AN: This is a stand-alone oneshot. The events set out here are not part of the storyline of Learning Curve / A Dragon's Gift.

The main timeframe is seven months post-movie, but with flashbacks.

As a precaution I've given this a T rating as there are some very short, violent passages.

Means and Ends

They thought the raids were over for another season and had, some said, slackened their guard just a little too soon.

Others suggested that the last batch of mead had been brewed just a little too strong.

More still blamed the weather. But really, you think they'd be used to it by now.

Whatever; something ill had been abroad that night. They all felt it. But when the morning finally arrived, none of the survivors cared to dwell upon the single factor that, beyond a doubt, made it the deadliest raid that any of them could ever recall.

That night, like so many before, most of the villagers chose to fight alone. They were happy to tread a solo path to glorious victory, or else to Valhalla. The notion of tactics, let alone of team fighting just didn't seem very... Viking.

But long ago, Stoick and his wife had found a better way. Back to back they went at it, broadsword and hammer, each covering the other. Blow upon blow they moved through the village, a bellowing, four-legged, four-armed demon carving a broad and gory swathe. Gronckle, Nadder or Nightmare, it mattered not: if it had wings and scales then it fled before them, or else fell in bloody carnage.

Months later, thoughts of that night still haunted the chief. And in his remembrance it seemed that her strength, her stamina had been enough to fuel the two of them. She inspired him. No, more than that: she infected him, boiled his blood with the urge to protect, powered his muscles with the fight-frenzy long after other men were weak with fatigue. In that crazed night of battle the two of them, invincible and immortal, became the very gods of war.

In retrospect their one, their only flaw had been so, so obvious.

Never for a moment did they stop to think that, one day, dragons might have the same idea too.

"Got a moment for your old man, son?"

Hiccup didn't look up, or pause from shaping the red-hot steel. If he did, the clasp would be ruined, and the fixing for Chops' new saddle would be delayed for another day. A grumpy Fishlegs and a grumpy Gronckle did not make for a fun mix.

But the young man raised a hand for a moment to acknowledge his father, at the same time shouting across to him, the slightest edge of irritation to his voice:

"Just a second, Dad..."

One had to pick the right moment to interrupt a man working the hot metal. It was a concept that Stoick had never quite grasped.

As the ruby light of the piece began to fade, Hiccup gave it a final twist with the pliers and offered it up to the template. He let out a brief grunt of satisfaction: a good match. Hiccup set down his tools and leant away from the anvil, slowly straightening his cramping back. He reached to the quick-release on his belt, one finger flicking at the lever; immediately the thick band fell away from his waist, still tethered to the wall-plate by a long leather strap.

The safety belt, designed to stop him falling onto anvil or coals should he stumble on his prosthetic, had been Hiccup's first innovation when he returned to the forge. For one so daredevil in the air, the young man was oddly particular about his safety on the ground.

"Sorry Dad. Critical moment there..."

"I've just done it again, haven't I? Caught you at a bad time."

Hiccup grinned back at him, dismissing his father's concern with a wave of his hand.

"It is your special skill. You must have driven Gobber nuts, all those years."

Stoick was unabashed. "Some things a man does, son... there's just no changing 'em. Foolish to even think of trying." A glance, then, at Hiccup's work. "Umm... it's not spoiled, I hope..."

Hiccup's smile broadened. "No, no, it's all good. And you're welcome here any time, you know that." The young man's eyes dropped the to the ash shaft that twirled nervously in his father's fingers. "You have to be kidding me. Not the spear again?"

The slightest shrug, then. "The buck flinched. Must've scented me just as I threw. The boulder next to him wasn't so lucky, though."

Stoick tossed the weapon idly onto the counter. Before it could fall to the floor, Hiccup flipped it up and glanced at the head with a practised eye. In a couple of seconds the young man had seen all he needed to; he let out a quiet gasp at the sight of the ruined edges. The damage was extensive, but repairable.

