Yes, my fics are branching out of Rise of the Guardians. I know, it shocks me too See the bottom for more notes, if you're interesting.

I do not own the television series Dragons, Defenders of Berk, or any of its characters.

And, Dagur rules! Okay, onward.

Dagur took a deep breath of crisp night air and reveled in how right it felt. Hiccup and him, together in this hunt, side-by-side as they hunted dragons. The way two brothers were supposed to be. It was perfect.

"You know, we're a lot alike, Hiccup."

"Really? H-how's that?"

Hiccup was nervous, but that was just because of the bit of bad blood between them. Dagur hadn't been….the best brother to Hiccup, in recent years, especially after his mother died when Dagur was ten. He'd taken what was supposed to be good-natured brotherly teasing much too far, and Dagur knew that. It was one of the few things that the older Viking actually felt true regret for.

Just another thing that was going to be fixed on this brotherly dragon hunt.

"Well, we're both born leaders."

"Oh, yeah. He's right about that," Hiccup's chubby friend said from off to the side.

At least the chubby one was actually of use in this endeavor, Dagur noted through his annoyance; he had some useful intelligence, unlike the other one, Snot-hat, or whatever his name was.

"Sons of chiefs," Dagur continued, ignoring Chubby-One's interruption.

"Yeah, that's true," Hiccup commented half-heartedly.

"Who had to be eliminated so we could gain control!" He went on excitedly.

"Yes– wait, what? No. No! My dad hasn't been 'eliminated' from anything!"

"But he could, easily. Just say the word and," Dagur jumped and twisted around in midair, sending an arrow into a tree with a 'thwack!'. He smiled at the way Snot-hat and Chubby-One nearly jumped out of their skins and admired how Hiccup's little lantern hung from the arrow. He looked at the smaller boy from the corner of his eye and sent him a secretive smile.

"Just say the word, brother," he thought as he tried to send Hiccup the message through his sideways glance, "and I'll give you back your control."

"Yeah, that's something to think about."

That wasn't a no, Dagur noted. There was still hope for his brother.

They moved off into the woods after that, and Dagur took the time to reflect. Control, he thought with a furrowed brow. Control was the only thing in life that really mattered. It was what fueled power, and what nations and great warriors rose and fell to achieve. Control was life.

And for most of his life, Dagur had no control. Oswald had had all the control in his household, and the man made sure that everyone in his family knew it. More so, he made sure that they were reminded of it every single day.

Thinking back on it, Dagur was sure his father's name – Oswald the Agreeable – was meant to be some kind of inside joke that just happened to become an effective political process. Oswald was an agreeable man, one that was easy to please, and cooperative. With other chiefs, at least. But under the guise of a peaceful politician, Oswald was still a Berserker. One who was forced to curve his naturally aggressive tendencies day in and day out to keep up a peaceful façade; he kept at the act even when around the village, just to make sure nothing contradicting the reputation of Oswald the Agreeable didn't spread to the other islands. So when the chief was at home, his Berserker side came out, and it came out in an explosion of aggression and cruelty. And his family became the ones to pay the price for peace.

Dagur could remember with perfect clarity the many nights growing up when he would wake to the sound of his mother crying, or screaming, in the next room. The sound was muffled by the walls separating Dagur's room from his parents', but the young Berserker could still hear it. And as the years past, those nights became more and more frequent.

He grew to understand as he got older that his father liked to hurt his mother, especially in bed. But it took even longer for Dagur to realize that his father also liked to hurt him.

Oswald rarely ever physically harmed Dagur when his mother was still alive; there were only a handful of cases, when the chief would cuff Dagur on the side of the head so hard that the boy would see stars. And that was only when the child did something that Oswald found particularly irksome, which was next to never. Dagur learned early on to avoid encoring his father's anger. Despite that, Oswald still caused the boy a good deal of harm when Dagur was growing up.

Oswald would treat Dagur like the perfect son on some days, would dot on him, and give the boy anything he asked for. But other days, he would act like Dagur was little more than a pebble that Oswald couldn't ever get out of his shoe. The mood swings made so Dagur couldn't really figure out how to feel about his father, and he grew up loving and hating the man in equal measures. It was all very confusing for a boy growing up.

