A/N: Here it is, the final chapter! Time for a victory lap! Do me a solid and leave a review, please. Oh, and stick around for the sequel.

Astrid could not sleep. The rising sun would bring the holmgang with it, and no amount of fatigue eclipsed that single, worrisome fact. Her body was sluggish and her eyes itched with exhaustion, but it did not matter. Her mind was wide awake, racing and spinning. Curled up under the covers, or sprawled out with them kicked to the foot of the bed, made no difference. Neither did lying down, nor sitting up with her legs dangling. She was a prisoner of her mind.

She dwelled on the worst possible outcomes of the coming fight and paid little heed to the best. Any optimism gave way to the thought that Hiccup was a defensive fighter if not on Toothless, and the holmgang was an offensive match. Stefnir was a fearsome opponent who was unlikely to stop at first blood. He wanted a decisive win. Hiccup could not dodge his way to victory.

With an aggravated sigh, Astrid rolled out of bed. Remaining horizontal was doing her little good.

Her Terrible Terror stirred as she paced, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. She was right over her parents' bedroom but she did not care if she woke them in her restlessness. Years ago, they had made a decision about her future without her input. Even though it had been done with the best intentions, the arrangement persisted in spite of her protests once she had reached proper age. Parents always thought they knew better, and that a promise made before personalities and wants even developed was still binding somehow. An arranged marriage was for her betterment—so she could prosper in life, her mother claimed—an recently antiquated practice, since death did not come as early to the young men of Berk since peace with dragons. Many outstanding contracts had been dissolved, but not hers. Not when there would be mutual gain for both families involved. The Svensons were a safe bet—an investment. Hiccup, a gamble.

But she loved him. She came alive for him. She would rather risk and fail with Hiccup than spend an entire lifetime pretending with Stefnir, gazing across the Great Hall at the new chief and his strange wife from a strange land, wondering what might have been.

She paced over to her window, opening the shutters to gaze out at the sleeping village, dark and still. The moon hung low above the sea, slipping away with the last hours of the night.

She loved her village and her people, but at the same time, she hated them. Before Stefnir, everyone seemed to be onboard with her and Hiccup as a couple. Passersby would nudge one another and nod in their direction, smiling fondly and knowingly at the blossoming friendship between them—but then she was in an arranged marriage. Suddenly, everyone was behind the union between the Svenson and Hofferson clans, believing it was more than what it was—just political maneuvering. Two families of influence and repute, a marriage between them garnered much excitement. She and Hiccup, seen as just a youthful fancy, fell from Berk's collective consciousness. Until the holmgang. Astrid and Hiccup's relationship was at the forefront of everyone's mind again, but it had become scandal.

Astrid folded her arms, leaning against her window frame. The chief's house was a beacon in the distance, solid black, but calling to her like the most enticing näcken song. Hiccup's fingertips gliding over her skin would set the tempo, and their murmurs in the dark would be the melody, bodies pressing and rubbing together in alternating crescendos and diminuendos.

She did not necessarily want to go to him for sex. Simply lying with Hiccup, wrapped in his body heat and lulled to sleep by his rhythmic breathing, was a pleasant enough fantasy. There was a level of safety and comfort with him she did not realize she had been missing. Not that she needed any protection beyond what her axe and dragon provided; but there was something to be said for the satisfaction of a lover's embrace. No stresses or concerns would slip through Hiccup's arms. Astrid's mind could find time to rest as the world dissolved outside of his bedroom.

But that was only daydream. They had agreed not to see each other before the fight and risk further fanning the flames of outrage. Only her brain that kept her indoors, while her heart and her body were ready to throw caution to the wind and go to him. In such times, she cursed common sense, for there was no guarantee Hiccup could clinch victory in the fight to come.

Her eyes flickered to the Svenson house. If Stefnir won, all her nights would be spent in his possessive hold. She would go to bed, terrified her husband might want her. She would wake up beside a man for whom she felt no affection. Repeat.

Every hope she had for the future, for guiltless kisses and the end of the sneaking around, rested on Hiccup and whatever invention he had slapped together to give him an offensive edge. It would be maddening to be a bystander in her own fate, to watch as her Stefnir took violent swings at her lover on her behalf, to be fought over like a piece of meat. It was an affront to her pride and dignity for Hiccup to fight in her stead, but the holmgang was an old law based on old values, before dragons were even enemies and women had proved their worth as warriors.

Astrid sneered, turning away from the window with one last contemptuous stare at the Svenson house. She slipped on her boots and grabbed a bundle of clothes and bathing essentials. If she could not get to sleep, she might as well do something productive. Berk's nearest stream was private enough before the sun rose in another hour or so. The cold water would be invigorating, giving her the alertness she would need to get through the rest of the dismal morning. Perhaps it would wash away some of the tension, though she doubted it. The holmgang would be like watching the Red Death battle all over again.

She could only hope the outcome would be different, that Hiccup would walk away a whole.

"They're all staring at you," Tuffnut mumbled, swiveling around his seat to survey the rest of the Great Hall. "I mean, really staring. Judging, probably."

"Thank you for that, Tuff. It's not like I can't feel the stares boring into me or hear the whispers," Hiccup replied, poking at his breakfast with little appetite. "It's something I'm accustomed to."

"Yeah, but that's when you were a screw-up," Tuffnut said. "This is kinda different."

Hiccup frowned, glaring up at the blonde. He could not then avoid the surrounding tables of Vikings casting him grim, sidelong glances. Faces that, not too long ago, smiled at him brightly around the village, were now distant and suspicious. His eyes snapped back to his lap and the sheath lying across it. His fingers traced over the grip and the pommel of the hidden Dragon Blade.

"I don't get what the big deal is. You're giving them a brawl. They should be kissing your scrawny butt!" Snotlout remarked, gesticulating with the spoon in his thick hand. "So what if you're breaking up another guy's marriage, whisking away his bride-to-be, ruining his life? What do they care?"

Hiccup wrinkled his nose, glancing up at his cousin. "While that's not exactly how I would phrase it…you know what this village is like, Snotlout. We're a tribe of Vikings that hate to challenge the status quo."

His cousin blew a derisive raspberry.

"Status quo, status schmo," Snotlout scoffed. "There's gonna be a good fight out of it, assuming you last like…five minutes." He shrugged his shoulders, stuffing his spoon in his mouth.

"Hiccup, do you actually think you can beat Stefnir? I mean, he's been killing dragons since before the rest of us even went into dragon training. This is what he does," Fishlegs spoke up, putting his large hand on Hiccup's shoulder with concern.

"I'm aware of that, Fishlegs. I, uh…I have a plan. Sort of."

Snotlout cackled, slapping his thigh. "Oh, man! Stop what you're doing everyone!" he shouted to the surrounding tables, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Hiccup has a plan!"

Several people turned around, puzzled. Others, indignant.

Hiccup set the Dragon Blade on the table, leaning over to hiss, "Would you st—!"

