Hella's point of view:
This sound was just so cute!!!!
A soft, steady, rumbling purr, vibrating against my chest from the small, utterly limp form curled against me. My little hatchling is so perfect.
The merger was progressing beautifully. It wasn't just psychological now; his physiology was beginning to reflect the magnificent creature now woven into his soul. The instincts, the need for tactile comfort, the vocalizations of contentment... all emerging in his human form. It was the most adorable thing I had ever witnessed.
If my Mother could see him, I thought, a sharp, old ache twinging beneath the warmth. She would have adored him. Spoiled him absolutely rotten. She'd have woven him stars for to see his eyes shine and she would have sung the oldest lullabies of Yggdrasil to make him sleep like she ounce did with me. The thought was a sweet poison and one of my many regrets from my past.
The memory was a familiar, cold stone in my gut. The All-Father who saw a daughter not as a child, but as a project for war. A living weapon, honed for conquest, for spreading the glorious fear of Asgard. He taught me everything about war, strategy, pain, and dominion. He shaped me in his image—or the image he cherished back then: a conqueror.
And then... his 'change of heart.' The push for 'peace.' The great diplomatic turn. And what was a weapon to do when the war was declared over? A tool, no longer needed, is set aside. Discarded. He expected me to... adapt. To put down the sword and pick up a spinning wheel, as if millennia of purpose could be shed like a cloak. As if a blade, once forged for blood, could ever be anything else.
He thought he could lock me away. A danger to his new, fragile peace. A reminder of the bloody-handed past he wished to forget. Helheim was to be my gilded cage. Good thing I'd learned more than just how to swing a sword and to create weapons from my crown. The physical clone spell was a masterpiece of duplicity. A perfect, mindless copy, animated by a sliver of my will and a complex web of sustaining magic tied directly to Odin's own perception. It sits in that frozen throne now, a lifeless doll, while its connection to him feeds the lie that Hela, Goddess of Death, remains bound by him.
That little victory cost me dearly however. The Valkyries... my chosen sisters. My true sisters, in every way that mattered. They were to be my family when blood had failed me. And when Father commanded, they turned on me. Their betrayal was the final, coldest lesson. The clone... it fought them. It won. It was my magic, my will-to-survive given form, but I was not there. I did not see their faces as they fell. Sometimes, in the silence, I think that is a mercy. Their loss is a hollow place, but it is a clean one. They chose their side and betrayed one of their own sisters because my father ordered them to.
I let out a breath I didn't need, the tension easing as another, louder purr rumbled from the boy in my arms. I scratched behind his ear, and the sound deepened, a symphony of pure, trusting bliss.
No. No more regrets for that path. It had led here. To this hidden cove, to this silence and to him.
I had my own child now. My own reason for being that had nothing to do with my father's wars or his peace. This was mine. This purpose was fierce and warm and purring in my lap.
I wondered, idly, what Mother would think. Frigga. Wise, gentle, fiercely loving Frigga. Would she be horrified? Or would she see past the death and the darkness to the love beneath, as she always tried to do with me? She now has a grandchild and I have promoted her to grandmother before Thor, that oafish brute if my informants are to be believed, or Loki, the silvertongued chaos-spinner, ever settled down. I snorted softly. Did they even know I existed? Or had Odin erased me so thoroughly from Asgard's history that I was a ghost even to my own brothers? A shameful secret, the firstborn weapon, locked away and forgotten.
It didn't matter. That life was behind me. I was no longer the conquering weapon he forged. I was... something else. A gardener. A protector. A mother.
What would have happened if he'd succeeded? If I moldered in Helheim, a monument to his guilt? The thought was a void, empty of meaning. I felt nothing for that phantom path. No curiosity, no longing. There was only the warm, purring weight in my arms.
Enough of the past, I decided, my focus sharpening like a blade drawing from its sheath. It is time for the present.
I knew his pain. I had walked the sad, bruised paths of his memories. I had witnessed the glorious, terrifying potential of his dream-self. But I did not know him. Not the waking, conscious boy. His likes, his quiet thoughts, the things that made his eyes light up beyond survival and vengeance.
It was time to get to know my hatchling.
Gently, I shifted my scratching to the crown of his head, a soothing, non-specific touch that wouldn't overwhelm his purring bliss. My voice was a low murmur, meant to blend with the happy sounds he was making.
"Little one," I began, the endearment coming as naturally as breath. "Now that we are properly introduced... I want to get to know you better. For example what are your likes and dislikes?"
Hiccup's Point of view:
Her scratching stopped, moving to just a gentle petting on top of my head.
...No, wait, come back, I thought, the blissful fog receding and leaving me feeling oddly... empty. A little lost. That felt so good. Why did she stop?
A sudden, bizarre understanding crashed into me. Is this... is this what they feel when I do this to them? The memory of two small, warm bodies shoving insistently under my hands, of happy chirps turning into offended whines when I had to pull away... No wonder they try to bribe me with shiny rocks or nip at my fingers! And when that doesn't work, they tackle me! A flush of pure, hot shame washed over me. I owe them so many apologies...
