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Chapter Text

Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III was as fond as noise as anyone else was.

Well, maybe not anyone else. Maybe it was just him.

Bustling noise was one of his favorites, the sound of Berk in the morning with all its early risers and pattering busyness. But he also loved the sound of wind in his ears, blowing through his hair on noon rides with Toothless. The sound ocean dweller dragons beneath him in the sea, drifting the waves. The sound of Toothless' wings, the mechanical noise of Hiccup shifting his tail into a new position Even the sound of clouds, though there was none at all. 

And Hiccup loved it most where there should be no noise at all.

Because even then, sitting on a new cliff watching the sun set with his best friend, there was noise all around them. And that's what made Hiccup's best memories, the sound of everything and nothing at all.

–––

Jackson Frost found it quite mind numbingly boring when the palace was quiet.

Well, quiet was subjective in this case. While the castle was always bustling with servants, or guards, or the occasional visitor, it still felt quiet. Still, even. A wandering castle would've been more interesting, instead of the one he lived in nestled in the never moving, never growing tree. But alas, Jack was subjected to its quiet and un-moving-ness for the rest of his life, or so he was raised to believe.

But Jack was a wild spirit, both literally and figuratively, and found it his sole job to fill the castle with more than what it was. To fill it with fun and laughter and noise that no one had ever heard of.

His father almost caught him every time, though.

Playing a prank on the handmaiden or cooks? He was just around the corner as Jack made his great escape. Freezing the ground beneath court nobles and royal advisors?? Father was right behind him. His father wished to bash every amount of fun under foot as long he ruled the Winter Court, and he wasn't leaving any time soon.

Jack and his father, Kozmotis 'Pitchiner' Frost, couldn't be more different. Where Jack was light and free and breeze of fresh cold air, Pitchiner was black ice and shadows and cold glares that could kill. Jack had always though he gained his (striking good) looks from his mother – a woman who he had never had the pleasure of meeting – all white hair and pale snowflake skin and rosy cheeks. Blue eyes that could cut souls and raise laughter with just a look, that crinkled in such a way when he grinned. His father was nearly the exact opposite of that, with a dead, grey complexion, dark fine hair, and yellow but harsh eyes. He was tall and regal and imposing where Jacks short and impish nature made him charming.

Jacks father liked the numbingly boring, ravished in the mundane castle like it was a great feast before him, and took every chance he could to berate and beat his son if he disturbed it. 

Jackson Frost hated the quiet, and hated his father.

Chapter Text

It was rarely anything but snowing, especially when Jack was anxious.

It was hailing now, large chunks of ice hitting the stain glass windows with such force he feared they would crack and break. They never would, the windows, it was nearly impossible.

Jack rubbed his hands together nervously, as if that would bring warmth to his frost bitten fingers, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion as his eyes glossed over the hundreds of texts before him.

(He could never actually feel how cold his hands were, so it never really mattered if they were frost bitten, but it was a habit to rub warmth into them non the less.)

Under a cloak of darkness, the only lights being the moons above Alfheim and the candles floating between leaning bookshelves. Jack, more than anything, would rather be at the feast in the winter castles grand hall celebrating something or other. A spectacular feat his father did for the Fae, maybe, though he never really payed attention.

Jack wished he did, tonight of all nights especially.

A feast sounded great, no matter what it was celebrating. Fae didn't eat much as it was, that was a known fact, but Jack was starving. He would have to raid the castles kitchen in a few hours and sneak past his dad to settle his stomach.

Disobeyment. That's what his punishment resulted from today. Jack was supposed to be in the library that evening anyways, right before the sun set, researching princely things like the right degree to bow at in front of royalty or what court has what king or queen. But, instead of doing that (reasonably. It was all mind numbingly boring) he snuck off to play a foolish, child's joke on one of the castle hands. At least, that's how his father put it.

And now he found himself scouring over withered books older than Odin himself as retribution. All because he didn't pay enough attention when turning a stupid corner.

Jack sighed, then groaned as if he was in unbearable pain. 

