Unknowns point of view:
I stood on a high cliff, the wind a gentle ghost. Below lay Berk, nestled in its bay, peaceful and pathetic.
This was not another memory like the others, this may be his currant dream and if I could sense the shimmering resonance of his emotions he was... excited.
Why? The question was a hook in my mind. Why would this place of pain spark anything but dread in your sleeping heart?
Before I could think further on this, a roar shattered the dream-silence.
It was the same roar that had shaken his mindscape, but here, given form, it was a physical wave of force. I looked up.
His Night Fury soared against the dream-sky, a bolt of perfect, living shadow. Killing intent bled from it like heat from a forge. Its emerald eyes were fixed on the village below it and pure hatred could be seen in its eyes.
It tipped its head back and fired.
Purple plasma, spheres of violent, condensed energy, rained down on Berk. They struck the Great Hall first. The roof did not burn; it vaporized in a haze of amethyst light and splinters. The docks followed soon after, then the storehouses. All of this destruction was methodical. This was not a simple raid. It was an extermination.
My breath caught. It was all so beautiful.
The Fury finished its pass and wheeled. Below, the ants scrambled. Stoick the Vast burst from the dissolving Longhouse he was in, his face a mask of fury. He bellowed out orders. The warriors formed a ragged, terrified line.
The Night Fury descended fast to the ground, then it landed before them with a ground-shaking impact, folding its wings like a sovereign looking down at things that was below its very existence.
The villagers raised their weapons as Stoick stepped forward, axe raised, his voice a boom of futile defiance.
The Night Fury did not attack right away. It looked at them, and then, a low, rumbling sound began to build in its chest. It grew, vibrating the very air around it, until it became a laugh—a deep, guttural, mocking peal of thunder that held no mirth, only contempt for their very existence. It was the sound of a god laughing at ants under it.
Then, a sadistic, calculating look entered its emerald eyes.
It roared, not a challenge, but a proclamation of the hunt's beginning, and then it charged.
It did not go for Stoick however.
It moved with impossible speed, a black smear against the dream-cobbles, and skipped past the roaring chief as if he were a statue. Stoick's axe swept through empty air, his bellow cutting off in confusion.
I understood a moment later. This was not about defeating Stoic. This was about taking everything else first.
The slaughter was methodical, artistic in its brutality. A flick of a wing-tip, sharp as a scythe, and a warrior's head tumbled from his shoulders. A whip-crack of its tail smashed another's chest inward with a wet crunch, his organs were pulverized within the cage of his ribs. Limbs were sheared away, spinning through the violet-tinged air. It was not a battle; it was pure carnage. The Fury moved through the screaming, scattering crowd like a farmer through ripe wheat, leaving only blood and death in its wake.
The last Viking, a man who had dropped his axe to beg for mercy, found his head enclosed in the dragon's massive jaws. His pleas for mercy were cut off by the sound of his splintering skull and a beautiful, final crunch. The body fell, limp, to join the others.
I watched, a sensation blooming in my own chest—a dark, sparkling warmth. It was not mere enjoyment that could not even describe it. It was pride. It was the satisfaction of seeing a perfect, natural force operate without restraint, without the false morality that made mortals weak. This was the essence of my child, pure and unchained, and it was magnificent.
Stoick was frozen.
He stood amidst the ruin of his people, his family, his legacy. His mighty frame seemed to have shrunk. He was not looking at the dragon. He was staring at the carnage, at the faces of the dead who had trusted him to protect them. His axe hung loose from his hand, its edge dull with uselessness. Every line of his body spoke of a shock so profound it had emptied him. The great Stoick the Vast, who had never known a fear he could not shout down, was utterly, completely broken by the sight of his own failure.
The Night Fury, its black scales gleaming with a patina of mist and blood, turned from the last corpse. It paced slowly, deliberately, back toward the motionless chief. It stopped before him, lowering its great head until they were eye-to-eye. Stoick's gaze slowly, and agonizingly, lifted to meet the dragon own.
The silence, was thick and cloying as the blood soaking the ground, stretched between the beast and the broken man still trying to act defiant.
Then, a new sound cut through it.
It was laughter. High, clear, and utterly delighted. The pure, joyous sound of a child at playing and enjoying themselves.
Stoick flinched as if struck. The Night Fury's great head tilted, its emerald gaze sliding past the chief.