It wasn't until his mother died, giving birth to his younger sister, that Oswald's abuse to Dagur became more physical, and the boy's feelings toward his father swung completely to hate. The death of his wife sent Oswald into a Berserker rage, and out of instinct refined over the long years of peace, the chief suppressed it. The rage didn't reach a boiling point until nearly a week afterward, and Oswald beat his ten year old son within an inch of his young life when it did. He knocked the boy to the ground and wiped him with his belt until Dagur's back bled. After that, he switched to assaulting the boy's ribs with kicks and stomps until they cracked under the attack. By the time it was over, Dagur couldn't breathe and was left trembling in pain on the ground while Oswald stalked out to get drunk.

In the months it took Dagur to recover, Oswald told the village his son had taken ill after the death of his mother. No one questioned it, and aside from a friend of the family, Vorg, no one came by the house for fear of catching whatever ailment the boy had come down with – illnesses were a deep source of fear on Berserk; a single virus could take out half the village, they'd all seen it before. And even Vorg only stopped to stick his head into Dagur's room to check on the boy while he was there to pick up Dagur's infant sister. His father had made the request for Vorg to take her for a few months, saying he was too distraught over the death of his wife to properly care for an infant, especially while Dagur was 'sick'.

In reality, Oswald couldn't stand the sight of the squalling infant, and just wanted her out of the house.

Dagur made it a point to tip-toe around his father after that day, and for a while it seemed to work. His father didn't hurt him anymore, didn't yell at him; if anything, Oswald forgot that his children even existed, as long as they were quiet. The man spent his days in a drunken haze, and when he wasn't out at the taverns drinking, he was passed out in his room.

Vorg returned the baby as soon as Dagur was seen on his feet again and Oswald began making his rounds in the village again—Oswald, it turned out, was a very successful working drunk. That left Dagur to take care of his sister and it was a responsibility that the ten year old didn't want in the slightest. His whole world was crashing down around him; he'd lost his mother and now his father was a total, brutal stranger. All Dagur really wanted to do was to curl up in a ball, and mourn the loss of his family.

But….the baby didn't have anyone else. Their mother was dead, their father couldn't even be bothered to name her, and none of the other adults were going to believe them and step in to save them. Dagur was all she had. And the baby was all Dagur had. There were times when that look of unconditional, undying love she would give him when he fed her was the only reason Dagur could find to keep living.

Cora, he remembered, his mother wanted to name her Cora. So he named her Cora, and he took over the task of raising her. Well, raising a baby as well a ten year old boy could manage, and seeing as she wasn't dead in a matter of days, Dagur felt he was doing just fine.

Dagur fell into a lull for a few months after that, but the peace didn't last. Shortly before the annual trip to Berk, Oswald came back to reality, and remembered that he had children. Or, at the very least, that he had a son, and he decided to take Dagur to the woods for a dragon hunt. The child came home with a broken arm as a souvenir from that father-son bonding trip. It was the price, Dagur was told, for failing to kill a dragon on the hunting expedition that Oswald 'went through the hardship of planning', as the man put it. A month after that, they sailed for Berk, to sign the treaty and present Cora as a secondary heir. The story for Dagur's arm was that it was a casualty in an epic battle with a Deadly Natter. No one questioned it.

Things went quickly and steadily down-hill after that. Oswald's beatings became more frequent, and more violent. Dagur became well accustom to hiding his need to hobble because of his soar, wipe-scarred back. His father always targeted his back, and sometimes went for his chest, but no matter what, he always aimed for areas that could be easily hidden. Oswald never hurt Dagur anywhere that showed, so no one in the village had the slightest suspicion of what was really going on in the chief's home. For three years, three long, long years Dagur's life revolved around those two points: taking care of Cora, and taking beatings from Oswald. That became the twisted, terrible normal for Dagur's life, for three years.

Then, just after Dagur's thirteenth birthday, life, impossibly, got even worse. It was by far Dagur's worst memory: the night that his father crept into his room for the first time, telling the boy that this was his right as Dagur's chief and father, and Dagur couldn't say no. The night the teenager quickly learned that his father's need to cause pain during sex hadn't ebbed since his mother's death.

After that, it became Dagur who would scream and cry during the night. Every night.