He might as well have been.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He chided himself, falling to the ground in defeat and leaning his back against the rickety bookshelf. There had to be thousands of texts in the never ending library, always expanding with new found knowledge and history of the nine worlds and beyond. No one, not even the kings before him, had ever reached the end. He would never find a thing to value his time, or even distract him for the rest of the night.

Jack slammed his head on the shelf behind him, hard as he can just to feel something, and looked out the stained glass windows. The hail pattered on, only making his anxiety grow larger.

"FUCK-" He cursed, reaching for the top of his head where a large, hefty book fell and landed right into his lap. "Thors bloody beard.."

He trailed off, rubbing his skull solemnly as he stared down at the books leather cover. It was plain – unlike the jewel incrusted or colourful covers adorning the shelves of the library – but it did have a design etched into the fine worked hide. Two dragons bearing arms against each other, claws clashing, with a battle axe resting between them.

Jack read the spine, words engraved with gold making it easy to read as it shone in the candlelight.

'Midgard: an Archipelago of Magic'

Now, here's the thing, Jack was barely told a thing about humans – or even Midgard itself – even when he would ask. His father would always berate him for asking such foolish questions about a race so below them, and told Jack he would inform him of everything when he grew older. And even now, as he was old enough to know at least some things, his father had never uttered a word about humans since. At least not around Jack. 

All he knew about humans was from the castle hands and their whispers. Barbaric creatures, they were, who fight meaningless wars against the most peaceful of creatures that they shared their world with. Selfish and brash and distasteful.

Even if Jack would go as far as he dared in the never ending library, he could never find a thing on humans. 

So who could blame him if he was a bit more than a tad curious?

He opened the book eagerly, nearly ripping the cover off.

Inside, much to his disappointment, was nothing spectacular. A simple history since the very beginning, human evolution, yada-yada-yada. Jack flipped through to a random page, near the end it seemed. The present.

Reading the passage, he felt the air around him grow still.

'For centuries, since the fall of magic in human blood, a war between the mortals and magic itself has struck out. Or, at least what they believe, a war against dragons. Driven by the fear and anger the Fae King's bestowed into their hearts and souls, beast vs. man struck. This Fae King – leader of a dark winter court in the far land of Alfheim, whose influence has reached the mortal realm for generations, striking dread and horror into mortal beings so far into their bones they grew insane and rash under his command – created this war, made minions out of the cold fear he brings in both dragon and human. He made them selfish and unkind, even to each other, to instill a foolish want to rule over every land he touches. To control the magic of a world so vastly different from his own until he can suck it dry and look down at his fellow Fae court rulers, equal to Odin himself as King of Midgard.'

Jack sat still, staring down at the open page, for he didn't know how long, just trying to simply process the information he just read until there was only one overwhelming thought in his head.

His father is the Winter Fae King.

He stood up mindlessly, almost in a daze as he took the path through the tall shelves to the large front doors. He put the book into the satchel at his side, carefully hidden under his cloak, as he walked through the empty, winding halls.

Jacks head felt like it was filled with cotton, filling up any room for forethought. Like there were tons of bricks resting on his shoulders. Like he was a frail and young child again, tugging at his fathers dress robes asking daft questions that made his yellow eyes give piercing looks and glaring warning to shut up.

His pace quickened, jumping into a run so fast he practically flew down the hall, the winds guiding him until he heard the loud chatter and laughter from the great hall where he threw the large ornate door open.

The chatter ceased, and all that was left behind was a sticky, thick silence as Jack marched his way through the long hall. The same stained glass from the library followed him on the walls, decorating his skin with a thousand colours. It always seemed to be day through the windows of the great all, even if it was the dead of night.

Eyes locked on his father, who stared at him dumbfounded. He seemed to be halfway through cutting the lamb meat off a bone with shiny silver wares, but it lay forgotten about immediately as his son burst through. He quickly gained his composure, putting on a glare that could kill even the strongest and most immortal of men.

