A/N: One shot, written for The Great Hall of Whump discord August Prompts.

Heather places her last catch with the other fish in her net-bag, pulls on her mittens and heads for the shore. It's mid-afternoon, but the winter day is short, and daylight is already beginning to fade.

She is about halfway to shore, retracing her footsteps in the thin layer of snow on the sea-ice, when a dull, ringing crack makes her hair stand on end. She has time to scream a curse at the gods, before the ice gives way under her feet and she plunges, feet-first, into the freezing water.

The cold hits her like a thousand knives, sharp and insistent, driving the breath from her lungs. She expects her head to dip beneath the surface, but the heavy fur cloak she's wearing retains enough air to keep her afloat.

It can't keep the water out, though: After the first shock of cold passes, she becomes aware of icy rivulets trickling down her neck and chest. The rest of her clothing is soaked through already, the bitter cold burning her skin and making her shiver. Water this cold will sap her strength quickly. She has to get out of the water, and fast.

Breathing in short gasps, she frantically tries to pull herself back up on the ice. But her efforts only serve to break more ice, making the hole bigger. After a while, she stops, and tries desperately to think.

She remembers stories about people falling through ice, and getting out by laying themselves flat. She tries that, putting her arms flat on the ice and letting her legs float up behind her, then kicking out to push herself forward and up onto the ice.

It almost works—she is able to get her entire upper body out of the water—but the ice is too thin: it shatters under her, dropping her back in.

She yells in anger and frustration, the disappointment almost too much to bear. The panic she has been trying to suppress hits her with full force: what if she can't get out of the water? There is no one who will come looking, no one who can help. She is completely and utterly alone.

It isn't fair!

She is crying now, tears hot on her cold face, her fists pummeling the unrelenting ice. All she achieves is breaking more ice.

And then a thought occurs to her. She isn't very far out. Could she break a path to shore? She spins around in the water, until she faces land, and starts slamming her fists on the ice.

After a few tries, she finds a way that works, without breaking her hands: she clasps her hands in front of her, raising her arms and driving her fists down with full force.

It is efficient, breaking off large chunks of ice, but also tiring. Every time her arms go up, she has to kick with all her strength to keep from going under. The effort keeps her warm, but together with the icy coldness of the water, it is quickly draining her strength.

And nothing can stop the burning cold from seeping into her legs. She thought your limbs were supposed to go numb with cold, but her legs, from the knees down, are chilled to the bone, and it hurts!

After what seems like an eternity, her feet touch bottom. A few more tired ice-shattering strokes, and then she manages to pull herself on to the shore. She is utterly spent. For a while, she can only lie there, shaking with cold and exhaustion.

#

The chill creeping over her is what rouses her to action. She sits up, taking stock of the situation: She is soaked through, even the fur cloak dripping with sea-water. The sun is setting, and the wind is picking up.

She thinks it isn't possible to get any colder, but oh, how wrong she is! The wind makes the cold even more intense, biting at her face and hands, tremors of cold wracking her body. If she doesn't make it back to her shelter, she realises, she is going to freeze to death. Slowly, she gets to her feet, and starts the trek home.

Trudging through the snow is hard, her feet like leaden weights, her knees aching with cold. Something tugs at her waist. She looks around, and stares stupidly at the net-bag attached to her belt with a rope. The bag is full of fish. Why has she dragged it all this way?

And then she remembers the dragon. The young Razorwhip she rescued is still too injured to feed herself. That's why she went fishing in the first place. How could it slip her mind? She shakes her head, puzzled.

Gritting her teeth, she starts walking again, pulling her catch behind her.

She wonders idly if the dragon will miss her if she doesn't return. While it has let her tend to its injuries, the beast is still wary of her, and keeps its distance. Sometimes it irks her that the dragon won't trust her, after all she's done for it.

She longs for the kind of bond those dragon-riders, back on Berk, had with their dragons.

Tears start to her eyes, as she thinks of their friendship. She was happy there, briefly. But of course she had to ruin it all, betraying their trust and giving up their secrets to Alvin. She never has been able to hold on to a good thing. Story of her life. Why even try?

She sinks to her knees, sobbing bitterly. She deserves to die here, alone in a snowdrift, with dead fish as her only company. No one will miss her. Not even the stupid dragon!

She cries for her parents to help her, but it's no use: they can't help her, ever again. They're dead. Killed.

And with that thought, she realises that she doesn't want to die here. She can't die here!

She has to find the bastard who is responsible for it, who razed her village and killed her foster-parents, and left her all alone in the world. She has to make him pay! She has to stay alive, so she can kill him!

She doesn't know his name, but she hates him with an intensity that burns hot enough to make her struggle to her feet and take one step, and then another.

#

When she finally reaches the shelter, she can barely feel her hands anymore. Her wrists ache with cold as she fumbles with the catch on the door. Her fingers slow and weak, she somehow manages to get the door open, and all but falls into the blessed warmth inside. She barely retains enough presence of mind to pull the door to behind her.

The dragon is dozing in a corner, only acknowledging her return with a snort. The fire has burned low, and she crawls over to put more wood on it. She should take off her wet clothes, but her hands are too numb to work the buckles and lacing. She is too tired to think any more.

She curls up in front of the fire, still in her sodden and icy clothing, and finally allows herself to give in to exhaustion.

#

Some time later, she becomes aware that someone is nudging her insistently. She opens bleary eyes, to find herself face to face with the Razorwhip, its great yellow-green eyes looking at her with concern. Tentatively, she reaches her hand out, and the dragon presses its snout against her palm, blowing out a huge warm breath.

With a sound between a sob and a sigh, Heather throws her arm around the scaly neck, burying her face against the dragon's side, as the beast curls its warm body around her.

She is crying again, except this time with relief—and something more:

She is alive. And she is no longer alone.

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