"Big surprise. You have a plan," Snotlout finished, grinning. His eyes flickered to the strange weapon across from him.

Hiccup sighed, knocking his cousin's hand away when the other young man reached over to touch the Dragon Blade. Snotlout yelped and rubbed the back of his hand, eyeing Hiccup with reproach, unaware his clumsy fingers had nearly flicked a crucial switch on the grip.

"I'm just a little confused, you know? I thought Astrid and Stefnir were pretty close." Fishelgs scratched his large chin. "You used to sulk about it—"

"I didn't sulk," Hiccup deadpanned.

Tuffnut chuckled, shaking his head. His arm fell across Hiccup's shoulders and Hiccup recoiled. "You were the sulkingest Viking I'd ever seen."

Snotlout snorted. "Yeah. No one was buying that 'I don't care Astrid has a boyfriend who isn't me' line of yakshit you were feeding everybody."

Hiccup furrowed his brow, transparent once again. He could deny it, but what would be the point? Why pretend he had ever fallen out of love with Astrid? He would soon cross blades with her intended, rendering any and all "might or might not have felt this or that" rather moot. So, nobody else believed he had ever stopped caring—but he had believed it for a time. As had Astrid. Somehow they had only been deluding themselves and each other, caught up in their own self-pity to see things with a clear perspective.

Two years wasted by determined stupidity.

"Well, I hope you win." And it was sincere and full of confidence.

"Thank you, Fishlegs," Hiccup said.

"I…It would be kind of nice to have the whole gang back together again," the larger boy admitted, sheepish.

Hiccup could empathize. Everything had been on a downward spiral over the last two years and his bitterness had played its part, in retrospect. A wall did not just keep one soul out; it repelled everyone.

"Well, I don't care either way. I mean, I don't necessarily want you to die or anything, though Stefnir looks pretty committed to end you…but if you lose, I get three silvers and sweet Stoker Class broach from Gutsav. So, you know, don't try too hard," Snotlout said, not the least bit ashamed.

Hiccup shook his head, not entirely sure he had heard his cousin correctly. "What?"

"Oh, Ruffnut's taking bets," Tuffnut answered, picking at some dirt underneath his fingernails.

The calm acceptance of that fact by all of Hiccup's friends was jarring.

"On whether or not I'll lose?" he retorted, feeling himself puff up with indignation.

"No just that! Whether you'll last a minute," the male Thorston chimed.

"Two minutes," Snotlout snickered.

"Five minutes—Here." Ruffnut appeared at her brother's shoulder. She sat down beside him and smoothed out a long piece of parchment on the table. "Sven just bet a dozen eggs he'll last at least five."

"Sucker," Tuffnut replied.

"You guys!"Fishlegs remarked, appalled, and Hiccup was glad at least one person was on his side.

"What? We're capitalizing on a golden opportunity," Ruffnut responded, hands up.

"By taking bets on whether or not I will literally die?" Hiccup asked.

"No! Not die! No one's betting you'll die—Oh, except Evert. He's betting a yak. Wow. He's got no faith in you at all. Said you don't stand a chance without your dragon," Tuffnut replied, skimming his finger over the list of bets his sister had collected.

"Wait, you're reading that wrong." Ruffnut swatted him impatiently. "It's says 'an inch from death'. So no. No one's betting you'll literally die, only kind of die." She smiled up at Hiccup, as if the clarification made him feel any better.

Hiccup massaged his temples. Maybe he should have left Berk with Toothless all those years ago. Staying did not seem beneficial for his health or sanity.

"Hiccup…why are you even doing this?" Fishelgs asked, his voice a nervous squeak. "I mean, I know you care about Astrid but was she really so unhappy? Isn't all of this a bit drastic?"

"Her marriage to Stefnir is arranged, Fishlegs. She never said anything to any of us because she didn't think there was anything that could be done about it. So, silently enduring instead of making a fuss was her way of making it all easier," Hiccup explained.

"Well, it did, didn't it?" the larger boy responded.

"For everyone else. Not for her. Not for me. I love—"

Snotlout and the twins hissed loudly, covering their ears and twisting their faces.

"Ugh. Gross. Spare us. Who cares about who feels what for whom?" Snotlout remarked, waving his hand dismissively. He seemed affronted. Aghast anybody might discuss the sensitive subject of feelings in his presence. "There's going to be an awesome fight either way. All I care about is whether or not somebody gets some good hits in. Screw the reasons for it."

Hiccup rolled his eyes. "Your support is remarkable," he replied with a flat sarcasm. "Truly."

"Look, Hiccup. You like Astrid?" Tuffnut interjected, suddenly serious. Or rather, as serious as he could be, which usually preceded some kind of inanity.

Hiccup quirked an eyebrow. "Yes."

"And she likes you, right?"

"Yes."

"Then we're with you," Tuffnut said, leaning back with a satisfied grin.

Hiccup was taken aback, but the reassuring nods of Fishlegs and Ruffnut touched something in him. His friends had faded into the background in light of all the recent turmoil, not forgotten, but not a priority. After the past few days of being told how wrong he was, he had never been more appreciative of the camaraderie they all shared.

"I don't know." Snotlout began. "I really want my three silver p—Gah!" He jumped with a grimace. Ruffnut was sitting across from him, hands balled to fists. She had lurched forward a bit and there was a dull thud beneath the table that had silenced Snotlout most effectively. He glared at her, hunched over as he rubbed his leg beneath the table. "Fine. Yeah. I guess we're with you. Go out there and win or something."

"Thanks," Hiccup said, smiling.

But it was all just a little too late to bolster his confidence.

A horn blared, loud and distant, and his heart sank. Under normal circumstances, it was a call to gather spectators for a dragon race, but to Hiccup, it sounded like a call to war. He did not have the combat skill that Stefnir did, but he was armed with a few tricks and his would have to be enough. For Astrid, it could be enough.

Instead of excited cheers that accompanied game day, the Great Hall was filled grim murmurs. With a deep breath, Hiccup rose to his feet, keenly aware of the stares in his direction. Across the room, Stefnir was also standing. They locked gazes, and it was as if the challenge had just been set all over again.

Tuffnut spoke up, and Hiccup only barely heard him over the blood rushing in his ears.

"But, you know, if you can stand it…a broken nose wins us a new scale brush for Barf and Belch."

Astrid had stayed with Stormfly as long as she could, keeping her Nadder company in her stall after their morning flight. She did not want to be out among the rest of her tribe, hearing talk about who might win, or pretending not to notice the accusatory looks that followed her. She was too tired for it, wanting only to watch the fight—to support Hiccup and nothing more. How could anyone think she would be content to be a spectator instead of in the damn ring? As much as Hiccup wanted to defeat Stefnir for the sake of their relationship, he could not swing his sword with half the resentment Astrid felt. He wanted to win, but he could not possibly feel the urge to punch Stefnir in the face as much as she did.

