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Chapter Text

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,”

-Curses,

Old Wrinkly wasn’t always called Old Wrinkly. In fact, he had gone by many names in his lifetime, many different variations of the same name until finally in his old age the name ‘Old Wrinkly’ stuck like glue. 

Old Wrinkly used to not be the biggest fan of witchcraft . That was an understatement within itself. Witches had killed his parents and siblings, had left him an orphan at only ten, it was then that he decided that he would kill as many witches as possible to get revenge.

Witches used to come in many different forms back then, humans, dragons, creatures that weren’t quite one or the other. Of course, the spectrum of what is considered a ‘witch’ has changed a lot since his youth but at the time, that’s what it was. 

The Viking was someone else entirely back then, he is thankfully not that person anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time, not since his daughter was a toddler. Not since that Dragon, Tempest. 

From Witch Hunter to Village Soothsayer— a type of witch under the old regulations— oh, how times have changed . How he has changed. 

But times need to change, time is not stagnant no matter how desperately you want it to be, without time passing there is no growth, without growth there is no change and without change there is only suffering. Without change men will be stuck in their ways, stuck in their present and never looking towards the future, the here and now is how they live and breathe: It is how he lived and he breathed.

Something had to change.

So, something did change for the better or worse. 

The illness.

Old Wrinkly’s wife Detrime passed away shortly after his daughter, Valhallarama’s, birth. At the time he had been upset for two reasons;

The first, the fact that his wife had died. He had pledged to the gods that he would never love another woman like he loved her, a pledge he planned on keeping. 

The second, which he now terribly regrets, was that all Old Wrinkly had left was a daughter. 

At the time having daughters, while not exactly frowned upon, was not celebrated with the same vigour as the birth of a boy. While not banned from participating in certain activities, girls were not encouraged like the boys were. Old Wrinkly was less upset about having a daughter and more that he would never get to bring her on quests, never get to see her ride her first dragon, never get to celebrate her first successful act of piracy. 

He got to see all of those things because Valhallarama is a fighter . 

Old Wrinkly also started bringing Valhallarama on all of his quests when she was five years old. 

Everyone has their faults, everyone regrets what they used to believe, what is important is that they have changed. 

Still; things needed to change.

The change happened two years later in Winter.

Old Wrinkly had settled the pair in a small Viking Village that was in need of help dealing with witches; so, they obviously had the worst hut on the outer edges of the village. It was one of the smaller villages in the Archepeligo with under fifty people living on the island in total. Valhallarama was a lively child but kept to herself, finding joy in learning how to hold swords and chase down the odd rat that snuck into their hut. 

That winter a deadly illness swept through the Viking Villages of the Archipelago. At first Old Wrinkly had brushed off the severity of the illness. From what he had heard and been told it wasn’t fatal . Of course those reports were only based on adult cases.

How could he have known that?

It started with one child in the small village. Then two. Then all of the children had it. Then one died, then five had died in the span of one week.

“It’s terrible,” one of the Viking fathers had muttered when Old Wrinkly made a trip into the village markets. “The kids just crash- I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Valhallarama caught the illness, of course she did. 

Days passed by and his daughter only grew worse, her body heating up with fever. Other children in the village with the same ailment passed away writhing in agony. Valhallarama’s coughing and wheezing gasps for air would keep the Viking up all night in. He tried the village gothi, another villagers gothi, praying, praying— everything and anything.

Everything . 

Except Witch Craft. 

At first he refused to try, what could a witch do that an apothecary could not? But still, his daughter grew worse. 

It hit Old Wrinkly in the middle of that second week that if he did not do something then his daughter would die. She would die and he would be left alone. It was a selfish thought but it was a thought. 

Witch Craft was the only avenue he had not tried. 

It was his only chance. 

“Witch Craft,” he had breathed out quietly, one hand tight on his limp daughter’s shoulder. “But they’d never listen to me- not after- not after—“

But what other choice did he have?

He had to try.

“I will not let you die, Val.” He had whispered into her hair, tears had pricked at his eyes. “I won’t.”

The child did not respond, lost in the froes of sickness induced sleep. She whimpered and pressed into her father’s hand. In a way, he had taken that as an agreement. 

And there was one Witch he could try: one nobody else would dare approach. 

And his daughter was a fighter. 

Chapter Text

Tempest was not a normal Dragon by any means: even so much later in life Old Wrinkly is not completely sure what type of dragon she actually was. But what mattered was that she was intelligent. Terribly intelligent. If anyone would know what she was it would be Hiccup.

How can a dragon be a witch , one may ask? Well: the dragon had found a way to force human bodies to do her bidding, to speak for her, to do tasks she could not do. Well, she could do the tasks it was just easier with the help of a human. That made the dragon a witch in the eyes of the Vikings, a monster and a curse from Odin. 