The year of Dagur's thirteenth birthday was a year of substantial change. The abuse he suffered from his father reached a peak, but in the same year Dagur gained his first taste of control. It was in one of the common dragon attacks that plagued his home, and in the form of a Monstrous Nightmare.

The teenager had charged into the fray, after making sure Cora was safely secured in their home. He remembered all the beasts zipping through the air, and the houses burning all around him, and the sight of hundreds and men and women fighting valiantly to stave off the beasts. He remembered approaching the greatest concentration of fighting with a sword borrowed from his father's room at the ready. Dagur recalled thinking of how angry his father would be when he found that Dagur had been touching his things, and not caring. All he cared about was getting to the battle, and killing some dragons.

When the flaming Monstrous Nightmare landed in front of him, there was a small, selfish, traitorous hope in the back of his mind that the beast would be the one to kill him. Still, Dagur fought with everything he had, and in the end he stood victorious over the great dragon. And as he stared into its eyes before he plunged his weapon into its heart, Dagur felt a swell of power in his chest. He had control over this thing. He had control over life itself. It was the greatest rush the boy had ever experienced, and he wept heavily even as he laughed hysterically when the creature was dead.

He had power; for once in his life, Dagur had power. It was the first of many cracks Dagur's psyche suffered under the weight of his terrible life.

Once the battle was done, Dagur was honored before the village as the youngest Viking of his tribe to kill a dragon. At home, Dagur was beaten mercilessly for stealing his father's sword.

Later that night, Dagur lay in bed as comfortably as he was able, and thought about his first kill and over and over. He thought of the look in the dragon's eyes as he killed it while he tried to shift so there wasn't searing pain in his back. He thought of the rush of power, of control, in his chest as he prayed that his father wouldn't come for him that night, hoped that Oswald would be satisfied with the beating, and feared that he wouldn't be.

And Dagur did his best to stay in his mind to relive that moment when his fear proved true.

In the year that followed, Dagur constantly tried to recreate that moment, feeling like if he could just feel that control again, his life would take a turn for the better. Nothing worked. He tried with chickens, with fish, dogs, other dragons, but nothing brought back that first rush of power. And while Dagur's behavior declined, Oswald's abuse increased even more in frequency and cruelty. Dagur's mind buckled under the strain of searching for control and having his father constantly tear it away.

By the time Dagur and his father made their way to Berk for the treaty, the teenager was more than half mad, and very dangerous.

He hadn't planned to hurt Hiccup when he'd suggested that they go for a swim. All he'd wanted was a moment of peace and calm with the smaller boy, one of his only friends, whom he considered his brother. Dagur didn't know when things took a deadly turn, how they became so violent. He just remembered looking at Hiccup, and feeling the overwhelming need to kill, to feel the control he'd felt over the Monstrous Nightmare once again. To feel the power over human life. So without thinking the urge through, he plunged Hiccup's head under the water and held it there. He closed his eyes and bathed in the power of control as the smaller boy thrashed against his hold.

Luckily, Hiccup managed a lucky kick in Dagur's gut that made the older boy let go before he finished something that he would come to regret. Dagur usually shook away that thought as quickly as he could whenever it crossed his mind. He already hated his actions enough without thinking about how he would feel if Hiccup had really died.

The Berkian heir was terrified of the Berserker after that day; no matter how hard Hiccup tried to hide it, Dagur could always see it around the edges of Hiccup's eyes. Things were never the same between the boys after that, and if anything, their relationship got worse. That was what Dagur regretted most about that day.

Well, actually he came to regret his actions several years later. At the time, he was just angry with Hiccup, for pulling away from him at time when he so desperately needed someone to hold onto. His only rock other than Hiccup was his sister, and Dagur had to be the strong one if he was to take care of her, so Cora wasn't the best rock.

When Hiccup began to distance himself from the Berserker teenager, Dagur lashed out; he threw knives at Hiccup, bullied him, and did his best to make the other boy miserable whenever he saw him. His actions only drove the wedge further between them, and the more Hiccup drifted away, the angrier Dagur became, and the more he lashed out at his fellow heir, and pushed Hiccup away even further. It was a vicious cycle.