She heard the horn blaring and felt her stomach twist with dread. Hiccup could win, but he could also lose. If he fell to Stefnir, his injuries counting for nothing, Astrid would never be able to look at him again, much less touch him again. The overwhelming guilt would sear her if she tried—and what was worse, Hiccup would never blame her for it. For anything. The fight just problem-solving to him, doing what had to be done for a dilemma they had made for themselves, fighting to free her from a situation in which they were both complicit like it was some inevitable duty of his.

Absurd, all of it.

"No matter what happens, at least I'll still have you, girl. We'll still fly tomorrow," Astrid cooed, patting Stormfly before locking up her stall. "Keep Toothless company, in the meantime."

The Nadder growled like she understood, and Astrid cast a pitying glance at the agitated Night Fury. He paced in the center of the chamber like a caged animal, naked without Hiccup's saddle and his prosthetic tail. Astrid was certain the dragon did not understand all the finer details of the day, but Toothless understood something was happening, and Hiccup was involved, and it was not good. He tossed he head with an impatient warble.

The stable master watched him warily and Astrid was not sure Toothless could be stopped if he decided to intervene, but the dragon had been confined to the stables during the match with the hope that he might obey. He had been there since Astrid and Stormfly had returned from their flight, and the only feasible reason he had stayed put was because Hiccup must have told him to do so, for there was no one else Toothless would heed. He was a dragon as stubborn as his rider, and just as exclusive.

But maybe she could reach him. She and Toothless had always gotten along, rocky introduction notwithstanding. She wanted to soothe him because she could do little else to help Hiccup as he fought Stefnir. Mollifying his dragon, very much a half of his own heart, would be the one favor she could return.

"Toothless…hey," Astrid murmured, approaching the Night Fury slowly, "it's alright."

The dragon turned to her, head cocked. She reached out and placed a hand on his snout and his pupils rounded, features softening. He gazed at her, confused, but leaned into her touch. His nostrils flared and he warbled a question, one that perhaps Hiccup would have been able to translate.

"You have to stay here, okay? You can't help Hiccup this time," Astrid explained. For there was nothing else that could disconcert Toothless quite like being separated from his human. The need to defend Hiccup was ingrained in him, and to keep him in the stables was denying him an instinctive protectiveness. She could see the Night Fury process her words, ears perking up at the sound of familiar name. He was thinking, clever and intuitive. "That's right. Stay. For Hiccup. You understand, don't you? Hiccup wants you to stay here."

Toothless considered her, then he sat down, wings drawn against his body. His whole posture seemed to droop, resigned. There was a pitiful rumble in the back of his throat, and he was addressing Astrid, pleading with her.

"Oh, Toothless. I know exactly how you feel," she said, feeling her chest tighten. She was bound too, not by caves, but by an old piece of parchment that dictated Hiccup had to be the one risking life and limb. She turned to the stable master, tucking her hair behind her ears with shaking fingers, "There. That…That's how you talk to him. He doesn't really listen to anyone other than Hiccup, so you have to appeal to—"

The horn sounded a second time for the stragglers.

"Aye—but I reckon you have a match to go watch," the man replied, "while I'm stuck here babysitting this one dragon. Consider yourself lucky—"

Astrid hurried by him with a brusque, "I'm not getting any enjoyment out of this!"

She paused on the stairs, glancing back at Toothless. The Night Fury was curled up on the ground, defeated. His head came to rest on his folded claws and Astrid could see his body expand and deflate with something akin to a sigh. He made another noise, soft and plaintive, and she had to leave before she fell to her knees beside the dragon to comfort him, feeling sorry for the both of them, missing the fight entirely.

Hiccup stood on one side of the arena while Gobber ushered Stefnir to the other. Calls from the crowd were one indistinct mass of noise and jeers, and there was nothing to be gained by determining how many people were cheering for him, and how many were supporting his opponent. He did not dare look up to see familiar faces, grinning with support or scowling. Berk was a writhing sea of colors above him.

Stefnir was staring him down with a cold glare meant to be piercing, meant to rattle him. Hiccup exhaled, a single puff of air through tight lips. Stefnir cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, baring his teeth while the spectators egged them on with more fervor. Hiccup unsheathed the Dragon Blade, tossing the leather aside. He picked up the Gronckle Iron shield at his feet, gripping it firmly.

"Hiccup!"

He gave a start, glancing toward the lowered gate. He felt his spirits lift as Astrid peered in through the bars, anxious and breathless, but there. For him, looking at him. He smiled, and she managed a small echo of a grin. The match had not yet started. Vikings were still filtering in to watch, and so he went to her, ignoring whatever threat Stefnir had just yelled at his back.

"I was beginning to think you might not watch this," he told her. People in the crowd were shouting at him too, be he could not care less.

"Of course, I'd be here," she replied, exasperated. "Just—"

"Hiccup! I need you back in the starting position," Gobber called, waving him over.

Hiccup nodded, but turned back to Astrid. "Last time we were like this, I was about to face Hookfang. To be honest, I'd still rather face a dragon right about now."

"Hiccup!" Gobber snapped.

"Win," Astrid demanded, reaching through the bars to curl her fingers in his tunic.

"I…I can," he wavered.

"Hiccup!" Gobber just about bellowed, the energy of the surrounding crowd swelling to almost drown him out.

"Win!" Astrid exclaimed, eyes locked on Hiccup's with intensity and conviction.

"I'll try—mmphf!"

Astrid pulled him in and their lips met, warm and earnest, as his cheek grazed over a cold metal bar. The kiss was brief and fretful, and almost as quickly as Astrid had initiated it, she was pulling away. She untangled her fingers from him, jaw clenched. He took a step back, blood hot with resolve. With one, small reassuring nod, he strode back over to the start position.

Stefnir's lip was curled with disdain and Gobber stood between them, arms outstretched.

"That's the last time you put your lips on my wife," Stefnir hissed through his clenched teeth.

"She's not your wife," Hiccup corrected delighting in the other mans' rising anger. "She won't ever be."

"Now, now," Gobber muttered. "Save it for the fight." He cleared his throat and spoke loudly, his voice reverberating off the stone walls for the spectators to hear. "The rules of the holmgang are simple: each Viking gets one shield and one sword of his choosing. They will fight 'til first blood is drawn!"

"Actually, I would like to amend that rule," Stefnir spoke up. He did not take his predatory stare off of Hiccup as he said, "I propose we fight until a clear yield!" He then added, for only Hiccup and Gobber to hear, "I would ask for a death match, but I hardly think your father would allowed it, as supposedly neutral as he is."

"Hey now—" Gobber tried to interject.

"Until a yield is fine by me," Hiccup replied, fist tightening around the grip of his blade. "We'll settle this permanently. This fight needs to be the end of it."

Gobber cast Hiccup a sideways glance as if to remark on his insanity, but he shook his head and addressed the crowd. "The rules have been amended to a fight until yield!" There were dissenting cries from the spectators. "Do both of you agree to the terms of the fight?" Gobber asked, glancing between Hiccup and Stefnir.

