A long long time ago, in a land far far away, a funeral bell tolled, it's grim yet musical clangs floating through the air and bouncing off the many hills, making the town vibrate lightly, so that small pebbles jumped into the air like tiny wisps of sand, though they were weighed down by the downpour that was native there.

Almost the entire population of Berk, and many others besides, was crammed into the church, even watching through the windows, which had been replaced with clear glass for the event, teetering on hastily constructed scaffolds that swayed in the wind like flowers stuck in a gale, top heavy from the men and women stood atop them, despite the rain. A few pace around nervously, though not many enjoy the space to do so. Even the dragons look downcast, and many have their noses in the mud, disinterested in any material belongings, suffering beyond what they can communicate to their riders.

It is the year 1492, and Columbus has just left for the Indies. But a far less momentous occasion is occurring here, underneath the Europeans very noses. Now the bell stops, and the people of the town also quiet, their omniscient hum quieting until total silence reigns supreme in the city of a few thousand people.

In the crowd, jammed onto the inside balcony is a man named Parthosol. His eyes are misty, and as he looks around he sees that he is not alone. Still, he wipes his eyes of the rapidly forming tears, hoping to stem their rising tide. A man ascends the pulpit in black robes of mourning, walking slowly, as if weighed down by some unseen burden. He too, sheds tears, though he hides them better than most. He puts on his reading glasses and brings out a few papers, rapping them on the wooden desk.

As the people watch, he begins to speak, his voice wavering with a perceptible tremor that shakes his jaw.

"People of the Edge! I am sure that many of you have heard of the great tragedy that has befallen us. It is the reason we are gathered here today. The last of the great line of Night Furies has perished. She lived a long and happy life. It is over now." He paused for effect, then continued.

"Let us not point fingers at each other, blaming ourselves for the events of the past, but remember to stand in solidarity so that we may face the future, as one. Today we remember our grand history, and the man who made it all happen. For those who do not remember, or for those who have forgotten, that man was known by the name of Hiccup Haddock."

Parthosol remembered those times fondly. His family had a special connection to that part of history, and his father had always gathered his children around the warm fire after dinner to tell them stories of the old days. That didn't make it any less painful for him.

"There was not always a time when Haddock was great. Once the village outcast and a source of dishonor to his father, the chief at the time, he always sought to prove himself amongst his fellows. Ridiculed and ignored, one can only imagine his life, even as the heir. Wanting to earn a place in his very home, he took to smithing, where he quickly became a prodigy. But even that was not enough for his goals. He became an inventor, a tinkerer in all things. Many of the items we use in our daily lives were conceived by him, and him alone. Even the printer was originally his idea." Everyone stole a glance at their bibles.

"Back in those days, warfare between humans and dragons was the norm." said the pastor, not stopping for the many children whose eyes bulged.

"Without the strength or skill to kill these majestic animals, he turned to other things. Mainly, weapons of his own design, many of which are still revolutionary today. Unfortunately, whether due to bad materials or bad luck, many of them failed in use or tests, damaging the nearby property and earning him a bad name. Until one night." Nobody moved, all glued to the story that was being told them, despite many having heard it many times before as part of their lessons.

"The moon was blotted out by the clouds which covered the sky, while on the ground a dragon raid was being fought fiercely, perhaps over the very ground on which we now stand. It was on that night that he waited on the top of one of the many hills that dot the country with one of his inventions, a bola launcher he had built himself. A hundred dragons ravaged the village below him, but he did not loose his weapon. Instead, he waited for one target. The legendary Night Fury. Several towers were destroyed by a black shadow whizzing among them like a dart, but still he did not fire, waiting for the perfect shot." The pastor looked around, assuring himself that his audience was still captivated.

"Then, a purple ball crashed into one of the catapults and once again the evasive dragon flew past, only this time Haddock was ready. Loosing the bola kicked him back, and so he could only hear the tell -tale scream of a downed dragon. Legend has it that it went down near Raven Point, close by to here in fact. When he told the village, no one believed it, thinking that surely he must have been wrong. Dejected, Hiccup combed the forests for days trying to find the downed dragon, but found nothing. Then, as he was about to give up, he came across it's path, the trees broken and bent where it had crashed among the trees. Intending to kill it, for things were different back then, he brought out his knife and prepared to stab the dragon with all his might, believing that if he did he might find status among his comrades." Many involuntarily covered their mouths, not believing that anyone could do such a thing.