We all looked where the laughter was heard.
There, perched on a crumbling section of the Great Hall's wall, was Hiccup.
But it was a version Hiccup I had not seen from his memory. The small, cowering boy was gone. This one sat with his knees drawn up, chin resting on his hands, watching the scene with rapt, sparkling-eyed fascination. Behind him, suspended in the air like a macabre curtain, were his chains. No longer luminous silver or bleeding violet lightning, they were now a dull, stained iron, dripping and clinking softly.
And they were covered in blood.
My gaze swept past him, and a thrill colder than the void between stars shot through me. The ground behind his perch was not empty. It was a charnel house. A gallery of exquisite suffering. Bodies—warriors, elders, fishermen—lay in heaps and pools. Limbs were scattered like firewood. Heads stared with frozen masks of terminal horror and agonizing pain, their final moments etched permanently into their slack features.
A slow, proud smile touched my lips. I recognized them. The ones who had hurt my hatchling. Snotty or whatever his name was lay broken, his sneer forever silenced. The twins lay tangled in their own entrails, their mocking expressions gone. I searched briefly for the girl, Astrid, but she was absent. No matter. The harvest was bountiful enough and my baby was happy.
My attention snapped back to the boy. My little darling was a masterpiece i just need to make him confident enough to act like this in the real world.
Anyway that's something I have to work on later right now I just want to see where this goes. My baby had blood speckled on his face like freckles, it painted his arms to the elbows. His tunic was a soaked, dark canvas. And his smile... it was a savage, giddy crescent, utterly devoid of the pain or hesitation that had defined him. He looked... free.
He seemed unaware of my presence, which was perfect. I would have my introduction with my child in the waking world. For now however, I was content to observe my son in his purest state. I just hope that he and his night-fury will become one in the end so that my baby will finally be complete and perfectly happy by not holding himself back.
Hiccup hopped down from the wall with a light, almost dainty step, his bloody chains slithering behind him like obedient serpents bowing to his will. He walked right up to the colossal Night Fury, which lowered its head further, a low, curious rumble in its throat as he looked at hiccup.
Hiccup reached up, completely unafraid, and scratched the scales under the dragon's jaw. A thunderous, blissful purr shook the air. "I've never seen you before in the dragon raids," Hiccup chirped, his voice bright with curiosity. "You're so beautiful! But... why do I feel like I know you?" He tilted his head as if thinking about it, then he shrugged, the motion sending a droplet of blood flying from his hair. "Oh well! That's not important right now. We can play later, right? It's so much more fun with two people right?!"
His tone was singsong, playful, and utterly unhinged. It was the voice of someone who had found the answer to a lifelong question in the heart of a massacre.
A raw, strangled sound broke the moment. Stoick. He had found his voice, but it was a broken, hollow miserable thing. "Hiccup..." he gasped, his eyes wide with a horror that went deeper than the carnage. "My boy... what have you done? Why... why would you... GET AWAY FROM THAT DEMON!"
The last words were a roar, a final, desperate echo of his old self. He pointed a trembling finger, first at the Night Fury, then at his son. "You betrayed Berk! You betrayed your people! YOU BETRAYED ME!"
Hiccup's savage smile vanished in an instant.
It didn't fall into sadness or anger. It simply disappeared, leaving a blank, chilling placidity. Slowly, he turned his head to look at his father. Then, a new smile bloomed. It was slow, sharp, and so profoundly sadistic it made the earlier joy look like innocence.
"Who," Hiccup asked, his voice a soft, polite whisper that cut through Stoick's fury like one of my blades, "allowed you to speak?"
Before Stoick could draw another breath, one of the iron chains behind Hiccup moved. It wasn't a lash or a swing. It was a precise, vicious strike. The chain-tip, sharpened by his will into a spearhead, shot forward and buried itself with a wet thunk deep into Stoick's shoulder.
Stoick's scream was a magnificent thing—a raw symphony of shock, betrayal, and physical agony. He staggered, the mighty chief brought low by a single link of his abandoned son's hatred.
The sound made Hiccup's blank face light up again with pure delight. A giggle escaped him. From the Night Fury's chest came a matching, guttural chuckle—a dark harmony of amusement. They both smiled, their expressions mirroring each other's sadistic bliss.