"Yes," Stefnir answered, narrowing his eyes and standing straighter.

"Agreed," Hiccup replied. He was hyper-aware of everything, the flexing of Stefnir's muscles and every subtle shift of his stance. Hiccup's heart was beating so hard, he felt it in his throat. If he had doubts, he was passed the point of no return. For Astrid, for their freedom, he hoped he had not underestimated the other man.

"Well, let's get this thing started!" Gobber exclaimed, letting his arm fall in a decisive arc before limping out of the way.

Hiccup swallowed and dug in his heels. He raised his Gronckle Iron shield as Stefnir let out an angry battle cry, charging at him. As much speed and power as he had, Stefnir was no Night Fury, and Hiccup leapt out of the way, dodging the swing of his sword like it was a swipe of Toothless's tail. Hiccup thanked every god he could think of that he had taken the time to train with his dragon in the weeks leading up to match. At least he was prepared; but one evasive maneuver did not a victory make.

Stefnir swung his other arm around, slamming his shield into Hiccup's with a force that rattled Hiccup's bones. The other man threw his body weight behind his shield-arm to knock Hiccup off balance before swinging his sword in a downward arc. The metal of his blade rang against the Gronckle Iron plating.

Astrid had not been exaggerating when she had warned Hiccup of Stefnir's strength. The impact from each of his blows thrummed through every nerve and muscle fiber Hiccup employed to repel him. Every bit of pressure was fueled by a hatred and bitter maliciousness that Hiccup, though he harbored his own dislike for Stefnir, did not return with equal potency. That was one vital difference between fighting Stefnir and fighting Toothless: Hiccup's loyal dragon had never tried to actually kill him. There was a ferocity Stefnir's moves that Toothless had not displayed in their sparring matches. The other man was wild and unpredictable; it made him lethal.

Hiccup blocked a strike aimed at his face, only to notice Stefnir do a sort of half-step backwards to swing the blade at his legs. Hiccup managed to jump back out of reach but he lost his footing, stumbling into the cold stone wall behind him. Stefnir seized the opportunity, casting his shield aside and sprinting at him with his sword clutched in both hands to run him through. Stefnir's brutality had taken over, learned behavior from years of fighting dragons. Hiccup could see himself reflected in his opponent's eyes, no longer human, but prey every bit as dangerous to Stefnir's ideal future as a dragon would be to his physical well-being.

Hiccup's breath caught and he allowed his knees to give out, dropping to the ground and hearing the screech of metal on stone above his head. He did not take the time to analyze Stefnir's next move before rolling out of his vulnerable position at the other man's feet. He leapt back up to a standing position, spinning around with his shield raised in time to block another lethal blow meant to take off an arm.

Stefnir rose up to his full height before throwing his weight behind his sword, trying to force Hiccup's arm to buckle under the force of it. Admittedly, Hiccup's arm was shaking as he pushed back with all his strength. He gritted his teeth and continued to resist, beads of sweat breaking out across his brow. He took a chance, stomping down on Stefnir's instep.

The other man howled and recoiled, hopping back with puffing cheeks, incensed.

"You're never going to win this," Stefnir snarled. "Run and evade—that's all you know how to do! You're a slippery cuss, I'll give you that: but I'll take your head off before you so much as cut me!"

"Mm, wanna bet your marriage on that?" Hiccup cocked his head with a sardonic pout. "Oh, wait…"

Growing up with a cousin like Snotlout, he was no stranger to threats of bodily harm, no matter what Stefnir claimed he would do to him. Hiccup took advantage of Stefnir's lapse of concentration, too caught up in all his posturing and taunts. Hiccup threw all his weight behind his own shield, driving it into the other man's broad torso with his shoulder. Stefnir staggered back a couple of paces and Hiccup deployed the grappling line contained within his shield's center hub.

The cord tightly wound itself around Stefnir's legs and Hiccup flipped a small switch along the shield's rim. The line started to reel back in, yanking the other Viking's legs out from underneath him. Stefnir fell hard, gasping as the wind was knocked out of him. Sword still firmly gripped in his hand, he was not quite vulnerable enough. Hiccup released the cord when it grew tight and was no longer effective at pulling Stefnir's dead weight.

There was a mixed reaction from the crowd above. Most of the village seemed to be cheering Hiccup on, if only because he held the advantage and mobs were fickle; but a fair number of Stefnir-supporters shouted their protests, laced with a few creative obscenities.

Stefnir sliced through the grappling line with a sharp jerk of his sword. He was still untangling himself when Hiccup swung the Dragon Blade, cutting the other man's bicep cleanly, and not too deep.

With a furious expletive, Stefnir sprung out of Hiccup's reach, hand clapped over the oozing gash. Blood overflowed his bracing hand, trickling in thick rivulets down his arm, running between his fingers and knuckles, pooling in his palm curled around his sword's grip.

Hiccup inclined his head. "First blood."

"You miserable, cheating son of a b—!"

"One sword, one shield of our choosing. That's what we agreed to," Hiccup reminded him. "This happens to be the one I chose."

"Good thing this is not first blood then—not that I was ever going to stop it there," Stefnir growled. "And good thing you don't know how to hit! This is barely anything worth mentioning!"

Hiccup narrowed his eyes. Stefnir's breathing was labored, and his shoulders were tense. The corner of his lips turned down in a grimace, and tremors ran down his wounded arm. Whatever brave face he put on was a matter of pride. He could jeer all he wanted about Hiccup's inability to cut deep, but that strike had been deliberate. Tactical.

Stefnir's power would be diminished in that arm. His dominate arm.

Hiccup could not overpower him, but he could outsmart and incapacitate his opponent; defensively offensive, requiring as little effort as possible for maximum damage. How few hits could he manage before Stefnir yielded to him?

That was the real conundrum.

Stefnir shook off his pain, resorting to his two-hand grip again. He charged at Hiccup, raising his sword and providing another, wonderful opportunity. Hiccup knew his next best move was to disarm Stefnir somehow, so he fired the small bola from his shield and it connected with Stefnir's blade, sending it flying halfway across the arena.

Stefnir's shout of rage was drowned out by the surrounding tumult—cheers or boos, Hiccup did not care. He seized the opportunity to go on his cautious offensive. He ran towards the other Viking, but Stefnir dove for the shield he had discarded earlier. With the tip of his foot, he kicked it up into his hand and flung it like a discus. Hiccup deflected it with his own shield, but the distraction had given Stefnir the head start he needed to recover his sword.

He fumbled with the bolas, trying to free his blade from the ropes. The more he wrestled with it, the more frantic and uncoordinated his efforts became.

Hiccup charged. A well-aimed, stinging cut to the bend of the knee would give Stefnir another disadvantage—but he anticipated his move. Dropping his own bound-up sword, Stefnir jumped out of the way, narrowly missed by the Dragon Blade. He reached out and seized Hiccup's forearm in a vice-like grip on the upswing. Hiccup's heart seized, and he tried to wrench free to no avail.