But it wasn't the wrecked metal, in itself, that shocked Hiccup. It was the image of the weapon flung so hard as to smash the steel as badly as this. If the deer had been on the receiving end, it would have been a quick death indeed.

And then Hiccup shuddered again as he wondered how many enemies, dragon and human, had been on the receiving end.

Secretly, the young man suspected his father's kill rate might improve if he traded some of the power for more precision in his throws. But he knew better than to mention it straight out. Pretending to inspect the spear more closely, he came at the subject from a different angle.

"Speaking of weapons... did you see those new bows we got from the Bogs, last trading voyage? They're composites. Beautiful things..." He paused for a moment, smiling at a fond memory. "I picked one out for Astrid right away; she's getting really quite lethal with it."

His father's response was as decisive as it was predictable.

"Huh. 'Course I've seen 'em. Damned newfangled stuff..."

Then, seeming to realise the harshness of his words, he added, softer:

"I'm pleased for Astrid, of course..."

And that, Hiccup knew, was that. His father had said it himself: foolish to even think of trying.

The battle was winding down, and Stoick had a moment to take stock. It was strange, he thought, how alike they were, the cries of the maimed men and those of the dying beasts. But many of both lay unmoving, and those were the ones that made no sounds at all. The reek of death clogged the air as the blood of Viking and that of dragon mingled and flowed into the beaten earth. Stoick knew that the blood and the gore would stay clear in his mind long after the rain had washed the worst of the red from Berk's old streets.

The chief sighed, hard. Would these streets, his streets, ever be clean?

A sudden ruckus broke out over behind the hall. Val was at his side but facing the other way; she had the discipline not to turn, relying instead on her man to appraise the new threat.

What emerged to face Stoick from behind that hall chilled him through and through, right there in the sweltering heat of battle.

One monstrosity, but two heads. Four wings, four legs.

It was two Nightmares, fighting together.

The dragons held their wings tight to their bodies, quite unlike the species' ordinary, loose battle-stance. Compact and lethal they danced about each other, so close he thought they must trip and fall.

They did neither.

Abruptly the dragons came to a halt. While one looked back towards the hall the other sent two quick jets of flame straight into a peat-wagon just across the street. Wood and fuel instantly exploded, and the villager cowering behind the cart ran screaming away, clothing all ablaze.

The dragon that had fired turned its head slightly and fixed Stoick with a binocular stare that, to the chief's frenzied mind, seemed to consist only of pure, calculating malice. The beast gulped a quick breath, and with reflexive speed Stoick whipped up his shield to deflect the coming blast. But what emerged from the Nightmare's mouth was only a pitiful gob of fire, falling well short of the human pair. Stoick smiled grimly; this, they could deal with.

"You're all out!"

But then the dragons' whirling dance started up again. It was over almost as soon as it began, and now the second Nightmare faced him while the first stood turned away to guard their flank with fang and claw. And suddenly Stoick realised what was going on. Beyond fright, benumbed with shock, he just gawped for a moment in disbelief.

This dragon had plenty of flame left. This dragon would continue the firestorm while its partner... while its partner...

Recharged.

"Val."

"Huh?"

"Turn about, Val..."

"What, got a Terror singing your beard again, old man?"

"No jokes, Val, not now. Turn about!"

Stoick stepped out along the forest path one more time. A largish sow was slung over one shoulder, the beast's head lolling this way and that to the rhythm of his strides. It was a good sized kill, but he hefted the load without any apparent effort at all.

It was early May, and Spring's noonday sun dappled his boots with the lime-green flicker of fresh new leaves. He knew the way well enough now, his feet able to dodge the rocks and the twisted roots without conscious thought. Which was probably just as well, for at this point his mind was on quite other things.

His path led away from the village, not towards it. It was the route to the cliff-girt shore at the far north of Berk's main island.

The sow wasn't the only thing carried by Stoick that day. There was, of course, his regular hunting knife at his belt, the blade's steel worn short and thin from sharpening these many years past. Strapped over his free shoulder, a quiver. And in his spare hand, a composite bow. Hiccup had been right about one thing: it was a beautiful weapon. But then, Stoick had known that well before he met with his son at the forge.

