patient encouragement, and—most importantly—snacks. A chunk of granite. A sliver of soapstone. A carefully stashed treat tucked into his belt pouch.

With time, she became reliable. Endlessly so.

She could fly for hours across stormy skies, carry beams of lumber twice her own weight, and land on cliff ledges with startling delicacy for something that looked like a flying boulder. She knew when to roar loud enough to shake icicles loose from the peaks—and when to be silent, solid, and still.

But what truly made her extraordinary wasn’t strength.

It was her empathy.

Meatlug knew when something was wrong.

She’d press her nose into Fishlegs’ side when he was anxious, humming low like distant thunder. When grief crawled in too close—grief without words, without name—she would simply settle beside him and stay. A quiet, breathing presence. Unmoving. Unwavering.

When nightmares tore him from sleep, she curled around him like a fortress of warmth and scale, her wings a shield against the dark. When he whispered his fears—about Hiccup’s future, about whether dragons would ever be truly safe here—she never flinched. Never judged.

Only listened.

“I think she knows,” Fishlegs said one day, brushing dried moss from the curve of her wing.

Gobber, sharpening a blade nearby, didn’t look up. “Knows what?”

“When I need her.”

Gobber paused. Then gave a small grunt. “Sounds like she’s got the better end of the deal, lad.”

Fishlegs smiled to himself. He didn’t disagree.

That evening, Fishlegs brought her to the cliffs above the village.

The air was thin and still up here, laced with salt and starlight. Below, the sea sighed against the rocks, its dark surface catching glints of moonlight like silver armor. Far off, dragon silhouettes danced across the sky, black against the deepening blue.

Fishlegs sat cross-legged on a worn patch of stone, Meatlug pressed against his side like a great, warm wall.

They watched the horizon together, saying nothing for a long while.

Then he spoke, voice soft, like a secret meant for her alone.

“You were the first dragon I ever touched,” he said. “You could’ve bitten my hand off. Could’ve flown away. But you didn’t.”

Meatlug shifted slightly and leaned into him—her weight like a mountain choosing to rest beside him instead of on him.

Fishlegs laughed under his breath. “I don’t know what Hiccup saw in me that day,” he admitted, fingers brushing the ridge of her thick hide. “But… I think I understand now what he saw in you.”

The Gronckle closed her eyes, and a low rumble echoed from her chest. Not a growl. Not a snore.

A purr—gentle and grounding. A sound like safety.

Fishlegs rested his hand against her side, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath.

“I’m glad you’re mine,” he whispered. Then added, quieter still, “Or… that I’m yours.”

The stars kept rising. The sea kept breathing.

And for the first time in weeks, in months, Fishlegs didn’t feel like he was bracing for the worst.

Because whatever came next—whatever winds would blow or battles would return—he wouldn’t be facing them alone.

Not with Meatlug beside him.