Holding Hiccup's sword-arm in place, Stefnir grabbed the Hiccup's shield with his free hand. In one fluid motion, he pulled it from Hiccup's arm. Then, he swung the shield through the air, hitting Hiccup hard across the forehead with a sickening crack before swiping it back in the opposing direction for another hard hit.

Spots flew in Hiccup's vision and he felt a sharp, burning sting ripple across his head. His brain seeming to throb in his skull. Blood gushed down the side of his face. His head was foggy and he teetered on his feet, disoriented. He was aware of his shield clattering against a distant stone wall, but he succumbed to the shooting pain as Stefnir bent his other arm back in a crippling hold. The Dragon Blade was ripped from his fingers and he dropped to his knees. He was at the mercy of Stefnir's merciless grip and the aching spasms in his left shoulder, coursing up from his twisted arm. Vulnerable and reeling from the blow to the head, Hiccup could not defend himself from the knuckles that connected with the side of his face, digging into the ridge beneath his eye with an unforgiving ferocity that felt as though his cheek has been bust open.

He felt Stefnir release him as he toppled onto all fours, blinking the microbursts of light from his vision. A vaguely familiar voice—one of his friends, perhaps—shouted, "GET UP!"

Hiccup reached up to feel the fresh laceration on his temple, raw and sticky, bleeding freely. He lowered his hand and glanced down at his fingertips, slick with red, before glancing up at Stefnir, in possession of the Dragon Blade and his own sword.

Shield! Hiccup needed to get to his shield.

His head was feeling fuzzy and the cut on his forehead pounded as he rose to his feet.

Great. Stefnir hardly needed another advantage, tall and brawny, and armed with two blades.

Hiccup noticed his shield was lying a couple of yards from where the other man stood. He darted forward and Stefnir lunged at him, but without his shield, Hiccup knew he was outmatched. He had no choice but to evade, twisting his torso as two swords swung at him mid-sprint. The Dragon Blade missed, but Stefnir had greater reach and the second sword caught Hiccup right above his left hip. The yelp was automatic as Hiccup clamped his hand over his newest injury. His own touch was searing and his grimaced, feeling new, warm dampness spreading through his tunic.

Stefnir had him on the run and they both knew it. The arrogant grin chasing him spoke volumes of the other man's confidence, of the victory that must already be playing out in his head.

Hiccup threw himself to the ground, snatching his shield as his shoulder skid along the rough stone. He barely had time to lift the thing before Stefnir was on him, thrusting and driving both weapons where Hiccup was lying, deflecting each blow by the narrowest of margins.

"Give it up!" Stefnir taunted as swords clashed with Gronckle Iron. "If you surrender now, I promise I'll let you keep your other leg!"

Hiccup pushed back on his hands, somersaulting away from the other Viking while kicking out with his prosthetic leg. He could not feel the contact, but Stefnir swore and as Hiccup righted himself, shield raised, he caught a glimpse of the Dragon Blade sliding across the ground.

His eyes flickered to the sword then back to Stefnir, eyeing him with a clear challenge. They were frozen for half a tremulous breath.

Hiccup moved first, scrambling for his weapon as Stefnir bounded in parallel step.

Hiccup was growing very lightheaded, the gash in his head pulsing to the same rhythm of his racing heart. He could feel his hair clinging damp and sticky to his forehead; and light seemed brighter with a very fuzzy, diffused edge. Almost dreamlike. His tunic felt soaked above his hip, blood encompassing more fabric and seeping down into the waistline of his pants.

He managed to grab the Dragon Blade with an unsteady gait, and he heard Stefnir cackle as he lost his balance. The other man continued to attack as Hiccup remained fixed to the wall for support. He swung his sword to parry Stefnir's blows while avoiding the other blade. Sparks flew when the older man missed, sword rasping over stone.

"I've decided I don't want you to die, not that I could really get away with killing the chief's son," Stefnir said, swinging and stabbing, unconcerned with the repeated strikes against Gronckle Iron and stone. If it was a game of attrition, he had the upper-hand. "It will be more satisfying to keep you alive, so you can spend rest of your life watching Astrid and I, together."

Hiccup sneered and with a labored grunt, he collected some manner of strength to push off the wall and throw Stefnir back. As he stepped around the older man, and flourished the Dragon Blade, delivering a nice, clean cut to the top of Stefnir's thigh.

Hiccup squinted his eyes to examine the dark stain spreading over Stefnir's leggings from a safe distance. Fine details were blurry, but the injured thigh quivered. Stefnir moved in shuffling steps, taking sharp, hissing breaths between clenched teeth.

"You persistent little shit!" Stefnir spat.

"This can all be over…if you just…yield," Hiccup panted, the throbbing of his head injury making him go cross-eyed. Those two, powerful blows to the head and jostled his brain and he felt nauseous.

"You first!" Stefnir snarled.

He aimed another swipe at Hiccup's side but the Dragon Blade parried. Stefnir then braced himself on his wounded leg, delivering a strong kick to the Gronkle Iron shield before he buckled with cry, unable to support himself any longer.

Hiccup was thrown back into the heavy door that once confined Hookfang. His head connected with solid metal and his vision went totally black for a moment. He shook his head, his sight returning in hazy colors and shapes.

"You know, I take it back. How about I chop of your other leg so you have a matching set?" Stefnir growled, rising to his feet, his injured leg shaking. He hobbled forward, no less deterred.

Hiccup tried to make sense of his double vision, knowing he had no more tricks left in his shield that would be particularly useful. Sure, the shield could transform into a makeshift crossbow, but he had no arrows or comparable projectiles to fire. There was a tiny catapult at the top, but what was a small rock going to do, even if he had one?

He only had one option left, remembering the way Hookfang burst from his pen frenzied and aflame. Stefnir advanced, sword raised, and Hiccup glanced down at the Dragon Blade in his left hand, praying to Odin Allfather, as his strength and lucidity were failing him. His coordination and balance were already pitiful, at best.

Stefnir reached out and grabbed him by the throat, pinning him against the metal door. Thick fingers clenched around Hiccup's windpipe and he coughed.

Stefnir leveled the tip of his sword with his face and whispered, "You should have yielded to me when you had the chance."

"Still…have my trump card…" Hiccup muttered.

His thumb rolled over a switch on the Dragon Blade's grip. Inside the hilt, there was a small striker—two pieces of flint colliding to make a spark filtered through an opening at the base of the blade. It connected with the metal, coated with a fine sheen Monstrous Nightmare saliva that had painted the inside of the sheath before the match. The sword caught fire, and Hiccup pressed the blade flat against Stefnir's arm. The other man recoiled, releasing Hiccup's neck, howling in pain from his shiny, blistering new burn.

"W-What is that?" Stefnir snapped, cradling his arm against his chest.

Hiccup slid up the wall by degrees, rubbing his throat.

