Disclaimer: These characters belong to Disney-Pixar, Dreamworks, and Cressida Cowell. If only I made money off of fanfiction.

What can I say, coming up with clever titles is not my thing. Points if you know from whence I stole this one.

This'll probably make more sense if you've read "A Distant Star," especially when it gets to the parts in Old Norse. I've come up with this in my defense, concerning all of the grammatical mistakes that doubtless exist in this story: When you just have to get where you're going as quickly as possible, grammar takes a backseat to vocabulary. Also, if you're wondering about succession and primogeniture in DunBroch in this story, my bottom line answer is: Disney.

Finally, thanks to everyone who reviewed or favorited "A Distant Star." I hope you like this one!

Updated 31 March 2014: no new content, just better formatting.

She'd been running since before daylight and now the sun was up, shining wanly. And this blasted hood wouldn't stay up. She'd always said that her hair would be the death of her; she just hadn't expected it to be true. They'd be able to see her from miles away unless she was able to keep her head covered.

She paused to listen for something other than distant seabirds and the soughing of wind in the treetops. Just because you couldn't hear or see the enemy didn't mean he wasn't there, her dad said; she heard no footsteps or telltale stillness, and there was nothing moving through the trees or creeping along the coast toward her. It would be safest to keep moving, she knew, especially unarmed and lost as she was, but the energy that had carried her from the camp in the dead of night was flagging. Here on the cliffs above the sea the wind blew straight through the cloak they'd given her. It was well into spring, but here, wherever she was, there were still mounds of snow on the ground. If she kept moving, she'd stay warm, and with luck she'd put more distance between herself and them. But she was tired, and cold, and hungry, and though she knew she shouldn't, she sat down. It was less of a sit and more of a slump, and she focused on what her mother would say: A princess must have proper posture. She does not let her tiredness show. She moves with grace and poise. Oh, Merida, do sit up straight.

"Sorry, Mum," she whispered, eyes slipping closed. "I just need a minute's rest, that's all."

The hood slipped off again.

She dreamed of fire. She dreamed someone was holding her—someone too slight to be her father, too solid to be her mother, too gentle to be her kidnappers. Light flickered in front of her closed eyelids, orange-red, and she worried in her dream that she was on fire, that she should try to get away before she burned alive. Better to burn than freeze, though; better to take the risk and accept the consequences. She embraced the heat, wrapped it around her, let it comfort her while it could.

As she woke from a good hard sleep Merida stretched, and then froze. Something was wrong. She'd been outside—she'd been running away. It had been morning and cold and grey. There'd been no roof, no fire dying on the hearth, no blanket tucked around her. For a second her heart soared with the idea that she was at home, or near enough, and she gasped and sat up quickly. Then her eyes adjusted to the light and she knew that she'd been wrong, though she couldn't say for certain why. Had her captors found her? Were any of them on guard now, or had they all gotten pished again and forgotten to set a watch? She couldn't count on that, not if they'd just retaken her; she'd have to assume someone was awake.

Someone was awake, but it wasn't who she expected. Whoever it was spoke from across the room, hoarse and just quiet enough that she didn't hear what he said. He approached, still speaking quietly, and she pressed herself back, as far from him as she could get. The boy was about her age or a little younger; there hadn't been anyone so young or unscarred with the kidnappers. She wasn't taking any chances, though, no matter how nonthreatening he looked. When dropped his eyes from her, bending to pick something up, she moved on instinct, eager to put as much space as possible between them. "You can stay right there," she said as he stared in confusion. If they were going to talk, they could do it from a distance, with the couch between them. She didn't plan to talk, though. She'd seen the door, and if the boy meant her no harm he would let her go. One day, when she was safely back home, she'd find a way to repay him for his hospitality. All he had to do now was let her creep toward the door.

He made no move to stop her, only watched curiously as she moved and then said something in a tone of mild warning. The words didn't make sense, but as long as she got out that door he could talk whatever nonsense he liked.

It served her right for not looking where she was going. Whatever she stumbled into and then fell on wasn't some piece of furniture or even a large dog; it was an animal, but with a leathery hide, a long tail, and—surely those weren't wings? Caught off-guard she shrieked involuntarily, clapping her hands over her mouth as the creature raised its head, slitted eyes appearing in the darkness. There's no such thing, she told herself, backing away, but her self helpfully replied, And there's no such thing as mums who turn into bears, either.

At her shriek the boy had jumped over the couch with impressive agility for this time of night. He stood between her and the beast, leaning back against its head; it pushed its snout against his back but didn't attack. It reminded her of Angus when she was withholding his treat: demanding, but with the knowledge that he was much bigger and stronger and had to be gentle with her. Still, her hand dropped to her hip, for the small dagger that hadn't been there since she'd been captured. The boy spoke again, raising his hands between them, shielding her from the thing—or maybe the other way around.

Was she supposed to believe that that thing was some kind of pet? She ignored the part of her that was intrigued by the idea and raised an only slightly trembling hand to point at it. "That's a dragon," she said, louder than she'd meant to.

The boy cocked his head, a slight frown on his face. He spoke again, and again it made no sense.

"Why don't you talk sense, or are you daft?" He glanced down at the dragon, like it might understand her better than he did. It stared back at her, eyes wide. It didn't look like an animal about to attack. The boy turned his attention back to her and shrugged.