Ah, the bow. He'd kept his practice with it secret, knowing eyebrows would be raised if old Stoick was seen with something so... modern. But these days he needed lots of meat, and in helping him to obtain it the bow was terrifying in its efficiency.

The forest trees thinned to scrub, and abruptly he was at the edge of the cliff. Not hesitating, Stoick turned to the east and began to tread the springy turf that the stretching days were just starting to brighten with the flowers of thrift and squill. Time, he knew, was running out. They would need to make the attempt soon, before the nights became too short to afford any cover of darkness.

He picked up the trail that zigzagged down the steep slope to the rocky coastal platform, the sward thinner now and broken in places where the bedrock came through. Reaching the foot Stoick turned to face the cave's mouth, setting down the sow in one easy swing. He drew his knife and started to roughly butcher the meat, keeping the hunks large.

Something was moving inside the cave. He heard it before he saw it, the telltale snick of scale on stone, but he paid no heed. After a few moments and so, so hesitantly the long snout started to emerge, rufous in the gloom. But once the sunlight hit it the dragon's true colours came alive, bright-dashed in vivid crimson and orange.

Stoick didn't pause at his work, didn't even bother to look up as the dragon withdrew fully from its shelter and curled itself up at his feet. A throaty rumble, so low as to be felt more than heard, filled the air.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You're hungry. Well, this one's all yours. I'll find something later."

He impaled the better part of a haunch on his knife and offered it up, at last meeting the dragon's eyes. The Nightmare blinked once, then grasped the bloody mass with some delicacy in its fangs. Just as gently, Stoick withdrew the blade. The dragon tossed its head and the meat vanished from sight. Stoick poked about amid the remains and repeated the process; soon, the sow was entirely gone, skin, bones, guts and all.

The Nightmare belched, loud and foul, and huffed its thanks at him. Stoick looked back, askance.

"Lovely!"

It huffed at him again, and this time the man's hand, minus the blade, rose up to meet the proffered, bloody snout.

"You are most welcome."

He got up slowly then.

"Well let's see then, you lazy lizard!"

The Nightmare growled briefly, but rose to its feet anyway. Fixing Stoick with slit pupils it slowly spread its wings, an impromptu shade from the sun's bright rays. Stoick couldn't help but be impressed; his praise, muttered, came out in a quiet undertone.

"Dammit all, but you are handsome..."

He walked carefully around the dragon, pressing at a leg here, a wing there. His charge quivered slightly at each touch, but otherwise made no movement at all.

"Good, good..."

He came full circle and set his hands on his hips.

"Much better. Strong now, yeah?"

An instant roar then, just as hard and harsh as he remembered from the old, bad days. It spoke of a Nightmare in rude health and willing to fly, willing to fight.

"So, is tonight the night, you think?"

The wings swept down hard, fanning his beard, then away and down again. The dragon rose up strongly from its sea-clad refuge and hovered there for a spell, beat upon beat. It owned the air for a time, magnificent in organic equilibrium, before sinking back slowly to the stone. Stoick had learned enough during the time of their acquaintance to know that the Nightmare wasn't even slightly out of breath.

He smiled, grimly.

"I'll take that as a yes, then."

The frosts were just over when first they met. Well, as they each soon realised, they had in fact met before. But both were so changed since their last encounter that they might as well have been strangers.

With the start of Spring the aftershocks of the Queen's death continued to rebound through the village. But Stoick hardly felt them, for his time had come to be filled at last. The sea-ice had just broken up, the reports sounding angry and sharp as thunder from a lightning strike too close to home. And the chief had taken that as his cue to break out the sixareen from its winter noust, to row the heavy boat single-handed the thousand faðmur out to the haaf-grounds where the cod swam lazy in the cold, still depths. Such big, fine fish he'd caught on the long-lines there!

No-one in the village missed him much, out on those three-day voyages.