"Inferno," he replied.

There had been a time Hiccup through his idea was too lofty, fueled by unrealistic expectations of himself and well-meaning enthusiasm. He had been at a loss for how to ignite metal—but dragons were his inspiration, and dragons had been the solution. Monstrous Nightmare saliva was a persistent substance. It clung to nearly any surface, always highly flammable. Almost as soon as Hiccup had completed the prototype, he imagined a retractable blade, like Toothless's fangs, coated with Monstrous Nightmare spittle as it was pulled back inside the grip. All brilliant ideas, all to be explored contingent upon him walking out of the arena in one piece—or rather, as many pieces as he had first walked in with.

"A flaming sword?" Stefnir roared in disbelief.

Hiccup imagined him pale and wide-eyed. "You sound…surprised," he replied, managing a smug grin.

"I don't care what pathetic little invention you use," Stefnir retorted, but there was a waver in his voice, and Hiccup did not need perfect vision to know eyes were darting to the Dragon Blade.

He staggered forward and their swords clashed again, but it was not like before. Stefnir was not as ruthless. His attacks were not as deliberate. Under his opponent's mask of fury, Hiccup detected a glimmer a fear and awe every time he swung the Dragon Blade. Stefnir was more on the defensive than he had ever been. His own sword moved in quick swipes to parry. He did not attempt to overtake Hiccup as they moved into the center of the arena. His posture was less bold, his injured arm and his leg were hindering free range of motion on top of it all, and the flames of Inferno kept him on edge.

Whenever he did try to attack, it was careful and hesitant. His movements were awkward as he tried to combine both offensive and defensive swordplay to avoid another burn. He was fixated on the blade and was not paying as much attention to Hiccup, like the sword was its own disembodied entity.

Hiccup's weaker swordplay skills were compensated by Stefnir's fear and distraction. Inferno was doing its job quite well. He was not on the run anymore, and he finally had a moment to think. He had the other man handicapped on his dominant side, and disarming him was the surest path to victory before Stefnir could grow accustomed to a flaming sword; before he figured out a way around it.

Hiccup focused in on Stefnir's blade, glinting with sunlight as it swished and sliced through the air to counter him; it had been beating against Gronckle Iron for most of the fight—an hard and durable metal. Hiccup knew well just about every weapon on Berk, having worked on them all at least once. Stefnir had the bad habit of unnecessary over-training and neglecting maintenance. Gobber had offered to treat his weathered blade, reinforcing it, and Stefnir had stubbornly declined—out of pride, perhaps, amid his demands for the wedding. Or because he did not see the utility in paying for what he believed could be remedied with a few grinds against a whetstone? If it broke, he could by a new one without blinking.

Yes, Hiccup knew that sword; he knew where it was weak; he knew in that moment how to win. Thank the Æsir for whatever threads of fate had tied him to Gobber's mentorship in his youth.

Hiccup lowered his sword, discarding his shield, giving Stefnir the chance to strike. The other Viking did not hesitate, thrusting his blade forward without restraint. Hiccup stepped out of the way and bent his free elbow, catching Stefnir's arm in the crook of his own. He would only be able to hold the larger man for a moment, but it was all the time he needed.

He took a deep breath and raised Inferno above his head.

Years of working in a smithy had trained his muscles. He might not be a wonder of weightlifting, but he had a mean downswing. Squinting to unite all the swords swimming now in his vision, he brought the Dragon Blade hard, deliberate, and calculated against the offending weapon, about three to four inches from the tip where it was structurally weakest. The strike came in as comfortable and fluid motion as wielding the smithy hammer he had pounded against molten iron for hours on end. Stefnir's blade shattered into two distinct pieces—the main body and the broken tip—falling from his outstretched hand.

Hiccup nearly laughed in relief. The gods were being uncharacteristically nice to him.

Stefnir wrenched his arm free from Hiccup's, staring at him, dumbfounded. Hiccup knew, in the back of his muddled mind, the crowd had been watching the entire time, but he had managed to tune them out in favor of concentrating on, well, not dying. In that moment, perhaps because he and Stefnir were equally startled and momentarily stunned, Hiccup's brain was not racing through the hase. The deafening cheers of their audience seemed to assault him in one, sudden cacophony. He and Stefnir continued to stare one another down.

Had he won? Was the fight over?

"Yield?" Hiccup asked, head spinning.

Stefnir glared at him, fists shaking with rage—or rather, Hiccup assumed that was what he saw. His opponent was becoming an more indistinct figure by the minute. He blinked and shook his clouded head.

Then something barreled into him with what felt like the force of a dragon.

Hiccup barely registered that Stefnir had tackled him before he felt an intense, stabbing pain in his right shoulder. His cried out in agony. The pain immobilized him. The older man had him pinned to the ground and was driving a jagged shard of his broken sword deep into his shoulder. There was no coherent thought in Hiccup's mind other than how much it hurt. A splintered blade was spearing and twisting through sine, with a white hot pain that extended down to his fingertips. To further incapacitate him, Stefnir used his free hand to grab a fistful of his hair, slamming his head against the stone for good measure. Hiccup's vision went black and his brain felt scrambled. He made a feeble attempt to sit up, but the world swirled around him and he fell back against the ground, writhing.

"Did you really think the fight was over?" Stefnir snapped. "Just because you broke my sword with your dirty tricks? Here I thought you had the decency to fight fair."

"Not…tricks," Hiccup groaned. "Strategy."

He did his best to swing left arm, to attack with Inferno, but he only managed graze Stefnir's bicep. The other man yowled, but as he twisted the hilt of the shattered blade embedded in Hiccup's flesh, something in the shoulder gave. Hiccup's right arm felt limp and separate from his body, like a dead limb stitched to him. Inferno clattered to the ground as Hiccup's left hand clamped down on Stenfir's wrist.

Stefnir seized the blazing sword, brandishing it in the air.

"I told you I didn't care what pathetic invention you used! You're done. You know it. I know. They know it."

Unintelligible shouting came from the spectators above, but it was as if Hiccup had his head underwater. His blunt fingernails clawed at Stefnir's arm, sticky with dried blood, sweat, and all his effort.

Hiccup glanced up at him, and his vision flickered like a candle on the verge of burning out. Two Stefnirs had him pinned with identical wicked grins.

Oh, dear Odin. One was enough.

Hiccup whimpered, closing his eyes. That was how it was all going to end. His right arm was paralyzed and he was too weak, too defeated to do anything more than moan for his opponent to stop; to show him some semblance of mercy.

He had been foolish to think he stood any chance against Stefnir. No matter how much "Hiccup flair" he threw at the other Viking, there was no denying that he was never going to be a fighter on the same scale as Stefnir Svenson. He had been outmatched from the start. Stefnir had been born and raised to fight in a time before peace, and he did it well. Hiccup's inventions had bought him time. They drew out the holmgang and had made it interesting for the spectators. But, in the end, it did not matter. He deluded himself from the start. Everyone had tried to warn him, but what choice did he have? What choice did Astrid have?