How Tempest managed the control over humans? Well, Old Wrinkly saw one of the dragons' methods first hand that very night. The dragon had whipped out her golden tail and plunged it into the skull of her victim, the corpse of a captured Roman solider. 

Later on Old Wrinkly would come to learn that Tempest had discovered a less deadly way, but, that was later. And Tempest did not know that method at the time. 

“The great dragon witch Tempest ,” he had greeted. “Do you know who I am?”

Of course she did, how could she not? Old Wrinkly had been the one to help get her imprisoned in the cells, preparations to send her to the Amber Slave Lands were being made as he stood here, alone, in the middle of the night. Nobody knew he was here, they would call it blasphemy, treason— a crime. They would haul him away from his one and only chance at saving his daughter. 

“Yes,” Tempest said through the Roman Soldier. “Hmph, this body is not very fresh now, is it? Annoying .”

He shifted from side to side in agitation. Would the dragon do it? At the time he was unsure and in a fit of worry. 

“I’m not here for small talk Witch ,” Old Wrinkly gritted out with a soft glower, blue eyes illuminated in the soft moonlight. “I’m here to ask you something. A favour— a deal. Whatever you dragons call it.”

The Roman Solider clapped his hands as Tempest lowered her head in amusement, “ Ohhh , the great Witch Slayer is here to ask me for something? Hoo-hoo! Oh, oh dear what could that be?” The Roman corpse did various exaggerated movements, bones cracking and shifting under the force. “What could I possibly do for you? Svik-Lament? I thought you humans thought I was some monstrosity, some freak of nature.”

He coughed and cleared his throat. “You are, ” he snapped at the dragon, his voice raised. “But— but my daughter,” the dragon tilted her head in confusion. “There- there is a sickness, a plague, and the villagers children are dying- they’re dying and- and well.”

“The children are dying I assume?” The dragon mused through the Roman Soldier's voice, the corpse's neck snapped to the left, eyes wide and unseeing. “And she has not gotten better? Have any of the children gotten better?”

Old Wrinkly swallowed. “Yes, yes that is the case. And- and, no. None of the other children have gotten better- any, any child who gets it passes away.”

“You want my help with.. curing her.” The dragon mused using the human corpse, a sly grin spreading across her face which was replicated in a bloody gape from the solider. “Hmm. What do I get in return for helping you?”

“Freedom- freedom.” He choked out. “They’re going to send you to the Amber Slavelands and, well. I can get you out.”

“Not enough.”

Wait— what-?

“Not enough?” He demanded, a hand going to rake through his hair. “Not enough. What- what else could you want?”

“Well, well,” the dragon dragged the human soldiers body around in thought like a cat playing with a mouse. “You to stop.”

“To stop?” Old Wrinkly questioned, baffled. “Stop what?”

“Hunting down witches obviously. Stop all of that- stop all of this. ” Tempest said through the guard, grin still sharp. “So, we gotta deal? And I’d probably watch you for a bit, I guess. The Amber Slave Lands aren’t that bad, I’m sure I could get out.”

Old Wrinkly hesitated for a moment. Stop the fight against witches all together? Stop his mission to avenge his family, his parents, his siblings- the loss of his childhood. After everything that they had done to him. He thought back to his daughter, sick and barely breathing in her bed; all he had left. 

All he had left.

She was worth it. 

“ Fine .” He snarled out, turning his head away to glare at the lock of the dragons cage. “ You have a deal , only if my daughter lives. If not then it doesn’t count.” Old Wrinkly moved to unlock the cage. “No funny business.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Tempest giggled through the solider, “anyways. Describe this illness to me. I have to get rid of this body or I won’t exactly be very stealthy.” She said before dislodging the corpse from her tail, it fell with a thud.

Old Wrinkly huffed out a prayer to the gods, his hands digging through his tunic for the keys.

“It’s- it’s a fever,” he looked at the dragons un-impressed reaction, “what else do you— fine. Fine. It’s also, also, also accompanied by a lot of coughing, cold and hot flushes, vomiting- uh, uh. Some delirium? The other children have gone through that— oh, oh. And long bouts of sleep, loss of appetite.” As he listed off the symptoms he opened the door to the cage.

The dragon slunk out and stood above Old Wrinkly, she made a strange motion over her chest and vocalised something in a strange clicking sound.

Later he’d come to know that action as; ‘cross my heart and hope to die.’

But at the time he had no idea. 

Old Wrinky managed to sneak Tempest into his hut without anyone finding out. It was easy in a way, living so far out of town. Out of fear for their own safety the cellar where Tempest had been kept had also been out of town but not as far away as his own hut.

The dragon sniffed around the three rooms of the gut, grunting and snarling at the odd piece of furniture as if to say ‘seriously? This is where you live? No wonder that child got sick.’ She shoved her head into a barrel and flipped it over with a snap of her jaw. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s not a lot, what did you expect?” He coughed out bitterly, “it’s all they had. It’s not the worst. ”

The golden dragon looked over at Old Wrinkly with a hiss, her green eyes narrowed. ‘Not the worst?’ The look said, ‘if this isn’t my gods excrement then I don’t know what is. What should be worse than this?’ As if to exemplify her agitation she flipped over a different barrel with mouse crap inside, the sour odir flooded the room instantly.