"However." the pastor continued, seeing the distressed faces, "This was in the middle of a three-hundred year long war, and thus such behavior can be justified." He went on. "But he could not. Something struck him about this particular dragon, and he dropped his dagger in confusion, not knowing what to do. Then, in a sudden flash of inspiration, or insanity depending on your point of view, he cut it loose. The rest, as they say, is history. He even named his dragon Toothless." Nervous laughs were shared by all, but they were forced and quickly died down, disarmed by the general mood.

"Many great feats were performed by the two, including their most notable accomplishment, the end of the dragon wars and the beginning of the Age of Enlightenment. There were many other great things that Hiccup did, but there is not yet time to list them all, for he was the most advanced man of his day." The pastor was now beginning to warm up a little, but it was not to be.

"But when he died, others had to step up to take his place. And while all of them were great in their own right at first, none could compare to Hiccup, who alone swayed the edge to his way of thinking and established a kingdom that lives on in his honor. But after a time, the kings after him came to become corrupt, and they mismanaged numerous affairs, including the infamous Midway disaster." Everyone who had learned even an inkling of history paused, and strained their ears to listen (more on that later), including Parthosol.

"On that day, March 15th,,, a day to be remembered forevermore, came the dwindling of the Night Fury as a race, for many of them died there in an enormous explosion that scorched most of the surrounding land. This reduced much of the population to inbreeding, causing many problems that to this day could not be weeded out. And it was of one of these failures that the last of these great dragons, Amaranth, was consumed by, and she eventually fell to a defect of her heart." There was a pregnant pause as the speaker inhaled deeply.

"Let us revere in a moment of silence for the deceased, so that we may reflect upon them and remember their ways."

Parthosol bowed his head and folded his fingers between themselves, a position he had always found comforting. All across the room men and women did the same, even the normally rowdy children fell silent, stricken by the gravity of the people around them. For minutes no one so much as coughed, shifting uneasily but remaining quiet.

Before the pulpit an enormous casket languished, and Parthosol focused on it, hoping to find solace there, but only bringing himself more grief, he forced himself to look away. Finally the pastor spoke again.

"And now it is time to bring the bard. He is more qualified to recount these histories than I." said the pastor. He walked off the pulpit with more of a spring in his step, and a few people clapped half-heartedly.

Another man stepped out, but instead of the banjo he would usually carry for weddings, over his arm was slung a French violin that sung tartly as it leaped into his hands. The music rose and fell with the tone of it's player, while many of the adults assumed a dreamy… er, expression.

And while histories flowed past the ears of many, the men on the balcony all listened closely, for they would play a part in the events to come, Parthosol not being the least of them. They knew what many of the others did not, and while the bard sang on, some began to whisper among themselves and sip out of their tiny cups, those which had been dusted out of the cellars, their delicate engravings speaking to a bygone era.

Soon the music hit a new low, and suddenly nobody felt much like wine. They had picked a good man for the job, and he did his work well. Now the violin wound down, and with one final flourish, the minstrel bowed and hopped away, bidding leave for the pastor to return and finish his speech. After another hour of reminiscing and a blessing, followed by some grim refreshments, the funeral ended. Mostly.

As the last men filed past the lifeless corpse of a once great dragon, several men came to take it away. Parthosol was one of the lucky, or unlucky, few. The casket was discreetly dragged outside, and loaded into a cart to be taken away. But not to be buried. This was the dragons' funeral, for several Nadders fell in line as the horses trotted on, seemingly unfazed by the giant beasts that walked alongside them, stepping in rhythm together, one on each side.

It was evening, and the rainclouds had receded, forming beautiful yellow and orange stripes that raced along the sky, mixed in with only a tinge of pink along the western edges near the sea, where a dazzling line of sunlight shone over the mute blues of the northern oceans. Acrosst town the buildings radiated beauty to rival the finest gemstones, and the smell of the rain had receded, leaving the air cool and crisp for any who ventured outside.

Now the wagon reached the coast, and several men opened the box and took out the Night Fury, laying it on the rocky ground with the help of the Nadders accompanying them. From various rocks and ledges other dragons watched, patiently waiting for the humans to leave. As the driver encouraged the horses to turn around, Parthosol saw a flock of them descend upon the corpse, yet they did not come near, instead standing at a distance, doing something he could not see or hear.

Sometimes the things they did were very strange, he thought, as the horses rounded the bend and the dragons disappeared from sight, shielded by a mound of grass. But, there were other matters to attend to, and he did not dwell on what he had seen for long.

One week later. Berk. Hofferson Hall. The south parlor.