And he'd also taken the ice-break as his sign to brush the dust from his old hunting spear, eager to tread the forest ways again, to test himself against the forest wilds. Anything with scales was off-limits, naturally.

No-one noticed when he vanished quietly into the green once more, with far too much time to himself to brood on what had come to pass.

There were all sorts of men in the world; Stoick knew this well. Recognising the fact of it, knowing how best to deal with each one... well, he wouldn't be much of a chief if he couldn't master that.

And in his time he'd been a good chief.

Ah yes, in his time...

He'd known calm men who got nasty with alcohol, and only then. And there were men that beer just made drowsy.

There'd been good fighting men who carried their strength plain for all to see, and others who nurtured theirs quietly, even shielding it, till it was most needed. It turned out his son was of the latter sort, and Stoick loved him for it.

There was, he knew, a class of men who never really felt the need to marry, self-contained and self sufficient. Not antisocial; far from it, they often made for fine companions. Stoick used to count several such amongst his friends.

And then again there was the sort of man who found a partner, who loved deeply, only to suffer loss and grief and heartbreak. Except that, in the fullness of time, they would seek another. For such men it was as if the condition of loneliness was altogether too much to bear for very long. As the dragon wars dragged on, year after bloody year, he'd come to meet this kind of man quite often. Oh how he envied them, each and every one!

And then there were men like him.

Stoick wasn't naïve, oh no. He didn't exempt himself from his ceaseless analysis of humanity, a task from which no leader could ever be entirely free. And after Val's passing he knew himself well enough to understand that there could be no other. Instead, he vowed, Berk itself would be his spouse. Nothing mattered more to him than the survival and welfare of the village. Indeed, as the raids continued, it became easy to think of nothing else.

He looked back on those days now with a terrible guilt, for he knew that the flaws in his makeup, faults that he was powerless to rectify, had damaged his relationship with his son. For he couldn't look at Hiccup without being reminded of what he'd lost, was incapable of knowing ever again. And the memories of happier times, when they did come, still cut him so deeply that he flung up barriers without any ability to prevent it; indeed, without any conscious thought at all. Thus it was that Stoick shied away from any meaningful engagement with his son, afraid of opening up further caverns of misery that were, as yet, still mercifully unexplored.

But then, overnight, everything changed.

It had been hard to hear the words at first, and harder still to hear them from Hiccup's mouth. But by the end, the evidence of the chief's own eyes left no room for doubt. Dragon's weren't evil, murderous beasts. All of the blame for their behaviour, all of that slaughter down the years could be laid at the feet of their vast Queen, who'd invaded the minds of every last one.

Her defeat shattered the villagers' world. They'd all seen what Hiccup and his dragon - a dragon that would, unbelievably, put itself in harm's way for a human they'd all thought worthless - could do together. And their saviour wasted no time in pressing his advantage, working tirelessly to integrate dragons into Berk's daily life. A task at which he was proving, day after day, to be more than competent.

Berk had no need of a spouse now. Berk would do just fine without Stoick, thank you.

What was left for him? His options were rather limited.

What was left was only the deep-haaf with its fish, and the deep forest with its game.

And so it was that on one such outing, as he skirted the pines around the marsh's boggy edge, Stoick tripped on a fallen branch that hadn't been there the day before. He'd taken a second look, startled back in panic as the branch shifted slightly, and fell flat on his back.

Seasoned hunters just don't trip over the tails of large dragons in the woods. You're supposed to notice the beasts first, to track them from a long ways off. But then again, large dragons don't normally let hulking Vikings stumble into them unannounced.

Thinking to salvage some dignity, Stoick scrambled to his feet. Only to feel his heart sink at the sight of the sorry emaciated flesh, the scaled skin hanging loose from the bones, the once-powerful wings now draped like shrouds over the cold hard ground.

The Nightmare was starving.

Hiccup's instructions came back to him then. Upon the instant Stoick dropped his weapons, kicked them away. His hands in plain view, he came up to the dragon's head slowly, from one side.

The precautions were unnecessary; there was no fight left here. The Nightmare wasn't quite at the point of death, but neither was it very far away. Its dull, amber eyes seemed only to plead for release.