"My likes?"
Her question pulled me the rest of the way out of my thoughts. I blinked, my cheek still pressed against the soft black cloth. Her voice was warm and curious.
"Yes, my dear hatchling. What do you like to do?"
I frowned, really thinking about it. It was a hard question. Most of my time... most of my time was just spent trying to get through the day. Making sure I found at least one meal for myself, and two more for... for them. Making sure I got back to the empty hut before Stoick did, so I could pretend to be asleep. And then, once his snoring shook the walls, I'd slip out of my cage and run to the caves near this side of the forest. To sleep curled up with them. That was the best part of my day. Most nights, I didn't even live with Stoick anymore. Not really. As far as I was concerned, they were my only family.
"I... I like the forest," I said slowly, the words forming as I spoke them. "It feels safe. I don't have to worry about someone seeing me and deciding to hurt me. I can just... be. I can be free here." As I said it, I felt her arms tighten around me, just a little. It wasn't scary. It felt like she was holding the thought close. I liked it.
"I like the high cliffs, too," I continued, gaining confidence. "The ones where you can see the whole ocean, and all the stars at night. I love how they glimmer. They don't have to listen to anyone. They just... are."
I snuggled a bit deeper, thinking of my favorite thing. "But I think I love the silence right before a storm the most. When the whole world goes still and waits. And then... the lightning. It's so beautiful. It's like the sky is drawing pictures in fire for just a second."
I paused. There was one more thing. The biggest thing. But saying it out loud always brought trouble.
Her voice was a soft encouragement against my hair. "I won't judge, darling. What is it?"
I took a shaky breath and whispered it into her chest, like a secret. "Dragons. I... I love dragons."
There. I'd said it.
I braced myself. For the scoff. The lecture. The disappointment.
Instead, I felt a deep, rumbling purr vibrate through her, mirroring my own from earlier. It made my whole face go hot again, but in a good way.
"I love dragons as well, little one," she murmured, her voice full of a knowing warmth. "They are magnificent creatures."
She does! She really does!
Joy, bright and sudden, fizzed through my veins. I wasn't alone! Someone else saw it, someone else understood!
An idea, brilliant and perfect, exploded in my mind. Maybe she wouldn't mind if I called them over! The cove was huge, and safe, and hidden from everyone. We could play here! It's safe from those stupid humans!
The thought rang through my head with crystal-clear certainty, followed instantly by a wave of confusion.
...Stupid humans?
I was human.
Wasn't I?
The question hung in my mind, cold and strange. But the excitement was stronger. She loves dragons. The cove is safe. They could come here. The logic felt flawless.
I didn't have time to untangle the weird thought. The giddy possibility was too bright.
(Hella's POV)
I listened, each of his answers a precious stone I collected and stored in the vault of my heart.
The forest as a safe place. Of course, I already knew that thanks to his minds-cape.
The cliffs and the stars. A desire for vantage, for a kingdom of one's own. It was an impulse I knew well, though I'd never admit any fondness for Midgard's modest landscapes to another soul. To him, however, I would speak only truth. The very idea of deception toward my child was anathema.
The silence before the storm. The lightning. A thrill, sharp and proud, went through me. Thor's brutish domain, yes, but my hatchling was not drawn to the thunderous bluster. He was drawn to the exquisite tension, the poised potential, the moment of catastrophic, beautiful release. It was the soul of a perfect hunter. It was the essence of a Night Fury's strike. His affinity was for the art of power, not just the noise of it.
Dragons. That was no surprise. His soul, now merged with the most magnificent of them, would naturally sing to the rest of its kind. They represented the freedom and power he was denied.
Yet, a thread of curiosity wove through my satisfaction. He loved dragons, yes. That explained his fascination, his lack of the instinctive fear other mortals had. But in his dream... he had approached the Night Fury—the very avatar of his own unleashed power—with a curious, playful wonder. Not just a lack of fear, but a profound, instinctive comfort. As if meeting a part of himself he didn't yet recognize. The love for dragons was one thing; the seamless, unthinking ease with which he accepted the presence of a creature that should, by all mortal logic, be the stuff of ultimate nightmares... that spoke of the merger happening on a level deeper than conscious thought. His human mind didn't understand it yet, but his soul already knew its kin.
My contemplation was interrupted by the shift in his energy. Confusion, then a sparkling, brilliant excitement. He looked up, those emerald eyes—so like my own, a fact that filled me with a savage joy—alight with a hopeful question.
"What's on your mind, little one?" I asked, my thumb stroking the apple of his cheek.
He took a small breath. "Is it... is it okay if I called some of my friends?"
Friends.
The word was a spark on dry tinder. In the bleak landscape of his memories, I had seen no friends. Only attackers and ghosts. A sharp, vigilant curiosity awoke. Who had claimed that title from my isolated child?