“Oh c’mon, c’mon. Don’t do that, now I have to clean that,” he complained, walking over to the mouse crap and shoving it back into the barrel. “Don’t do that— what’re you doing?”

Tempest had managed to lumber herself up onto the shelf above the fireplace, she was the size of a large horse so the wood creaked uncomfortably underneath her weight. 

Maybe he should have brought that corpse so she could actually speak. Maybe she can speak without a corpse though? Maybe?

“Can you speak? At all ?” He questions. “Because it’s going to be hard to understand one another while you’re here if you can’t.”

Tempest flicked swiped some weapons off of the wall with her tail and offered an angry snort.

She looked quite proud of herself for a moment before turning her attention to something else. Old Wrinkly cringed at the mess. Those were his favourite swords and daggers. He trudged over and bent down to pick up the fallen weapons.

“Seriously? What are you, a cat?“ he muttered under his breath with a scowl on his face. The dragon snorted again and slapped him on the arm, he jolted back with a cry. “What was that for?” 

Tempest snorted and raised her head indignantly, tail flicking from side to side like a proud cat . The cat metaphor really does suit her. 

“Don’t do that again.” 

All the dragon did was snort in response.

“I’ll take that as ‘I don’t care’, annoying dragon. C’mon you need to do what I brought you here for . I can’t have you causing havoc.”

Tempest flicked Old Wrinkly with her tail again. 

Valhallarama had not woken up from all the ruckus that Tempest caused. She was still in a deep fitful sleep, eyes scrunched up and mouth parted in pained gasps, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her blanket, sweat poured down her face and made her skin look shiny. Old Wrinkly stomach dropped at the sight of his child in such agony, he reached down and caressed her cheek.

“It’s going to be alright, Val. You’ll be alright.” He whispered quietly, leaning down to her a kiss on the forehead. “I’m fixing it. I promise I’m fixing it.”

He had to fix it.

He had to.

The door to Valhallarama’s room flung open with force, a tail curled around the frame and stopped it from slamming. It was an odd sight to say the least, the dragon snapped her jaw and tottered into the room lazily. Valhallarama did not react to the noise other than a quiet whimper. Old Wrinkly sighed heavily, he wanted this to  work, the witch had to keep her end of the deal. He had no real reason to trust Tempest other than hope and desperation. Old Wrinkly looked back to his daughter. 

Desperation . 

Valhallarama whimpered in her sleep and curled in tighter on herself.

“Be quieter- “ he hissed and turned to glare at the dragon. She was right behind him, head tilted to the side as she observed Valhallarama, a yelp of surprise left him and he staggered back. A cold tail wrapped itself around his ankles, lifting him up into the air before flipping him upside down. The dragon gave a chuff like she was laughing and swung him side to side, evil glee in her sharp green eyes. After a moment she turned her attention to the unconscious child and snorted curiously, lowering her head to Valhallarama’s level.

“Don’t— don’t hurt her-“ he pleaded, a shock of panic jolting through him. What had he done-? What had he done, this was a witch- a witch would never help his daughter. “Please don’t hurt her, please don’t. She’s just a child, just a child and—“

Tempest huffed out a growl and mocked an eye roll moving her head with the motion. Old Wrinkly was swung side to side while still upside down. She nudged the child’s face and gave what sounded like a thoughtful snort, then a clicking vocalisation. A moment later he was dropped to the floor and disregarded, much like the weapons from earlier.

“What’re you—“ he stammered out in a wheeze, trying to keep himself still but the world spun.

The dragon tugged Valhallarama's lips open using the tip of her tail, one sharp claw scooped under the child’s head and pulled her limp body into a sitting position. She reached her head down and bit at the scales on her shoulder, yanking at one of the smaller ones until it came off with a snap. Tempest looked over at Old Wrinkly, tilted her head and then nudged the scale into the child’s mouth, forcing her to swallow.

Old Wrinkly shuddered at the action: all he could do was hope it worked.

It worked.

Tempest did not leave immediately like Old Wrinkly thought she would. In fact, the dragon stayed well past the time Valhallarama woke up, well past when she started running around again and pretended to fight. Tempest became the main target of Valhallarama’s ‘exploits’, chasing the dragon around with her wooden sword and proclaiming victory over a very annoyed dragon who was trying to nap. The dragon even followed the two to the little island of Berk, pretending to be Old Wrinkly's dragon. Maybe Tempest was ensuring that he kept his end of the deal, that he stopped hunting witches. Or maybe she just wanted to stay for a while and observe human nature.  

But the tales of those three years are another story entirely.

And when the dragon left; she never came back. Or maybe she did without anyone seeing.