Things at home declined as well, if it was possible for them to get worse. Oswald refused to tolerate Dagur's bad behavior, or his attempts to rebel against Oswald's control. He beat the boy on a daily basis, wore down Dagur's mentality, and came to the boy's room every night. All the while, Dagur tried to give Cora – who was really more of his daughter than she was Oswald's at that point– the best life he could manage. He tried to shield her from the increasing abuse he suffered from their father, tried to keep Oswald's attention away from his younger sibling, and did the best he could to make her happy.

The stress the feat of putting up with never ending abuse and acting like everything was okay placed on Dagur filtered into the air. Their home became a powder keg, just waiting for the right spark to explode.

That spark came a few months before they were to leave for Berk once more, when Oswald abruptly remembered that he had a daughter. Cora had just turned seven, and much to Dagur's pride, was growing into a fine young woman.

It started without Dagur's knowledge, with a harsh smack to her cheek a week before hand. But Dagur did notice the way Oswald began to look at his sister. With that leering gleam in his eyes and that snarling half smile. The same look that was always on his face when he leaned over Dagur in the night.

Dagur was on high alert once he noticed, constantly sick to his stomach at the thought of anything like what he'd endured happening to his sister. He was tensed like a bowstring, just waiting to explode like the rest of his household.

On the night that his father died, Dagur came home late from one of his outing to the woods. As tensions in his home increased, he'd started going out on nearly nightly dragon hunts, especially when his father went out to the taverns. It was always worse when he was drunk. When Dagur came through the door, the first sight to greet him was of Oswald leaning over his sister, with one hand holding a painful grip in her hair and the other creeping between her legs.

Dagur snapped. It was one thing to hurt him in such a way; Dagur could take it. But Cora was still little more than a baby, and Dagur would not let Oswald lay a hand on her. Everything after that moment blurred in Dagur's mind. He remembered charging forward and knocking Oswald away, then ushering Cora upstairs and telling her to get out and find Vorg. The next thing he clearly remembered was standing over Oswald's bloody body with an equally bloody ax, and the feel of absolute freedom coursing through him.

He smiled. Then he dropped the ax and fell to his knees and screamed like an animal, until his throat hurt.

A snap of twigs brought Dagur's attention back to the present. He crouched down, a motioned for Hiccup to follow his lead. Out of the corner of his eye, Dagur saw Chubby-One and Snot-hat do the same. There was more rustling up ahead and Dagur sighed in annoyance and sent a look over to Hiccup.

"Which one of your friends is it going to be this time?"

"It's hard to say."

Ha, bringing the funny, Dagur thought in amusement. Then there was a blast of fire sent over their heads, and the angry face of the Night Fury peeked over the bushes. And from that point on, everything spiraled out of Dagur's control.

-Line Break – Line Break – Line Break-

"So Berk does train dragons," Vorg mused as he came to stand next to Dagur and stare at the quickly retreating island. "I should kill that runt for lying."

"No!" Dagur snarled and turned on the captain with a heavy glare. "No one hurts Hiccup. No one! Except me. And not until after I have his Night Fury. And I will have it." Dagur turned back to look at the island with a grimaced half smile.

He'd worked too hard to gain his control, and no one was going to take that away from him. Not Vorg, not his father, and definitely not Hiccup and that Night Fury. Dagur was going to make them pay for ever, ever thinking that they could take that control away from him. And pay dearly, they would.

END

AN:

I really love Dagur's character; he's awesome, and a crazy villain, so he gets some of the best lines in the show. Because I like him so much, I like fics that portray him as more than just a power mad psychopath – even though he kind of is. So I was watching 'The Night and the Fury' and this line popped out at me: 'Both sons of chiefs… Who had to be eliminated so we could gain control!' I thought that this was a very interesting choice of words – so we could gain control. Not, 'so we could be in charge' or 'so we could rule our tribes', but 'gain control'. It made me think that there might be some deeper meaning behind the word choice, and I've seen a couple of stories floating around that Oswald was actually abusive. And so, this story was born.

I borrowed Dagur's sister's name from Jettara1's fanfictions, because she was unnamed in the show. Anyway, I hope that you enjoyed this, let me know if you'd like to see more – I'm thinking of starting a longer story off this idea.