Jack didn't have a plan going into this, and he certainly didn't doing what he did next.

"A war?" He bellowed, loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear. "Dad, what in Odin's name are you thinking?! In a world that doesn't even concern you non the less-"

"Jack." His father held a solid, warning tone to his voice. Like if Jack were to continue he would face far more dire consequences than library reading. Jack, like a fool, ignored this. 

"That has to be the stupidest, most thick headed -"

"Jack,"

"- selfish thing you've ever done!"

"Jackson!"

"You're a monster."

His father stood now, regal and tall and prowling like a wild beast. His nostrils flares and his hair stood on end like a wild, angered cat. Jack fumbled under his gaze, but fought to remain his composure. It was a test, glaring up at his father like that, an act of defiance no one had ever seemed to do before.

The king snarled before he spoke. "Guards," he bellowed, "detain the prince."

A small group of guards formed, gathering from their posts around the dining room. Two grabbed him by the arms, but several had to fight to keep him in place and force him to the ground and on his knees. Even then, he fought, the winds tangling between their legs trying to force him up but never succeeding. One guard seized his hair, holding his head up in place to glance frantically around the room at the frightened faces of his people. And at his father, who slowly and painstakingly sauntered down the stairs of the high table.

He stood in front of Jack, staring down at his panting body. Jack glared back, sticking out his chin with his tongue like that would make him seem more imposing.

A loud SLAP rang through the hall as his father stuck his face, stronger than any man, and nearly immediately blue blood gushed from his nose. Jack couldn't recall why they bled blue, but he found himself reaching for the answer. Blood, blood, blood...most creatures bleed red, yes, because of the iron in their veins to survive. Fae's cant touch iron, for many reasons. It can weaken their magic, irritate their mind, but mostly – if they touched it – iron could leave sweltering burns across their skin, and even if treated correctly would leave never fading scars. Jack grinned, which probably made him look absolutely mad, proud he remembered so quick in such a state. He turned back to his father, still beaming.

The yellow of the kings eyes, such a warm colour for a man of dark and powerful ice, held nothing for his son before him. Nothing at all.

"Cut his ears," he said, with barely any consideration at all.

Jacks smile dropped.

The ears of a Fae meant the world to them, almost as much as their hair. It identified them, they showed even the most hidden of emotions. You could adorn them with shimmering gold or bronze or silver jewelry to show wealth or even just to hear them chime against each other when you walked. Cutting off ones ears was almost always involuntary, if one were to do so it meant banishment.

No, no, no, no, no-

Even the guards seemed hesitant, glancing at each other unsure, and the once silence and still hall filled with quiet gasps and scraping chairs. Jack himself begged, though through quiet, weeping mutters, like would when he was a small boy after a terrible dream. Please no, please, make it go away, please.

One of the guards brought out a thin bronze dagger from its sheath, bringing if up to Jacks ears, but they hesitated. Jack shut his eyes tight, and took in a sharp breath.

The pain was unbearable.

Even worse was his regret.

A monster. Gods, he was stupid.

It seemed to take years and no time at all before the pointed cartilage of his ears fell to the floor before him, staining the marble floors with his blood and making it seem that he couldnt hear at all,  even though he could still catch the sounds of commotion around him. It felt like swimming through thick water, sinking to the bottom of a lake with no return.

Jack was released, finally, but not for long did he feel free. 

His father made a sort of motion, reaching a hand out and waving it in a circle loosely, one for casting spells beyond the ice magic their species could preform.

The wind blew loud and strong beneath him, like a tornado, and magic surrounded him and enveloped him like a harsh grasp. Nothing like the embrace that he longed for, no, this was the feeling of a portal opening, ripping through the space of Yggdrasill's endless branches. A portal opening right below him.

And Jack Frost fell.

And Jack Frost breathed.

And Jack Frost felt ground beneath him.

And Jack Frost was no more the Prince of the Winter Court.

Chapter Text

Bleeding out in the middle of a different world wasn't the plan, but one could argue that there wasn't even a plan in the first place. 