A bevy of chairs stood on the old floor, arranged around a table. Light streamed in through a crack in the florally patterned shades, which looked misplaced in their current situation, though they usually served their purpose well enough. It was a sunny day outside, and some of the morning cheer still managed to slip through, making the walls speckle with happiness.

Candles were spread around the room, their thimbles serving to stabilize them and catch any dripping wax, even if they were not lit. There was a large table in the middle, covered with a gray cloth that drooped evenly over the edges, while scrolls and even a few papers were scattered around the surface.

The pastor of the church sat at the end chair, as the guest of honor, while the king presided over all, having just arrived from the capital over the issue. Parthosol and a few others were strung out in their respective chairs, eyes flickering between their scrolls and the men around them while the people outside bustled.

What were they talking about? The last Night Fury egg, of course.

"And that is why we must incubate it now, before it is too late and the egg becomes infertile!" That was one of the men from the hatchery. Longlock was his name, and his impatience was beginning to get the better of him as the meeting dragged on.

"And what of his mother? (they could determine gender in the egg)" asked Parthosol, always the voice of infuriating reason. "Or even a mate. No wild Night Furies have been found in decades, and none are likely to be found now. We have searched the world for them, yet there are naught but bones to be had."

"Dragons live for a longer time than you'd think, Parth." Longlock shot back.

"And yet not long enough, I fear. We must take no chances, for the essence of a very species lies in our hands, it's survival entirely determined by our choices. Redouble the search efforts, and let the egg lie until we are successful, unless another way becomes open to us."

"And how long will that take? I believe that we must act now, or we stand the chance of losing our grip forever."

"We may, or we may not. Eggs can remain viable for a long time, if I am not mistaken. Something that you should know of all people." Parthosol could see a few nodding to his logic, although many more were on the brink of being inflamed by Longlock. He had to cool them down, before they decided to do anything hasty, while not appearing to become overly antagonistic in the eyes of his fellows, especially the king.

"I still vote for action. Too long have we languished inside our safe halls, ignoring the world around us. Must needs it take such great issues like this to find our own course?"

"Perhaps. I am not one for such risky ways, yet this argument seems better than most. Might it be possible to accomplish both ends at once? For we must choose a path. In that I agree with Longlock. For many times we have failed to do what was necessary, and so lost touch with reality, often with disastrous consequences, as any in this room can attest to."

Longlock gave the smallest hint of a grin. He was winning them over, even if it was only gradual.

"Then what path shall we take?" he began, building up to a crescendo "In what way is it possible to achieve our goals? Must we fight, or will we stand together? There is a solution to our problems, as there always has been. We must only see what is in front of our very eyes to find it. I propose a compromise with what Parthosol and his friends have to say, whatever it may be." Longlock sat back, waiting for the others to speak.

Parthosol mulled things over for a minute before he said anything, creating a small lapse in the conversation as he thought about what he should convey to his audience.

"It is of utmost importance that no one besides ourselves learn of the last Night Fury egg. Such a treasure would be tempting to even the most honorable men of the Edge, much less a thug. That's number one. Tell me: is there any way that an embryo can be preserved? A safe place must be found for it, and then, and only then, can we consider finding a mate for the future dragon. The safety of the egg is our largest priority, in my mind."

The king rapped his fingers on the tablecloth while Longlock contemplated, looking annoyed at the interruption but not daring to ask him to stop. Many became thoughtful, and a few assumed a far away look in their eyes.

"There are ways to preserve embryos, yes, but they are difficult. It would have to be cold year round for the egg not to hatch, and yet not too cold, for the fluids must not freeze. The search for a wild Night Fury is already underway, but I see your reasoning there. With a few changes this might actually work."

"What changes?" asked Parthosol, already in a better mood.

"We'll talk about it."

They all chuckled.

One Month Later. Iceland.

A carrack appeared over the glittering horizon, it's white sails spread wide over the shallowing sea. The Edge flag flew at the mainmast, and on the prow stood Parthosol, smiling as the cool spray washed over his jacket, while his sword was sheathed in a special oilcloth that shone with the setting sun's light.

As the ship heaved to and drew in it's sails, three boats were dropped into the water, one carrying a large box and the others supplies. Parth watched as they went ashore, with Longlock in the lead, steering the oarsmen to a small fjord hidden within the tall mountains that were covered with a fine coat of snow, a few rocks protruding from them at intervals.

In the valleys the vibrant green grass covered ethereal forest floors, growing beneath mossy stones that probably hadn't shifted in a thousand years, while birds chirped and chittered during the short summer season rush. An eagle floated high above the ground, propelled by a rising thermal from a rocky patch of ground.

Iceland was a bit of a misnomer.

