Unknowns point of view:
The night belongs to me.
The full moon illuminated my cove, washing it in a sterile, silver light. It was the only illumination I permitted, far more appropriate than the sun's crude, life-affirming glare. Under its gaze, my spider lilies performed their nightly ritual. Their petals, the deep crimson of a fatal wound, unfurled. The air grew thick with the sweet, metallic scent of their poison—a beautiful mist designed to drown mortals in the blood of their own lungs. It was a perfect, self-sustaining system. Elegant and lethal.
My attention shifted to the lake. Its surface shimmered not with moonlight, but with the captured, flickering essence within it. The souls. The fuel that kept my garden happy. Their silent, eternal screams vibrated through the roots of every flower, a nourishing hum. The supply was... adequate. But it was depleting. I would need to replenish it soon. A minor task of course. Perhaps I would wait for the next dragon raid on some pathetic coastal village. Let the beasts do the initial labor of separating the pests from their fragile shells. I would simply harvest the results of their labor. It was more efficient that way. It was less direct contact with the ephemeral filth of mortal fear.
Mortals are things. Temporary, noisy things. My magic exists to end them. My weapons exist to unmake them. It is a simple, clean relationship. I feel nothing about it. They are below consideration, existing only for use or destruction.
Which is why this little anomaly was so profoundly irritating.
He lay exactly where he had collapsed, a small, pale stain on the perfection of my garden. Asleep. Breathing my air. The garden should have dissolved him. My will is death. This place is an extension of that will. His continued existence was not just an intrusion; it was a malfunction in my own nature.
I began to walk toward him, the intent to simply correct the error cold in my mind. What makes this one different? The question was a flaw in my own logic, and I despised it. My power does not hesitate. It does not care. So why did it seem to care for him?
A flicker of wrongness snagged my perception before I reached him.
The souls.
They were huddled at the farthest edge of the lake, a compressed, trembling mass of faint light. This was... unusual. They fear me, of course. Their terror is a constant, background symphony to my existence, a spice in the atmosphere. But they were not looking at me. They were not screaming their silent pleas for a mercy I would never grant them.
They were utterly, completely fixated on the sleeping child. Their collective terror was so absolute it had stolen their voices. They cowered from him.
Now, that was... noteworthy.
I closed the final distance, my focus sharpening. The dead, who know only my dominion, were paralyzed by this broken, living boy. A fascinating contradiction.
Then I saw the second violation of the night.
The lilies surrounding him were actively venting their poison. The shimmering, lethal mist curled around his head, drifting into his nose and mouth with each slow, sleeping breath.
He did not convulse. He did not even choke on his blood like he was supposed to.
His expression—a tense map of pain and weariness—softened. His small body settled deeper into the grass. A faint, almost peaceful sigh escaped him. The poison, engineered to deliver one of the most agonizing deaths a mortal body can know, was having the opposite effect. It was soothing him. Sedating him. As it does for me.
This was not a malfunction. It was a perversion. My own weapons were treating him as an equal but he is not my equal he is a child. A broken, insignificant thing.
I stood over him, looking down. The moonlight etched every bruise, every scratch into stark relief. Evidence of the petty, vicious nature of his kind. He was nothing.
And yet.
The garden cradled him.
The dead recoiled from him.
My poison comforted him.
He was no longer just a pest to be eliminated. He was a paradox to be understood. To destroy him now would feel like giving up. And I have never been one to turn away from something simply because it was difficult to understand.
The longer I looked at him, the more unsettled I became. My gaze lingered, tracing the rise and fall of his chest, the way his body curled slightly even in sleep, as if he expected the world to strike him at any moment. Without realizing it, I moved closer and sat beside him. There was no grand decision behind it. My body simply obeyed a thought I had not meant to have.
I hate those wounds.
The realization hit me hard. Not pity—at least that is what I told myself—but something close enough to make me uncomfortable. My magic answered before my pride could stop it. It flowed from my hands and into him, warm and precise. Bruises faded as though they had never existed. Cuts sealed cleanly, leaving smooth skin behind.
I should have stopped there.
But then I saw the scars.
So many of them. Old ones. New ones. Marks left by carelessness, by cruelty, by hands that had no right to touch him. Anger stirred in me, sharp and uninvited. One by one, I erased them. I traced each scar slowly before removing it, as though acknowledging its existence mattered. Somewhere along the way, I drew his head into my lap without thinking. It felt natural in a way that disturbed me deeply.
His hair was soft beneath my fingers.
There was a faint scar beneath his chin, older than the rest. I paused there longer than necessary, smoothing it away with care I did not want to examine too closely. When it finally vanished, leaving his skin unbroken, I felt an unexpected sense of relief.
Then I realized what I had done.
I had healed him.
A mortal lay against me, untouched by pain, resting in my lap. The garden reacted instantly. The spider lilies trembled and released another wave of poison into the air, not in warning but in delight. The scent thickened, sweet and heavy. Even the lake stirred, the trapped souls shifting as though the garden itself approved of what I had done.