"Of course, little hatchling," I purred, my tone giving nothing away. "Call them."
His whole face illuminated. Then, he did the most delightful thing.
He tipped his head back, and let out a series of sounds—not words, but clear, chirping roars. The call was unmistakable. The vocalization of a dragon hatchling, raw and unpracticed, but its intent was crystal clear. A summons.
My breath caught. Oh, you clever thing.
He finished, looking immensely pleased with himself. "They should be coming soon! Now, what was the other part of the question again?"
I gazed at him, a slow, wondrous smile blooming. "That... was a dragon call, little one. Is that how you signal your friends?"
He just grinned, a mischievous, toothy expression, and tilted his head in a gesture so instinctively draconic it unspooled my last shred of composure.
A sound escaped me—a pure, delighted squeal. I was powerless against it. I gathered him close, cuddling him fiercely, nuzzling my face into his hair. "You are too wonderful! Too perfect! My brilliant little hatchling!"
He erupted into giggles, a sound of real, untainted joy, wriggling happily in my embrace. I tried, and failed, to regain a semblance of divine dignity. His laughter was a finer treasure than any kingdom.
Finally, I stilled my adoring assault, though I kept him anchored firmly in my lap. I cleared my throat, a laugh still dancing in my voice. "We still have much to learn about each other, my hatchling. So, tell me... what are the things you dislike?"
(Hiccup's Point of View)
I didn't want to answer that question. Thinking about things I hated made the bad feelings come back, the hot, tight feeling in my chest. I thought about lying, just saying I hated yucky food or the cold. But I couldn't. Not to her. She was the first person who was ever really, truly nice to me. I wouldn't lie to her. I won't.
I let out a sigh, the happy purring feeling gone. "I don't like the village," I mumbled into her shirt. "And their... nonsense. They always treat me like I'm below them. Like I'm dirt on their boots."
I felt my voice get a little stronger, a little hotter. "I hate how they treat me like a pest! And I hate how Stoick ignores me, like I'm nothing! Like I'm just... air!" The words felt sharp coming out, like the little stones I'd spit out after a shove into the dirt.
Her fingers started moving in my hair again, slow and gentle. It was like she was smoothing the angry thoughts away.
"You should relax, little one," she murmured, her voice a soft hum. "They cannot get you here. I will not allow it."
The promise in her words was like a warm blanket. I believed her. I let myself relax against her again, the tension leaking out. "I hate Stoick for ignoring me. He's supposed to be my father, but I don't even know what that's supposed to feel like. I also hate how others treat me and hurt me." Just saying it made my side ache with a memory-pain.
"That," Hella said, and her voice wasn't soft anymore. It was clear and hard, like iron cooling. "Will never happen again, darling. I will make sure of that."
I didn't know how she could do that, but I didn't need to. I trusted her. A little bud of happiness bloomed in my chest where the hot, tight feeling had been.
I kept going, the words flowing easier now. "And I hate how they hurt dragons. How they hunt them. I... I don't know why the dragons raid, but it's not for fun. You can see it in their eyes. They're scared. I think... I think something is making them do it. Something is controlling them."
Hella was quiet for a moment. "That is correct," she finally said, and she sounded almost... impressed. "They are forced to do so. But you do not have to worry about that yet, little hatchling. You are too young for such burdens. So don't trouble yourself with it."
I wanted to worry about it. It felt important. But then her fingers found that spot right behind my ear and started scratching again, and my brain turned into warm, happy mush. All my worries melted away into a blissful, purring puddle.
There was one more thing, though. A quiet, confusing thing. "I also hate..." I started, my voice sleepy. "...how everyone talks about love. But I don't know what it is." I tilted my head back to look up at her, my brow furrowed. "What does that word mean?"
She froze. Completely still. Not even breathing. Her emerald eyes were wide, staring at something far away. It was scary for a second. Had I asked a bad question?
Then she moved again, but slowly. She gently pressed my head back against her chest, holding me there. It was a little embarrassing, but it also felt safe. She was quiet for a long time, just holding me. When she finally spoke, her voice was very soft, like she was telling me a secret about the world.
"Love..." she began, "is the most powerful force there is. It is not a weakness. It is a choice. A promise. It is when someone's happiness becomes more important to you than your own. It is when you look at someone and know you would burn the world to keep them safe, and rebuild it just to see them smile. It is..." her voice caught, just a little, "...wanting to give someone everything, even when you have nothing left to give. It is a shelter. A home for the heart."
She fell silent again, her fingers finding that spot behind my ear once more. The blissful feeling came washing back, even stronger now, wrapped in her words. I didn't understand all of it, but it sounded... big. And warm. Like her.
A few minutes drifted by in that perfect, warm haze.
Then I heard them.
Excited, high-pitched chirping. Familiar, chattering growls.
My eyes snapped open. I sat up, fighting against the blissful limpness in my body. I tipped my head back and let out a sharp, answering chirp of my own.
A grin spread across my face as I heard their immediate, happy replies. They were close!