Stefnir was going to defeat him with his own sword. Maybe take an arm off. He hoped it was the right one. He was quite partial to his left hand. Ambidexterity did not mean he lacked a dominant side.

He laughed inside.

Why was that so funny? Was he delirious?

His head. Oh, how it was hurting. Ow. The gash on his forehead was still painful, too; sharp and begging for what remained of his consciousness that he did not have to spare.

"This is for you, Astrid!" Stefnir shouted from what sounded like a world away.

Astrid. She was watching. Hiccup felt a stab of sympathy, or was that just the blade in his shoulder? He could not tell anymore. But Astrid had been counting on him. He had been carrying both of their futures into the fight, only to fumble them. They were going to be happy, had he won. He had thought they had a chance, but she was going to watch him lose; she was going to have to marry Stefnir and spend the rest of her life with him, have his children.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way," Stefnir gibed.

Hiccup didn't think he sounded sorry at all. He wondered if the gods would let him into Valhalla if he bled to death after Stefnir was done with him. Was that a good enough warrior's death? Maybe the other seventeen years of his life would not count against him?

Hiccup gave another mental chuckle. Damn, his head really hurt. Stefnir had done a number on him with his shield earlier. That had been the deciding factor before the fight even concluded. Things went downhill from there.

Wow, his head. That shield. Damn.

The shield!

Hiccups eyes snapped open. Stefnir was poised above him, sword raised above his head, the dancing flames on the tip of Inferno Hiccup's only sight guide. Everything seemed to slow down.

Hiccup glanced at his right arm—the arm rendered useless by Stefnir's twisting blade fragment. His Gronckle Iron shield was reflecting the sunlight just beyond it: the only real detail Hiccup could make out. His left arm shot across his body, grasping the shield loosely as Inferno began its downward arc. His eyes then darted to the general, unprotected vicinity of Stefnir's lower abdomen and groin. In the blinding pride of impending victory, Stefnir could not see his mistake. There was only a split second to react, taking advantage of his opponent's fatal confidence.

Hiccup gathered up the last remaining bit of strength he could muster, and slammed his shield into Stefnir's stomach and groin, not quite sure where it hit, but certain it landed somewhere sensitive.

Stefnir yelped and dropped the Dragon Blade. Hiccup felt the heat of his beside his face. The older man curled in on himself until his was one solid, dark mass in Hiccup's vision—blending colors and shapes, filtering between glaring light and shadows. Hiccup then pushed himself up as best he could with an immobilized arm. Adopting Stefnir's earlier strategy, he rammed the shield into the underside of the other man's jaw, like iron uppercut. Stefnir coughed and sputtered, and his weight was gone, the broken sword no longer sinking into muscle.

Flailing with b;ind determination, Hiccup swung the Gronckle Iron shield one last time, and it connected with the side of his opponent's head. The impact was displaced throughout Hiccup's body, agitating his aching head. The great, black, lump of Stefnir toppled sideways onto the ground. He tried to collect himself, rolling on to all fours.

Hiccup, fueled by nothing but grit, scrambled to his feet, feeling the ground undulate underneath him, knees trembling. Right arm useless, he picked up Inferno with his left hand and stumbled over to Stefnir who was still reeling from the blow to the head, or groin, or both. He flinched as Hiccup approached and held up his hands in a defensive manner.

"Do you yield?" Hiccup murmured, holding Inferno in a loose grip. He felt the blade rattling in his hand.

"What—?" Stefnir rasped.

"Do. You. Yield?" Hiccup asked him more forcefully, moving the blade closer to his skin for emphasis.

Stefnir cowered back from the flames.

"Astrid isn't yours," Hiccup said. The Dragon Blade almost slipped from his weakened fingers. "Say it and end this."

"Fine," Stefnir conceded, strained, still rigid and defensive. His voice sounded thick, and he spat on the ground, tick and copious; blood that Hiccup could not see. "I yield! You can have her! More trouble than she's worth! Fuck you! Fuck her! I'm done with this yakshit. Just get the fuck away from me. I'm done. Done."

Hiccup wished he had some shred of energy or clarity to whoop and celebrate his victory, for he had just won everything—but his body was failing. What good was winning then if he did not survive it? The world was a dizzying wheel, spinning ever faster, and he bent forward, hands on his knees.

Somewhere far off in some dark vacuum, Gobber declared. "Hiccup wins the holmgang!"

There were cheers, there were boos. Hiccup could not tell which were more numerous. He felt himself begin to sway on the spot. He reached up and grasped the hilt of Stefnir's sword that was sticking out of his shoulder. Even a tiny jostle of the blade drew a hiss from his throat.

He took a deep breath, and pulled it free. Blood ran hot and unencumbered from the wound, and his breath came in short gasps that irritated the cut on his side with anything more than shallow inhales. Inferno fell from his hand but he did not hear it hit the ground. In fact, he no longer heard anything aside from the frantic hammering of his heart in his ears.

He broke out into a cold sweat. He glanced up at the crowd, hoping to Thor someone recognized how much trouble he was in. For a moment, he was adrift, weightless. He was knew aware he was falling before he was swallowed up by a mute blackness.

Astrid had not moved for what felt like an eternity. She might as well have been fused to the stool, pulled up alongside Hiccup's bed. The moment he had hit the ground in the ring, she was pushing through the dense crowd to get to him, feeling the bile rise in her throat. Stoick's voice boomed over the scene, calling for the healers. and time sort of ran together after that.

The sunlight filtering in through the open window had changed from the soft brilliance of morning to a harsh, reddish glow, casting long shadows on the walls as particles of dust swirled through the setting sunbeams. A flurry of activity had shunted Astrid back against the wall while healers descended on Hiccup like a bunch of vultures. Astrid had felt as though she was watching the aftermath of the Red Death all over again, complete with bloodied rags thrown over shoulders onto the floor with urgency, and the pull of black thread being fashioned into stitches. Both times, Stoick had gruffly suggested she leave, and both times, she had stayed under the guise of that she was curious about medicine. In all actuality, she felt she owed it to Hiccup.

Or so she told herself, to make amends. All those years she had been cold to him, and he had sacrificed everything for a village that had mistreated him. Three years later, he had endured Astrid's self-serving head games, only fight on her behalf, still in love with her despite all her selfishness and shortcomings. She was indebted to him—all of Berk was for the Red Death incident and the peace he had championed—but Hiccup would never collect. He suffered and forgave. Resilient, but thankfully out of it for the worst, most immediate part of his healing.

In both instances, three years ago and the present, he would mumble something as the healers worked on him. He was delirious and slipping in and out of a vague consciousness he would not remember.

"Stop", "please", and "hurts" were all Astrid could ever make out, pressed back against the wall, well out of the way with her fingernails digging little crescent moons into her face.