He was whole. Unmarked. He was Perfect.
I waited for disgust to rise in me. I waited for the urge to pull away, to recoil at the thought of his skin against mine however it never came. I felt nothing but a quiet stillness and that same relentless curiosity.
I looked down at him again. He slept peacefully, unaware of me, unaware of how close he was to death herself and how far from it he now stood. There was no hatred in me. No desire to harm him. And that frightened me more than anything else.
Why does he affect me like this?
I needed answers. And the only way to get them was from him.
Carefully, I gathered my magic once more. This time, not to heal and not to destroy. I brushed my fingers against his temple and let my power slip gently into his mind, slow and deliberate.
If this child carried a secret, then I would see it for myself.
I closed my eyes and let my power slip inward.
When I opened them again, I was standing in a forest.
It was dark, but not threatening. The trees stood close together, blocking most of the light, and the ground was soft beneath my feet. Everything was muted, quiet, contained. The mind is a strange place—it builds itself from what feels safest to be each individual.
The fact that his mind had chosen a forest instead of a home unsettled me.l more then I wanted to admit.
I began to walk forward. As I moved, pieces of memory surfaced around me, appearing and fading without order. He was only five. There was little structure here, and absolutely no organization to speak off.
I saw his village. Berk. Loud and sharp-edged. I saw his father—Stoick, the chief—large and imposing, his presence overwhelming even when he said nothing at all. The child tried again and again to gain his attention. He brought things he had made. He followed instructions carefully. He stood where he was told to stand.
But it was never enough.
Stoick's gaze passed over him as if he were irrelevant. When the man spoke to him, it was with irritation, never in warmth. I felt the child's confusion, then his anger, and finally something quieter and more permanent.
He stopped thinking of that man as his father.
I found myself agreeing, and the realization irritated me.
Why did I care what he thought?
The memories shifted. I saw the other children. The twins, careless and rough, hurting him because they could. Then Snotlout—more deliberate, more cruel. Each time, the result was the same. The child left wounded and alone.
He learned how to tend to his own injuries. Not because he was taught, but because no one else would do it for him.
I felt anger rise again, sharp and unwanted. I did not understand why it kept happening.
Then I saw the girl.
Astrid.
At first, she was different. She did not strike him. She did not mock him. She simply sat nearby, and that was enough for him to believe he was safe. I felt that belief form, fragile and dangerous.
Then it shattered.
He was hiding when he heard her speaking. She called him an obligation. Something she had been told to tolerate, not someone she chose to care about. She said being kind to him was pointless, because even his own father did not care.
He listened in silence.
That wound went deeper than any blow he had ever received. I felt it settle into him, heavy and lasting.
My anger flared again—stronger this time.
Why did this bother me?
I pushed forward, seeking the reason. That was when I noticed the chains.
They stretched through the forest, pulling tight, leading deeper into his mind. I followed them until I reached a cave.
As I approached, I felt it—rage, hatred, and the urge to destroy. It was powerful enough to be dangerous. For a moment, it pressed against me, sharp and overwhelming.
Then it vanished.
The chains glowed purple briefly, and then the feeling was gone as soon as it appeared.
I followed them into the cave. The walls were scored with deep, desperate gouges, a testament to a futile, endless struggle. The very air tasted of ozone and stifled thunder.
I reached the end of the cave, and all thought ceased.
What stood before me was not possible. It should not even exist in someone so young.
The child's rage and hatred had not formed some shapeless beast. It had crafted a masterpiece. It had given itself the shape of perfection in my eyes: a Night Fury.
The chains I had followed bound it from the outside. The luminous, straining links were the pure manifestation of his own will, a cage forged from a conscience he should not possess. He had imprisoned a god of the sky inside his own mind. The garden's fascination, the souls' terror—it all made a terrible, beautiful sense. He was not a just mortal. He was a force of nature wearing a fragile skin, and the only thing preventing the storm from breaking loose was the storm itself, choosing to be still.
I was beyond intrigue at this point I was in awe.
Then the Night Fury opened its eyes.
They were a bright, piercing emerald, and in their depth I did not see a monster. I saw a sovereign. I saw myself, reflected in a different kind of majesty. My magic did not stir—it resonated, a silent, profound chord struck between our essences.
The Fury surged against its bonds, rising with a power that made the psychic stone groan. It tipped its head back and roared. The sound was the end of silence, the heart of a hurricane given voice. His entire mindscape quaked with the force of its cry.
And as it roared, the chains flared a blinding, punishing purple. The light seemed to leech the very strength from the great creature. Its defiance dimmed; its form sagged back into submission.
In that moment, I understood everything.
The chains were not a prison built by fear. They were a discipline. A sacrifice. This child, who had every reason to unleash annihilation upon the world that scarred him, had instead chosen to hold his own divine nature back. He had chained a dragon to protect the ants that kicked him downs
It was the most extraordinary act of will I had ever witnessed. It was also a profound mistake on his part but it is forgiven since he is only a child.