"I killed them," Hiccup explained, walking closer as his father clutched the chain impaling him, "because they all hurt me. So I killed them. And you..." He leaned in, his blood-flecked face inches from Stoick's pain-contorted one. "...you're last on my list. But I want to have some fun before I say goodbye to you forever."
He straightened up, his cheer returning. "And I got a new friend now!" He patted the Night Fury's leg. "And by the looks of this place... he loves killing." He looked up at the dragon, his voice taking on a gentle, coaxing tone. "Do you want to join me? We can play with him together. It'll be fun at more fun than just killing him by myself what do you say?"
The Night Fury's rumble became a clear, deep, laughing sound. It nodded its massive head, emerald eyes burning with eager anticipation.
Hiccup beamed. "Yay!"
He turned back to Stoick, his chains beginning to slither and coil with a life of their own. The Night Fury took a step forward, its shadow engulfing the fallen chief.
"Let's start," Hiccup said, his voice sweet as poisoned honey, "with something simple."
And in the dream-bright ruins of Berk, they began. The chains lashed out, not to kill, but to seize and hold. The dragon's claws, precise as a surgeon's tools, began to dismantle. Stoick's screams became the rhythm of their game. They would break him, watch the life fade, and then—with a ripple of Hiccup's will or the dragon's breath—the dream would reset. The village would be whole, the people standing alive and unaware, and Stoick would be whole again, staring in fresh horror as the black shadow descended once more.
Over.
And over.
And over.
A perfect, endless playdate for a boy and his dragon, in a world where his sperm donor could never, ever look away again.
The sound of his laughter—that high, delighted, utterly unhinged giggle—rippled through the psychic air. I watched, a slow, unbidden smile spreading across my own face.
Oh, my darling, I thought, the warmth in my chest blossoming into full, sparkling amusement. Look at you. Having so much fun. It's adorable.
He looked like a kitten discovering it had claws, if the kitten could wield cataclysmic power and the claws were metaphysical chains and a spectral dragon. The sheer, savage joy on his blood-flecked face was... captivating. A masterpiece of unleashed id.
A colder, more practical thought sliced through the warmth. He is just a baby. The realization was a bucket of ice water on my pride. He was a child, playing with concepts of annihilation as if they were wooden toys. A flicker of something unfamiliar—a protective, almost... moral hesitation—stirred in my ancient heart.
I should stop this, the thought came, sharp and clear. He is too young. Killing... it stains the soul, even a soul as bright as his. He should not wield that kind of finality until he is older. At least fifteen. He has suffered enough, forced to live among these mortal pests who saw his light as a flaw. I will not be like my... like the one who sired me, who saw a child only as a blade to be sharpened for his own glorified conquests. No.
The conviction solidified. He is mine. And what is mine deserves the best this world and the next have to offer. That includes a childhood, however twisted. My child will not kill until he is at least fifteen.
I drew in a breath, ready to gently unravel the dream, to pull him back from the precipice of this intoxicating, premature power fantasy.
Then he laughed again.
Stoick was screaming, a fresh wave of agony as the dream reset once more, and my little hatchling clapped his hands with glee, his emerald eyes alight with a purity of emotion I had never seen on him before. Not pain. Not fear. Happiness.
My resolve softened, melting like frost under a sudden sun.
On second thought... I mused, tilting my head. He is only dreaming. It's not real. No one is actually dying. He's just... working through some feelings. In a very vivid, very creative way. The dark, loving smile returned to my lips. And besides... I want to spoil him rotten. Let him have his fun. Let him be happy.
As if my decision was a signal to the very fabric of his soul, the dream shifted.
The Night Fury, which had been circling the newly-reset, terrified Berk, let out a deep, resonant call. It was not a roar of challenge, but a song of longing. It turned its great head, and its emerald gaze locked not on the villagers, but on Hiccup.
Hiccup, standing amidst his bloody chains, went still. His playful smile faded into something more profound—a look of recognition, of coming home.
The dragon descended, not in a predatory dive, but in a slow, graceful spiral. As it drew near, its form began to blur, to soften at the edges. Hiccup didn't retreat. He stepped forward, arms slightly outstretched.
They met in the center of the ruined square.
And they began to merge.
A light erupted from the point of contact—not the violent violet of his plasma, but a calm, brilliant white-gold, the color of a star being born. It swelled, consuming the dragon's shadowy form and Hiccup's small, bloody figure, washing over the nightmare landscape of Berk until all I could see was a pulsing, luminous heart of power.