They would be correct.

But now Jack lay, in the middle of a dense woods with trees so tall he could barely see the sky above him. If you told him there was no sky, not in this world, he might've believed you. But perhaps he was just delirious.

He laid there for quite a bit, maybe hours, maybe only a few minutes, trying to catch his breath. The wind here was wild, untamed, and there was magic behind every corner, he could feel it. It was beneath his finger tips, filling his bones and trying to keep the light of life still inside him.

If this world was so kind to put the effort into keeping him alive, what did it say about to him to just...sit there? It was disrespectful, surely, and it would bite him in the ass later.

Jack rolled over, swallowing his spit and maybe a tad bit of his blood, trying to fight his shattered breath into his lungs. He practically dragged himself across the forest floor, snatching up the first large, fallen stick he could. It was spruce, he thought, hooked like a shepherd's staff. Frost bloomed from his finger tips as soon as he caught it.

He leaned against the staff, hunched over and prowling like a wild, wounded animal. He felt weak, like the damage of simply being was more than his father could ever wish to achieve. It was bone rattling and skin aching, it was like if he stopped moving he wouldn't be able to find the energy in him to move again. So, Jack pushed forward in a random direction, even if it hurt. Even if his body was screaming for him to stop, he kept moving.

It was hours before he saw the sun again.

He might've been going in a large circle, he might've been stumbling over and over again until he reached where he started. He was sure he saw the same rock nearly three times, but his vision wasn't the best at the moment. Black dots dances everywhere he looked, and he even if he tried he could never shake them. His long hair was in his eyes, obscuring his vision and nanking it even harder to determine where he was. 

Jack almost cheered in unfiltered joy when he finally found water.

It wasn't anything spectacular, a freshwater creek surrounded by trees. The sun – finally, sunlight – made it sparkle like stars. It looked...fucking delicious.

He dropped to his knees, cupping the clear, sweet spring water with his hands and drinking it desperately. Greedily. The hoarseness of his throat disappeared, and he nearly bawled his eyes out at the feeling.

He did bawl his eyes out when he saw his reflection in the water.

Jack looked exhausted, broken, and beaten. His ears, a part of himself he used to admire so lovingly, were gone. Reduced to rigged edges. They had stopped bleeding now, almost, but the sides of his face were covered with blue blood. His nose was still gushing, too, making him realize how lightheaded he actually was. 

But his hair...shit his hair.

No, no, no, no, no-

From the roots going down on one side chunks of what would've been white locks turned mousy brown. Most winter Fae had white hair, black if you were unlucky like his father, but never brown. Brown was reserved for autumn Faeries and mortals.

Mortals.

Jack fumbled with his hands, choking down tears. It was desperate and stupid, reaching out for magic like this, when it always came as second nature. He was even surprised when he heard for the first time most Fae had to think about magic before actually doing it. Jack, usually at least, acted before he thought.

It took some effort – well, not exactly effort. Just focus maybe – but finally a small, sparkling snowflake appeared in his hands, almost out of this air. Jack sighed with relief, resting his head in his open palms.

He gave himself five seconds, five measly seconds to collect himself.

And he was almost sad when those five seconds were over, but he stood anyways, and faced the world.

–––

The blood staining Jacks cloak wasn't the problem, as it was already nearly the same type of blue anyways, his other clothes on the other hand...

His shirt was white, with translucent sleeves puffed out way to much for his liking. He bled onto it, which stained the front haphazardly. He had tried washing it in the river with his cloak, but it stayed apparent, and never actually faded. In the end, Jack just ended up folding it messily and leaving it to dry on a rock.

The cold never really bothered him, so his chest being bare didn't really annoy, but he shivered.

It wasn't from the cold. It was never from the cold.

Someone was watching him.

Jack whipped his head around frantically, almost breaking his neck, searching between every bramble cluster with his eyes. Behind every tree, until he saw them.

Two large eyes, a bright icy blue they were almost white. The same colour as the water. They hid in the foliage of a bush, and they definitely weren't human.