A calm, absolute certainty settled within me, colder and harder than any anger. The Sisters of Fate had not led him to my garden by accident. This was no stray pest as I initially thought. This was a gift given to me by the fates themselves.
My gaze fell upon the glowing chains. I reached out, my hand passing through the psychic air to grasp one of the luminous links.
"Hush now," I whispered to the chained storm. "You no longer have to be afraid. You no longer have to hold yourself back."
I willed my magic into the chain, a command for it to dissolve. The link shuddered, its light flickering. It eroded, but only for a moment. Then before my eyes, it healed itself, reforging with a stubborn, brilliant glow.
A wave of pure, fierce pride washed through me. I laughed, a soft, breathless sound of awe.
"So strong-willed," I murmured. "My father would have adored you in his war-hungry days. He would have snatched you up, made you a prince of Asgard, and you would have become my little brother." My hand tightened. "Thankfully, that did not happen. You are something truly special, my darling~"
My Pride for my child was one thing. However his defiance of my will was another. He was strong, but he was a child and I am a Goddess.
I exerted my will, not as a suggestion, but as a decree. My power, the weight of millennia and a domain of endless night, pressed upon the chains. They were magnificent, born of a will far beyond his years. But they were not stronger than mine. Not yet anyway.
With a sound like shattering crystal, the chains broke and faded out of existence.
The Night Fury surged upward, shaking off the broken remnants of its prison. It stretched to its full, impossible height, and roared. The sound was not of freedom, but of release—a pent-up hurricane of killing intent so pure it even gave me pause. The mindscape trembled at the force of its own unleashed heart.
Then its great, emerald eyes found me. The fury in them banked, replaced by a deep, cognizant recognition. A low, thrumming purr vibrated from its chest, shaking the cave floor. It padded closer, a shadow of sleek, deadly grace, and lowered its head.
I reached up and scratched the scales beneath its jaw. The purr intensified. "There," I cooed. "Go now. Do as you wish. Go and become complete. Become one with him, forever. My son must be perfect."
With a final, rumbling purr, the great beast turned and it launched itself away from the cave, like a bolt of living shadow, and shot into the psychic sky of his mind.
I smiled, ready to withdraw. My work here was done after all.
Then, a flash of light pierced the cave's gloom.
The chains were reappearing. But not as they were before. It coalesced, weaving itself not back into glowing restraints, but into chains of bright, cold silver. My satisfaction vanished, replaced by sharp disbelief. This metal... it was alien here. A child of Midgard should not imagine or know of such things.
But it did not stop there.
The silver darkened, its nature shifting under my gaze. The links grew dense, their surface swirling with constellations of embedded power. My breath hitched. Uru. The bone of Asgard, the marrow of divinity. A metal only gods and the dwarves of Nidavellir could command. It formed in the vault of his mind, an impossibility made manifest.
And then it began to bleed out.
From the forged Uru links seeped a miasma of profound, royal purple. And within that mist, lightning awoke—crackling, searing arcs of violent violet. I felt it then, a pull deep in my core. Threaded through that impossible storm was a strand of my magic. The emerald energy I had poured into healing his flesh was not simply present. It was being consumed. His will, his nascent power, was devouring the death I had offered as comfort and spewing it back out as this... this glorious, blasphemous, new-born force. The purple fog billowed thicker. The violet lightning struck the cave walls with greater fury, fed by the essence of my own power.
Impossible.
The word was a stone in my throat. This was not a paradox. This was a proclamation.
A sound escaped me—a low, guttural chuckle that climbed into a laugh. It was not a sound of humor, but of raw, unholy revelation. It echoed, brittle and triumphant, in the sacred hollow of his psyche. It was the sound of every assumption I had ever held about mortals, about worth, about my own eternal solitude, being incinerated.
"Mine," I whispered, the laugh dying into a venomous, possessive sigh. "You clever, perfect thing. You are taking what is mine and making it yours."
I stepped closer to the churning, lightning-wreathed Uru, letting the violet arcs kiss my skin without harm. "They called you worthless?" My voice was a serpent's hiss of pure, undiluted rage. "They laid their filthy, insignificant hands on you? They dared to think you had no potential?"
The rage crystallized into a vow, cold and absolute as the void between stars. "I will unmake their world to prove them wrong. I will peel the flesh from their bones and let them see what they tried to break. Every insult, every scar, every moment of loneliness... I will visit it back upon them a thousandfold. Their blood will water the stones of Berk, and their final screams will be a lullaby for my perfect little hatchling."
Then mindscape shattered around me, unable to contain the ferocity of my possession. I was pulled, deeper—into the soft, secret core of his longing.
I stood on a high cliff, the wind a gentle ghost. Below lay Berk, nestled in its bay, peaceful and pathetic.