My breath caught. It is done.
The light began to fade, receding like a tide. And what it revealed stole the very thought from my mind.
He stood where the boy and the beast had met.
His form. His human form, but... perfected. Transformed.
The soft, brown hair was now jet black, and from its strands emerged two sleek, black ear-flaps, twitching with keen awareness. From the base of his spine coiled a long, powerful tail, as black as the void between stars, tipped with a fin-like rudder. His hands were no longer the soft, vulnerable things of a child; they were tipped with claws of obsidian, sharp and deadly.
And his back... from the nape of his neck, down the elegant line of his spine to the base of his tail, a row of dorsal spines rose, subtle but unmistakable. Then, with a whisper of unseen wind, his wings revealed themselves. They unfolded from his shoulders, vast and magnificent, a canopy of night-black leather stretched over bone. They were twice the size of his body, shadows given form, promising flight and dominion.
But his eyes...
I drifted closer, drawn by their terrible beauty.
His eyes were the crown of his new form. They glowed with an inner, emerald fire, slitted like a predator's, pools of ancient, concentrated power. All that fearsome, focused intensity was directed at one thing: Stoick, who stood frozen once more, his face a mask of primordial terror.
My hatchling smiled. It was not the giggling, playful smile from before. It was a dark, serene curve of the lips, the smile of a god who has finally become what he was always meant to be.
He lifted a clawed hand, palm open. A sphere of crackling purple plasma—his plasma, born of his will and my magic—coalesced above it with a sound like tearing silk.
(Image here)
He did not roar. He did not shout. He simply flicked his wrist.
The plasma shot forward, a bolt of condensed vengeance, and took Stoick point-blank in the chest. There was no dramatic explosion. The chief simply... unmade in a flash of amethyst light, his form dissolving into motes of dream-stuff that scattered on a non-existent wind.
My child lowered his hand. He looked at the empty space, then at his own claws, flexing them slightly. A new kind of smile, one of boundless possibility, touched his lips.
"Well," he said, his voice holding a new, melodic resonance, the echo of a dragon's purr beneath the boy's tone. "Now that's done... time for some real fun."
He turned, his wings giving a powerful, experimental beat that kicked up a whirlwind of ash and dream-debris. He looked up, found the highest cliff overlooking the disintegrating dream-Berk, and crouched. His muscles coiled, a picture of lethal grace.
Then he exploded upwards.
His wings snapped open fully, catching an updraft that didn't exist until he willed it, and he shot into the dream-sky. He spiraled, he dove, he rolled with an instinctual, joyous mastery. A laugh trailed behind him—free, wild, and utterly, perfectly happy.
He is perfect, I thought, my heart a tight, warm knot of possessiveness and awe. My little hatchling. My perfect, complete child.
I watched him carve arcs against the false moon, a shadow of beautiful, liberated destruction, until the dream itself began to fray, its purpose served.
With a final, loving glance, I withdrew from the garden of his mind.
Back in the physical cove, the first true hints of dawn tinged the sky. I was still seated on the soft grass, his head cradled in my lap. He slept on, peaceful, his expression smooth and untroubled. The bruises and scars were gone from his skin, but the transformation I had witnessed was not yet physical. That would come later, with acceptance and conscious power.
Gently, I began to stroke his hair—the soft, brown hair that would one day be as black as my own heart. A dark, loving smile played on my lips.
"I will never hurt you," I whispered to the sleeping boy, a vow etched in the stillness of the cove. "Never."
A strange, wistful thought drifted through me, as fragile as the morning mist. Is this... what my own mother felt? When she held me? The memory was old, blurred by millennia and bitterness, but for a moment, I imagined a warmth that had nothing to do with conquest or bloodshed.
I let out a soft sigh, the sound lost in the sigh of the grass. "I will not make the same mistakes he did," I promised, to him, to myself, to the ghosts of choices past. "I will not turn you into a weapon for a throne that means nothing. You are not a tool. You are my child, my baby."
I leaned down, my voice a tender murmur against his temple. "I will love you for the rest of eternity. And if you want your revenge... if you wish to see that village burn for what they did to you... then I will teach you. I will give you every tool, every secret, every ounce of power you need to accomplish your goals."
I brushed a final strand of hair from his forehead, my smile deepening, filled with a terrifying, infinite devotion.
"My little hatchling."