Stoick continued his inspection. It was most strange; there was no sign of any injury or illness at all. What had trapped the Nightmare here, prevented it from hunting, from feeding? He'd never seen anything like it. Satisfied that he was in no immediate danger, he went round again, taking a closer look.

It was only then that he caught the line of the well-healed but jagged scar running long and deep from breastbone to wing-root. Overwhelmed, knowing in that instant the identity of the creature lying helpless before him, he fell to his knees.

The two pairs, dragon and human, had fought each other to a standstill. The Nightmares were at last out of flame, and Val and Stoick were very nearly out of strength. If Vikings alone had been in the fight, they might have called it an honourable draw.

But it wasn't one of those fights.

One of the beasts stumbled about at Val's feet, stunned by repeated blows from Stoick's hammer. Just off to one side its partner staggered up, gouts of blood running free from Val's last sword strike, and made to move towards its partner.

The human husband and wife gathered themselves one last time. Stoick was fairly certain the bleeding dragon wouldn't fly again; it could wait its turn for dispatch. He exchanged a glance with Val, and saw that her thoughts were tending the same way.

She wiped her bloodied hand, perfunctory, on her leather battle-skirt and switched the grip on her sword. Then she drove it long and hard into the throat of the nearer dragon before twisting the blade and tearing it out at a cruel, narrow angle.

Stoick didn't understand the scream that split the air an instant later. But long afterwards he learnt it was the coupled death-howl of a Nightmare mated pair. One part keening lament mixed with three parts of anguish and outrage, it was possibly the most heart-rending, most dangerous sound any human would ever live to hear.

The dragon they thought could wait until later bounded up to Stoick and, raising its undamaged wing, dealt him a terrible concussive swipe right across his forehead. In the same moment, its stricken partner flicked back its tail and, with the last of its strength, whipped it across at Val. With unerring precision one of the lilac spikes pierced the chain-mail at its weakest point, right between the breasts.

There in the woodland Stoick knelt, head bowed, while the Nightmare wheezed and grumbled away the last of its life. And as if the decision had been brewing quietly within him for some time, the chief found that his next action came quickly and easily, the most natural thing in all the world. The chief raised his head, looked calmly back at the Nightmare, and bared his neck to the long fangs close before him.

"Well, dragon?"

Did the beast have no strength left to do the deed? Stoick looked again, and saw it was not so. The Nightmare held its head up proud, but its jaws stayed resolutely closed.

"I'm right here, you bastard!"

Long moments passed, but it was no good. The dragon would not grant him this last, small comfort.

Comprehension slowly dawned for Stoick then, as he remembered more of what Hiccup had been saying recently about Nightmares. Specifically about their pair-bonds, how it often happened that the death of one dragon was followed by that of its partner soon after. And how hard had it been for this Nightmare, freed from the Queen's control and forced to confront the reality of its mate's demise in a new world, one in which her killers were now supposed to be the dragons' friends?

The inner conflict, Stoick imagined, had proved impossible to resolve. And so, with even fewer options for escape than those available to Stoick himself, the Nightmare had chosen to end its days in fasting, exiled and alone in these woods.

Completely unbidden he felt the empathy well up inside of him, rudely shoving aside his own bleak despair. In no sense could this dragon's death be said to be just. And with that realisation, shocking new ideas began slipping through to the chief. His face held a brief, wry smile; they were thoughts that might have been more at home in the fluid, subtle mind of his son, not here with some old warhorse, so set in his ways.

Stoick didn't understand how or why, but with this old enemy as mediator, he began to glimpse the shape of a new road ahead. It was going to be wide enough for the two of them.

And with that the chief spoke up again, amazed to hear a kindness in his voice that hadn't been there for years.

"It won't do, dragon. I won't have it."

Slowly, oh so slowly he reached for the strip of beef jerky, his rations for the trail, in the pouch at his side. He felt for the waterskin that hung there too. Stoick bit off a good chunk of the jerky, took a swig of water and started to chew, getting the meat good and soft. The dragon watched him all the while with curious eyes. After a minute, Stoick took the morsel from his mouth and offered it out on open palm.