But as fast as the feeling came, it was gone, and so we're the eyes.

It was jarring, and Jack sat ridged for longer than he would've wished, just staring at the bushes that – seemingly – were now empty. After a few moments, he shook his head, and went back to washing his filthy garbs.

–––

Jack decided, against his restless nature, that the stream would be the safest place to stay while healing from his wounds.

So for the time being he set up a small, makeshift camp made from the materials around him. A bed hanging in between two branches of trees, built from vines and leaves, and a camp fire a little ways into the forest, secluding him in the trees.

And while he waited, day and night, for his hearing to become relatively back to normal and for his pounding headache to leave, Jack thought he might die of boredom.

He tried to experiment with his powers to pass the time, but soon stopped after an accident with freezing the river causing him to loose a night of food. He tried to talk to the spirits around him, the nymphs in the trees and the souls of the tweeting birds, but nothing responded. Not even the moon above – who he had seen his father speaking to at such a young age, when the shirts the handmaiden made for him went past his hands with the excuse that he would grow into them – hadn't said a word.

Jack was essentially shunned from the spirit world, all because of his lying and conniving father.

Father.

It didn't seem right, calling the monster that anymore. Jack, perhaps once or twice (or more), had picked up the book he looted from the library to learn more about the world he'd been sent to, what that man had done to it. Terrible things.

Frozen villages. People permanently stuck in dark, un-melting ice. Long winters, where almost less to none mortals survived. A war, and entire war, just to gain foolish power. 

So, no, it felt unjust to call that man, that beast, his father.

Jack was no longer that prince, that son of snow he had once been.

He stared at his reflection in the crystal water, just as the sun began to set beyond the tall pines and oaks.

By cutting off his ears his fa- The king, he corrected himself. By cutting his ears off the king banished them from the court, and a Fae with cut ears brought bad luck, or at least that's was the trees whispered about. But, he also gave Jack a choice by not also cutting off his hair.

To a Fae, one's hair was their pride and joy. Hair was to be well kept, and grown out to signify how long you lived, to show where you belonged. The texture, the colour, nearly everything could show one's lineage. It connected you to your family, and the ancestor before you. It tied you to your people.

If you were to cut off your hair, either willingly or unwillingly, it would mean disownment. What mortals called Wyldfae, no longer bound to courts of even families of their own. Travellers, wanderers, thieves. 

The ears were for banishment, you didn't get a choice. The hair was for disownment, and in Jacks situation, it was a hard decision to make.

He snarled at himself, before undoing the tie of his hair and letting it flow down his shoulders. It didn't reach far, only just above the middle of his back. He hadn't lived for long.

Before the sun sank beyond the mountains, Jack conjured a large chunk of blue ice in his hand, the size of a long dagger and just as sharp. 

He took a chunk of his hair, and before he began to cry, he started to cut.

–––

The river was filled with a plentiful amount of upstream salmon, and Jack easily caught them either by capturing them with the crook of his new found staff, or by hand if he grew restless enough to venture into the shallow water, pants rolled up to his knees.

By the end of most days, he would have two fish to cook over a make shift fire made of fallen sticks that he would thank the wood nymphs for – though he was sure they weren't listening, because nothing ever responded – and small stones he found appealing that he would dig up from the bottom of the small stream.

But by tonight, one that fell quickly with the swift changing weather of spring to autumn, Jack found himself with much more fish than he required that night. At least a dozen, ready to be wrapped in leaves and preserved for his journey.

Jack had easily recovered from his injuries. (Perhaps easily wasn't the right word. It took much more time than it should've if he wasn't...well if his hair wasn't turning brown. It seemed to have slowed, stopped even, but he didn't know what the change of colour entailed) And now, that his senses were sharp, he could set out away from the stream and out into the world that awaited him.

The wind aided him lighting the fire, blowing warm breezes that let the sparks grow into a flame. At least the wind was kind to him. At least.

He set a fish over the fire, punctured with a stick long enough for him to keep a safe distance. Jack didn't melt in warm climates, but it's not like he wasn't allowed in the Summer Court for no reason, either.

