I.

A table, thin and narrow as a long boat, stretched from one end of the high-ceilinged hall to the other. Fire from an enormous hearth, while bright and strong the flames, could not light the entire expansive room, and thus corners flickered in uneven shadows and cast black glares on the faces of Viking men and women entering their meeting place.

They shuffled in from a storm outside, where torrenting rain and smothering clouds blocked the sun – and thus light – from touching a corner of the world. A grimness darkened their eyes nonetheless; even if fairer weather had accompanied their journey here, every arriving soul would still have entered with the same surly countenance now sported.

A wide variety of beards and braids took their place around the elongated council table. The heavily-plaited graying mustache of a man far from the east end of the Barbaric Archipelago settled beside the explosive red fireworks of a stoic southern chief, while a wrinkled elderly woman wearing a white bear skin hood hovered in the back where the room was darkest. Elsewhere one imposing, large-chested stocky lady chief shoved her way to near the crest of the table, followed by a short, squat tangle of waist-length blonde hair who must have been her daughter. She and the others congregating here exchanged greetings, handshakes, whispers, and shouts as Courageous Kenna hailed Aidan the Attractive, as Logan Longsword heartily thumped Morven the Unsinkable's back, and as Thuggory the Meathead stiffly welcomed the new Bashem-Oik monarch Stormbeard the Serious, an aptly-named man wearing an eruption of hair and ever-furrowed eyebrows. Even the friendliest greetings, though, suffered from strained smiles and worried frowns. Everyone glanced over to the man standing at the head of the table, wondering when he would call everyone to silence and formally commence the meeting.

That man who presided over tonight's council of chieftains leaned over an unfurled map of the archipelago and studied it thoroughly. Occasionally he reached for a pencil at his left-hand side to write in a light mark nearby some of the drawn islands, smudging the cuff of his embroidered maroon and red shirt sleeve in the process. A thin cape draped over his shoulders alongside near-shoulder length brown hair held back in a loose braid, while a brown-black leather headband covered most of his forehead beneath shaggy bangs. He was amongst the youngest of the Vikings assembled, recently turned twenty-four.

Hiccup glanced up from the table of Vikings and sighed weightily, an unwanted burden taxing even his breath. He was not prepared for this. Never would be. Someone else should be doing this, not him.

Nevertheless, it was time to begin.

It was time to put an end to this war.