The first time, she had left after he was stable. Stoick had remained by his side with Toothless, Hiccup's watchful protector. Nobody neared the injured boy without clearing it with the dragon and his father, first.

Three years later, not much had changed. The Night Fury had been brought in as soon as Hiccup was no longer critical. The dragon was beside himself, warbling his lament over his human's injuries, distraught when Hiccup did not wake for him. With a doleful whimper, Toothless curled up at the foot of the bed. There, he remained immovable and despondent, head lifting only when someone entered the room.

Stoic often checked in. He would nod to Astrid before approaching his son, placing a large hand on Hiccup's bandaged forehead with paternal tenderness. He never said anything, only lingered for a moment before stepping out again.

Astrid and Toothless were the constants, though encroaching nightfall meant Astrid would have to return home and face her parents, whom she had been avoiding since the end of the fight. Though, what was there left to be sad? A facetious, "I hope you're happy now," would not undo the holmgang. Their frustration could not rebind Astrid to Stefnir now. They could not promise her to someone else when, by all legal accounts, she "belonged" to Hiccup. Really, what else could they, or anyone else do? The holmgang had been fairly fought and decisively won. Astrid had every right to sit by Hiccup's bed, avoiding the fallout in the village—gossip upon more gossip she did not care to hear.

She had Hiccup's hand in hers, squeezing it to elicit a response, but none came. Not a twitch, nor a reflexive curl of his fingers. She sighed, heavy and resigned, scooting closer to the bed and rousing Toothless with the scrape of wood. The Night Fury studied her as she brushed Hiccup's filthy bangs from his face. That earned her a faint groan, but his eyes remained closed. His head fell to the side and his brow furrowed. Astrid cast Toothless an inquisitive glance, but he approved of her efforts, dropping his head back to his claws.

"I don't think I'll ever understand you," she said to Hiccup, and he was still apart from slow, steady breathing. She muttered, "You have such a reckless disregard for your own well-being. Liking you is bad for my health—yours too, apparently."

"Occ…upational…hazard," Hiccup slurred, head lolling on his pillow. His eyes cracked open. He did not look at her at first. He stared at the adjacent wall, blinking.

Astrid let out a short, elated burst—a gasp of excitement that brought Toothless to his feet. The Night Fury bounded to the head of the bed, warbling excitedly. Hiccup broke out into a tired smile, reaching out for his dragon.

"Hey bud," he murmured, his passive hand sliding over black scales and Toothless nuzzled into his touch. "Good to see you." Green eyes turned toward Astrid, and a little more life and clarity returned to his face. "Hey…"

"That's all you have to say for yourself?" she asked, suppressing the urge to swat him in his battered state.

Hiccup frowned, squirming and wincing as his injuries made themselves known. He touched his fingers to his forehead, hissing and withdrawing them at once. "Ow?" he offered, voice a weak rasp. "Feel like I got run over by a pack of Gronckles."

"Stefnir really did a number on you," Astrid replied. Her hand fell to his bare chest, fingers wandering over freckled skin. She felt his heart beating beneath his fingers and she would have laid her head down on him, were he not so hurt.

"Oh. So, same thing, basically." His sarcasm was a welcome sign of recovery, still pale as he was. His left hand came up to grasp hers with all those familiar callouses. "Did I win?" he asked.

Astrid was taken aback. She cocked her head, eyes narrowed. "You don't remember?"

"No. The last thing I remember is getting knocked in the head by my shield. The details are fuzzy after that."

Astrid laughed wryly. Shaking her head, she told him, "Yes. You won. Stupidly. Impossibly, but you did it."

Hiccup smiled. That time, it reached his eyes. "Good. Stefnir will leave you alone, then."

Astrid huffed, pulling her hand free to fold her arms. After everything—their affair, the grief, his injuries—his priorities were still skewed. They always had been, from dragons to relationships, but there was something so charming in it.

And infuriating.

"And we'll be together," she said, because it was never about her misfortune or his, and who was more in need of rescuing; it was always about them and what they had to potential to be.

Hiccup laughed, then grimaced as the cut in his side made itself known. "That too," he replied, stroking Toothless. Then, with great effort, he sat up, swearing under his breath the whole way. The Night Fury gave him a boost, growling with concern, but he was an enabler. Astrid rolled her eyes, because whatever the most advisable course of action was—like ample rest—Hiccup was going to do the opposite.

"Am I missing anything? Any parts?" he asked, surveying his body.

Astrid wrinkled her nose. "I hate to tell you this, but your left leg is gone."

Hiccup stared at her. "Funny." He then glanced down at his right arm, immobilized in a leather sling and sighed, eyes dulled..

"Stefnir tore up your shoulder pretty bad," she explained. "They say you'll have to keep your arm in a sling until the muscles heal. Then it'll take some working with it to get the range of motion back."

He nodded, initial distress morphing into that willful determination. "I'll manage," he said. His gaze flickered to hers. "How…how are you?"

"Me?" Astrid remarked, incredulous for the second time. "I'm not the one who nearly got an arm hacked off!"

"I-I mean, with your parents!' he clarified, left hand held up in appeasement. "The Svensons…I can't imagine there won't be some backlash."

Astrid scoffed. "It doesn't really matter what they think anymore, does it? The holmgang means I'm free from that arranged marriage. What they want doesn't really matter unless you broke up with me, for some reason. I'm fair game if that happens."

"Break up with you?" Hiccup mused, as if the words were foreign. "A-After all of that? Wh—why would I ever—?"

Astrid smirked, rising from her stool to sit down beside him.

"So you aren't completely brainless. Good to know, if we're going to have a real shot at this."

The corners of his mouth twitched. There was something intently warm in his gaze, unaffected by the pain and damage Stefnir had inflicted on the rest of him. Flesh marred, his heart remained unscathed. He took Astrid's hand in his with an awkward reach across his body, since his right arm was useless.

"I think I would really like to kiss you—with impunity, that is. Finally," he said.

Astrid gave him a coy little shake of her shoulders, but leaned in anyway. She snickered, "Look at you, all banged up. I don't know. I might hurt you…"

His fingers along her jaw stirred up all kinds of delicious static beneath her skin. "I've had worse."

Their lips met and Astrid's eyes fluttered closed. Unable to really touch him anywhere, one hand feel to his knee while the other fisted in his hair, mindful of the bandages. It felt like the first real kiss they had ever shared—it was not a chaste peck of bashful children, and it was not laced with guilt and regret. The kiss was honest and untainted. Astrid felt a giddy rush as the realization hit her that it was over. Everything. All the unpleasantness leeched out of their lives through the blood Hiccup had spilled for her. For them. She could not have fought for him. She could not erase the lies that had crushed him, nor the anguish of a mutually supported misery. All they could do was move forward, for the path was completely open to them. The past two years had never happened. Who was Stefnir Svenson? Hiccup could have just beaten her in a dragon race, for all she knew, and the kiss was an exhilarated congratulations—like it always should have been, like it was always meant to be.

Like it always would be.