Jack felt a shiver down his spine. A very familiar shiver.

He tensed, but didn't say anything, though he could feel the eyes of the beast behind him. He wasn't afraid, he refused to be, instead he spoke.

"You don't have to hide, you know." He shifted, making room for someone, anyone, to sit next to him. "I won't hurt you."

’I’m not one of them.’ went unsaid.

The forest went silent, like it was holding its breath, before the shuffling came. Something hesitantly sitting next to Jack. Something big.

He glanced to the spot beside him, and tried not to shit himself.

There, sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder with him, was a large white dragon. It sat like a dog would, hind legs under it and front ones between them. It's tail was wrapped around itself, flicking nervously every few seconds, and it's wings were enveloped into itself. It's scales were almost iridescent, mirror like and seemed to reflect the flare of the fire. It's eyes were just as glassy, and the exact same bright blue Jack had seen only days before. 

He tried to steady his breathing, turning over the fish to its other side, as not to burn.

"I'm Jack," he said, expecting no answer. None came, except for a small huff from the dragon.

The dragon shifted, and the only sound around them was the crickets in the woods and the fire crackling. The stream was still.

Slowly – as to not alert the creature of sudden movements and get his head affectively bitten off – Jack reached into his satchel with one hand, taking out a fish and undoing its leaf cover. He tossed it towards the dragon without even a glance.

Taking the fish out of the fire, he blew on it with an icy breath, and bit into it. The dragon soon followed, devouring the raw salmon greedily after some hesitation.

Once he was finished, Jack stood and started to rid of the evidence that he was ever there in the first place. He stomped down the fire with the butt end of his staff before casting it all into the stream. He ripped down his make shift bed in the tree, and packed up the very little things he had on him into his bag.

He turned to the dragon, gripping the strap of his satchel close. 

"Do you have a name?" Jack inquired, rubbing his hands together.

The creature – though Jacks was sure it understood nothing he said, especially in the Alfheim tongue – shook its head.

He tapped his chin with his thumb, thinking. "How about..." His eyes trailed up to the night sky, looking at all its stars. When it came to him, he grinned at the beast. "Khione?"

The dragons face didn't change, but it did walk closer, and Jack tensed.

They were a mere foot apart when the dragon closed its eyes, almost in a welcoming gesture. 

Jack, hesitantly, did the only thing he could think of that the dragon wanted him do, and placed a hand on its snout. It felt like it was purring, and he smiled wide.

"Khione it is."

Chapter Text

Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III woke up gloriously and regally with a giant dragon licking his face off.

Mm, yes, wonderful.

It had been a routine since day one. Toothless would bound his way from wherever he slept that night – often fluctuating between his designated bed in the corner, the roof, or Hiccups feet – at the ass crack of dawn for a morning flight, before the sun came out and before any Dragon Hunters could see them. As much as Hiccup complained, he was grateful for the routine, as it would wake him from the deep dreams that he used to struggle to escape. His bed so warm and the forge so harsh.

He rolled out of bed, hobbling over to his chest on his one good leg to search for a cleaner shirt and put on his daily armour and leather tunic over. Toothless went to fetch his leg – seemingly having taken it from its spot beside the bed while Hiccup slept – and once he was done dressing Hiccup latched it on to his nub of a calf, testing the waters before standing up and stretching.

"Alright, Bud," he spoke, grinning down at his friend, "let's fly."

–––

The dragon ditched Jack in the morning.

Well, perhaps ditch wasn't the right word. Better yet, the sun barely rose over the horizon and Khione simply disappeared without so much as a noise. Maybe she got annoyed with his constant blabbering. It wasn't unlikely.

And now he was alone again.

Dreadful.

It was nice though, wandering the woods. He never had the chance to when he was a prince. The birds didn't flee when he swung from branches, evading fallen trees. Magic surged around him, filling the wild life and sky and creatures around him. He almost felt full to the brim with it, even if the physical magic of the world avoided him at every turn.