Parthosol watched the boats become distant brown specks on the horizon, waving slowly as they went, then turned and walked to the poop. He was getting a shave.

For two weeks there had been only been enough fresh water in the scuttle to drink, at least according to the quartermaster, so there had been no washing for the bedraggled crew. Now that they had reached land, however, the barrels had been opened and everyone was taking as much as they wanted. Parthosol had a bad habit of always taking off his mustache, and the bristling hair tickling his nose had infuriated him on the trip. He hurried his step, hoping that they hadn't used all of his future shaving cream.

On the shore, Longlock had just set up camp with his men, keeping order and readying the supplies for the long climb up the mountain the next day. In his personal chest were two very special documents, both for the lord of the province, Avalon.

After they were done with their… mission, they would head to the nearest port on the other side of the hills, where their ship would be waiting for them.

As it was, they would wait here for the night; Fish had already been caught, and everyone was settling in to the new regime after so long at sea, many taking deep breaths to enjoy the flowery Icelandic air.

A fire was built, and all gathered around the fire to tell stories. The captain listened, his mind far away and yet still focused, caring not for the raucous jokes and queries of the others. Some of the younger ones tried to poke fun at him, but something about him turned them away, and they all went back to eating their fish with their comrades.

Dawn opened fresh, with the mountains glowing bright orange as the sun peeped over their crests. Soon Longlock had woken his best runner and handed him the papers. Within five minutes, the boy had become only a speck on the white, white slopes curving high above the valley.

Now for his real business here; the egg, though he told no one about it. The official story was that they were making a memorial, and a special stone had been brought ashore for just that purpose. An hour later their grub had been served, and everyone dug in for the march ahead, their pickaxes at the ready (permafrost).

Everyone stretched, and then they were on their way.

Multiple glades dotted their path, a worn out trail used by the shepherds to drive their sheep, and hoof marks still could be seen imprinted on the ground, for it did not rain often here, the plants instead being watered by the mountain streams running merrily down from their glaciers. A few birds watched the procession from above, and below them deer flitted away noiselessly, while mice skittered around on the forest floor, as they always did on mornings like these.

The sound of water bubbling from around a bend in the path hastened their footsteps, and indeed, a babbling brook ran acrosst their path, clear as the air itself. Longlock called a general halt, and soon all were on their knees, sipping from the water, or if they were more greedy, gulping it down hastily. After a few minutes everyone had had their fill, and they continued on, the path ever rising until it leveled on a plateau high above the water of the fjord.

The men did not wonder, for many of them had ridden dragons before, perhaps the only complaint was that they hadn't brought along a Gronckle or so to help with the haul.

Golden rays streaked from above them and cast shadows upon the water, which rippled gently with the breeze that caressed it's surface, making eddies spin left and right from the center of the lake. Dew fell gently from the leaves as they wavered, and the men let their mouths hang open, half-seriously trying to catch some of the water that was mysteriously falling from the sky.

The joking stopped an hour in however, and they all settled in for their long trip underneath icy cold mountains and above sunlit vales filled with wildflowers and sweet smelling grasses. The chill melted away, and the last of the hoarfrost evaporated, leaving small droplets to trickle down the trees, pooling in small chinks that ran across the bark in wavy lines seemingly carved when the world began, so ancient were they.

They walked on, their shoulders beginning to ache and jostle from the weight slung over them, yet still Longlock carried on. The men's footsteps grew heavy, and their feet tread like irons over the moist ground. It was midday now, and the sun was shining upon their backs, warming them until they glowed and their skin turned brown, even underneath their shirts, which clung to their arms with a sticky zeal.

Finally there was a general halt, and the tools which they had been carrying were set down on the ground while their owners stretched out joyously.

They had stopped next to two trees that were alone in a little glade; one was an oak tree, and one an elm. And after a small rest, they began to dig. Dirt piled up on both sides of the men as they sang dirty ditties (the contents of which I am not at liberty to disclose). Soon the dirt began to harden, and the workers didn't miss a beat, switching to their pickaxes, heaved easily to them from the top of the hole, which was now almost five feet deep.

The box was carried over, and lowered carefully into the hole with ropes, tied around the casing with a double knot, just to make sure. The permafrosted soil and rock was shoveled back in, and the dirt carefully smoothed, to the point of new turf being transplanted there. Then the false gravestone was set, and their work finished, the party began the long journey down the mountain, lighter by one Night Fury egg, though they did not know it.

A not so long time ago, in a land far far away…

A/N Did you like it?

Edit. Something with the lines between the different sections went wrong. I'm not sure why. Hmm.