Again thanks to Hiccup, he knew his actions comprised a ritual no dragon could possibly ignore. And as with most things dragon-related, his son turned out to be right once more.

After a moment, and (as it seemed to Stoick) rather in spite of itself, the Nightmare's terrible jaws began to crack apart.

The light was already starting to fade when he turned again to his old home. He glanced up at the threshold, its proportions increased now to allow for a dragon's easy passage. He knew well enough what he'd see on crossing inside at this hour.

Plates unwashed, the room unswept, a Fury's warm and dusky odour. The pattern was so familiar now. Stoick smiled; he wouldn't be annoyed, no, not tonight.

The hearth-fire had been banked up since late afternoon, and in its dull, dying glow the Fury and his son lay sprawled out, both sound asleep. Hiccup's arms, spread wide in complete relaxation, seemed to mimic the fall of the dragon's wings as he lay draped across the stocky neck of his companion. The young man had recently dropped into the Fury's native sleep pattern, and Stoick knew they'd both be up again in the small hours, riding the cool night airs as they kept the night watch. And it was at those times, when Hiccup's new dark-tanned flying leathers blended to the dragon's own black hide, that Stoick was left wondering where the draconic changes in his offspring might end.

It took a moment for Stoick to remember that all of this was normal, was healthy. This was the new world, and it was better all round than the one it replaced, whichever way one chose to look at it. That he himself could find no place to fit within it saddened him more than he possessed the words to say.

He gazed kindly upon them for a little longer, fixing the image of his once-boy, now a man, again in his thoughts. Yes, this was Hiccup's time. His son's, and his dragon's.

"Good night, son..."

One big green eye cracked open, half-awake.

"You too, Fury. Take care of him. Please? For me."

Stoick knew the request was superfluous, but it comforted him to make it anyway. And just for a second, right on cue, there were two great green eyes in the gloom, calmly holding the chief's gaze. They blinked once in affirmation before the black lids slowly dropped once more, the dragon seemingly content it had communicated enough.

Stoick reached quietly for his helmet, tenderly fingering its curves. Then, he put it on. He walked calmly across the flags, stepped outside, turned, and latched the door.

It was sunset, and the watchman leant heavily on his spear as the golden disc kissed the horizon one more time. Really, he thought, why watch Berk's borders anymore when theirs was a village at peace? His thoughts turned to the mead hall. With luck Gerðr would be there when he came off shift, and unchaperonned by her pesky brother...

His idle dream was interrupted by a roar that could only come from one breed of dragon. Spinning on a heel, grasping wildly at his spear, he stared wide-eyed at the flaming heavens. Oh, it was all right; a Nightmare, but probably just Hookfang, out for another evening joyflight with Spitelout's boy...

The sun was sinking fast now, already half-gone beneath the sea's face. At this time, for just these few seconds, one could gaze upon it directly without hurting the eyes. The last of the direct light started to vanish, the sunken rays making the sky bleed and blaze with vermilion, ruby and crimson. And at that point there seemed for an instant to be a brighter flaring, oddly reminiscent to the watcher of a sight not seen in Berk for many months: the flame of a Nightmare's skinfire, bursting wild and violent from every part of its body.

But Hiccup, roused from his slumber by some unknown prompting, knew better what it was that he saw. In fact, his was the last view of them that anyone had: a strange distant silhouette flying straight out to the west where, to the certain knowledge of dragons and men, there was no land for as far as any of them had ever sailed or flown.

Words, words...

Noust - boat shelter (Shetland dialect)

Sixareen - traditional Shetland fishing boat, normally rowed by six men. I let Stoick row it single-handed as a nod to his strength.

Faðmur - fathom, six feet.

Haaf, also called the deep-haaf - the old deep-water fishing areas off the coasts of Orkney and Shetland (Shetland dialect, from Norse 'hav', open sea)