It was just so ridiculous all of a sudden, the kidnapping and the dragon and now this farcical inability to communicate, that Merida threw her hands up in frustration, rolling her eyes at the same time. He laughed and then blushed, as if he hadn't expected her to notice his laughter and was embarrassed when she did. He looked down, the laughter fading, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, though he didn't have anything to be embarrassed about; she'd made more of a fool of herself plenty of times.

He stepped forward, looking hopeful. "Hiccup," he said, pointing into his own face. If that was his name, it was a bit of an odd one. He moved to one side, putting his hand on the dragon's nose, and added, "Toothless," before babbling something else. She pointed at each and said his name, enunciating in a way that would make her mother proud; apparently it was understandable enough, because Hiccup didn't correct her. Both of them gazed at her expectantly and she put one hand on her chest, stood up straight, and said, "Merida."

She hadn't known before how far from DunBroch they'd sailed before the storm hit. It had been a week, or at least she thought so; they'd kept her hood up most of the time and even had her blindfolded some days. Merida had decided that they were either going to sell her as a slave in some far-off place or demand a ransom from her father. If it was the first, it would make sense to get as far from DunBroch as possible, but if it was the second the opposite was true. All hope she had of figuring out which option it was disappeared when the storm drove them off course. The place they'd landed to repair the boats wasn't familiar, but that didn't stop her from slipping away as they celebrated surviving the storm. Only a few of the kidnappers had ever talked to her, and she hadn't understood the others when they talked among themselves; it stood to reason that they could have landed in a place where the people spoke a different language.

Even if the boy spoke the same language as the men who'd kidnapped her, that didn't make him bad. She had doubts about his intelligence as he turned his back on her and sat on the couch, giving her more than enough opportunity to escape, even with the dragon in the way. Maybe it wasn't stupidity, though; maybe it was a test. She weighed her options. If she remained here she would be warm and dry. The dragon hadn't tried to eat her yet, and if she had to be honest, she felt better now than she had since the last night she'd gotten to sleep in her own bed. If she left, there was no telling what she might find: a howling snowstorm, dangerous terrain, the kidnappers, more dragons. It couldn't hurt to stay until morning. They hadn't done anything to harm her yet, and she doubted that they'd start now. Besides, she wanted a better look at that dragon. She would stay, then, and in the morning she would find out where she was and how to get home.

She moved to stand at the far end of the couch, watching him. He wore a grey tunic and a pair of pants, nothing remarkable; but while one leg ended in a bare foot with toes stretched toward the fire, the other was made of interlocking pieces of metal, dully glinting in the light. Had he been born without it, or had it replaced flesh the way her dad's stump did? He leaned down to pick up a cup and the red in his rumpled hair glowed; with his face so near the light she saw faint stubble and freckles, at once grownup and boyish.

He was looking at her again, watching as she sat. From opposite ends of the couch they considered each other for a moment; before he broke the gaze she saw that his eyes were green, and homesickness hit her like a blow.

She hadn't let herself feel homesick before, nor sad, not while she was a captive and crying would have occupied eyes that should have been watching and noticing; a little fear was okay, anger better. But his eyes were the color of the summer yet to come in DunBroch, of the grass under Angus' feet and the leaves above her head, and all at once her stomach clenched. She missed her home, she missed her horse, she missed her brothers and her mum and her dad. Oh, he'd be going mad trying to find her. She had to get home before he and Mum worried themselves to death.

It would have been easy if the kidnappers had been as lax as Hiccup. He was no kind of guard at all, walking away again, making himself an easy target. If she had to she could put an arrow right there, between the ribs; one in the neck if necessary, but it was a smaller target, easier to miss, especially in this light. He should have known not to turn his back on a stranger, though maybe he thought Toothless would protect him.

Maybe it would. It—he, perhaps?—hadn't the bulk of Mor'du, but arrows would probably do as much damage to it as they'd done to the demon bear—the cursed bear, she amended. Hiccup was too trusting by half, and she believed more and more with every passing moment that he wasn't one of them. That didn't mean he was safe, though.

He came back with two wooden mugs and held one out to her. The sound of liquid sloshing inside made her mouth feel dry and she licked her lips, but she stared hard at the mug, as if she could see through it. At her hesitation Hiccup pulled back the hand and she wanted to cry out and leap forward to take the drink, no matter what it was. As she watched he took a healthy swallow, then offered the mug again, and she felt a tinge of shame at suspecting the worst of his intentions. She took the mug and drank greedily until she remembered herself. Then it was her turn to smile, embarrassed.

He looked into his mug, then said a word, as unintelligible as before. When she didn't understand he dipped his fingers into the mug and shook off the droplets as he repeated himself. Did he mean water? It sounded nothing like the word she knew. She parroted it back and he grinned, and any last doubts disappeared from her mind. There was no earthly way she could mistrust someone who smiled so crooked and pleased at something so unimportant.

If he'd taught her his word, she could teach him hers, so she said "Water" and it was his turn to repeat it. While he was speaking she flicked water onto his face and giggled. He looked resigned as water dripped from his nose. She finished the water in her mug and then held it out, only just thinking that she shouldn't have done that if she had to depend on his good graces. Always be polite, even to those who serve you, her mother's voice reminded her, so she asked in his language, hoping he saw the apology on her face and heard the "Please" in her voice. The smile on his face as he took the mug and walked away seemed to mean he had.