Magic itself, the figment of it in the air that he breathed, wasn't so judgmental. Didn't dwell on the ifs and whats of banished Fae, and Jack was grateful for it.

He hopped over a puddle of mud, hiking his cloak up like a gown even though it was already drenched with grime. Jack hummed absentmindedly to himself, the tune of a small dancing jig he would sing along to in bars when he dared to sneak out of the palace to at least try and enjoy his childhood, while he still had it.

Jack had a spring in his step when he jumped over the next puddle.

–––

Toothless landed in a thicket of woods a few miles off from a cliff face, perching down on a tree before leaping down to the forest floor.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Hiccup barely made a step once he got of the Night Fury before the sound of crunching footsteps filled the air, cutting through the ambience like a knife. 

He started, pulling Toothless into some bramble to hide. The dragon let out a yelp – or as well as a yelp as a dragon could do – but after a shush from his rider, reluctantly stayed quiet.

Hiccup peered through bushes just as the person walked by, humming to themselves.

It was a lively tune, one meant for parties and not a boy in the woods, wandering with a staff in hand and vaulting over large sink holes like it was nothing. He was almost dancing, a rhythmic, pep in his step sort of thing that made no sense at all.

It seemed fun. Freeing, even.

The boy – at least Hiccup assumed he was a boy – seemed wild. Untouched by civilization. He wore a blue cloak – Dark blue, like it was weaved from midnight sky or deep ocean waves – the short ones that wrapped around you and pinned with a clasp on the shoulder, except his was long. So long, in fact, that it didn't even matter if the boy hiked the cloak up, as the bottom furs were already filthy with earth. The hood – covering their hair and eyes making barely even the bottom half of their face visible – was lined with the same white fur as the bottom. 

Other than pants, torn at the bottom and only being held together with twine, that seemed to be the only clothes they wore. No shirt to keep them warm, no armour, and no shoes. They wore jewelry, sparkling bronze rings and dangling necklaces. But other than that? Nothing. And yet, barely any of his skin was visible. The even slight glance that Hiccup got at the person under the cloak was two large scars along their chest, crossed in a long 'X'.

They hopped over another puddle, using their staff. It was hooked like a shepherd's cane, adorned with dangling black feathers, shells, and bones from the crook. They clinked together pleasingly, making somewhat of a scuffed background music to his humming and dancing.

Hiccup watched them silently, even after the boy was engulfed into the woods, leaving no trail that he was there in the first place.

Toothless nudged his side, eyes wide.

"Yeah." He nodded, tearing himself away. "Yeah, we should go."

He couldn't chase the shiver down his spine, like eyes were watching him.

–––

"Dun, dun, dun, dun, dun," Jack sang to himself, sneaking in the dead of night through a human camp.

He might've looked stupid, but at least he was having fun with it.

"dundundun, dundundun,"

Jack had came across the camp only a few hours before, and waited till he could conceal himself under the cloak of darkness to raid it. He felt conflicted as he turned his back to the camp only that morning, deeply wanting to loot the place but also feeling awful if the campers needed the supplies. Ultimately, he shook his guilt off, remembering how truly savage the humans had become – if any indication that these humans were the same was the bloodstained armour littered around the site. He shouldn't feel bad for thieving from people like that, even if they were under his- the kings influence...

No, he shouldn't feel bad.

Still whispering his tune to himself, (It made him feel sneaky, even if he was without the tune.) Jack nicked things from behind crates. Loafs of bread, water skins, handfuls of fruits like apples and berry he's never seen before, and even a sharp hunting dagger that didn't immediately boil Jacks skin off when he came in contact with it, so he assumed it was safe.

Jack pocketed everything into his bag, crouching down behind a green tent. At least, he assumed it was green. It was difficult to see in the dark.

If he could grab a blanket, just a small one nothing major, then maybe he could at least be protected against some elements. After living in a winter wonderland his entire life, autumn wasn't really his forte, believe it or not.

The fire dimmed from its hearth and everything gradually grew quiet, and Jack heard footsteps and the shifting of cloth and safely assumed everyone was off to bed, save for at least one out post if these humans didn't lack an IQ.

Jack prepared to hold his breath, sucking in as much air as he could, before it was promptly kicked out of him from behind.

He hit the ground face first, and had to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from eating a mouthful of dirt. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he scrambled away from whoever pushed him down only to be met with another pair of feet.

And the gleam of an iron sword.

Well, shit.

Thinking fast, Jack rolled over to his back and twisted his legs around with such force he tripped the person with the sword in front of him. They landed to the ground hard with a grunt. 

Jack jumped to his feet, turning back to the man he had so foolishly left his back to. The man raised the large axe in his hand – double sided and radiating with iron – high above his head and struck down at Jacks chest. The winter fae blocked his move with his staff, which seemed to be surprisingly durable for a feeble stick. It stood a fair chance, until the man pressed down harder and Jack had to fall back, resulting in a slash against his side.

He hissed, clutching the boiling wound and tried to refrain from hurling his guts out right then and there. Stumbling back, the man forced him into the middle of the camp – barely lit by the fainting coals – where the rest of its tenants, three or so other vikings, surrounded him. They all carried gleaming weapons and wicked glares.

"Ladies, ladies.." Jack covered his cough with a nervous laugh, "there's no need to fight over me. There's enough to go around!"

The vikings did not appreciate his joke.

One – a much, much taller man – lashed out first with an angry cry. Jack, slow and sluggish from his loss of blood, attempted to dodge his attack. The knife nicked his cheek, draining him even further.

The vikings closed in.

Jack's shoulders slumped, feigning defeat. "Alright, alright, I'll just-"

He slammed his staff down, using the last of his fast draining magic to strike a heavy sheet of ice under their feet to send them stumbling. Jack, nimble as ever on the ice, sprinted in a random direction, cloak billowing behind him.

He would've laughed in glee, if it weren't for the cliff up ahead.

Skidding to a stop – and nearly falling off the edge – the rocks below his feet began to fall into the dark water below. There were plenty of sharp boulders on the way down, sure to impale him if he jumped to close to the edge.

Jack could run, go the other way he came, but no, he was already surrounded. He had to give the vikings credit, they quickly gained their wits and were closing in on him.

Jack turned back to the cliffs edge.

Wind don't fail me now.

And he jumped.

It was almost like being airborne, soaring through the sky's. Jack didn't know he could jump so far, or maybe the winds were still on his back, other world or not.

Then he fell into the ocean.

It was cold, freezing – Jack couldn’t understand why he felt the cold now, it was biting at his skin. He couldn’t feel the cold. He shouldn’t feel the cold. – and enveloped him in a choke hold. He couldn't breath, he couldn't breath. He couldn't do much of anything, really, except flail and scream and fill his lungs with salt water. At that moment, Jack realized he never learned how to swim. There was never a point really, when everything was frozen over. He wished he knew.

Black spots danced in his eyes, and the moon shone through the breaking waves, and he stopped fighting. 

Was it worth it?

No, not really.

Just as he was about to shut his eyes, succumb to a final sleep, something large and glistening dove into the water. Something with wings, something the reflected the blues and greens of the ocean.

It snatched Jack with its claws, and they resurfaced as he passed out and his lungs failed him.

Chapter Text

Jack awoke with a splitting headache and in a room entirely made of ice.

Before his mind caught up with his body (It felt like he was lifetimes away,) he thought he was home, in his own bedroom gazing lazily at his own ceiling. It was all just a bad dream. A terrible, excruciatingly long bad dream and he only felt drowsy because he had slept in again. Any moment one of the castle hands would come bursting through his room to hurry him to breakfast because he was already late and his father had started eating without him.

Any moment now.

Any moment.

Jack groaned, rolling over on his side. Pain spiked violently on his ribs, but he elected to ignore it in favour of closing his eyes tight and burying himself into the multiple furs covering him.

Any moment, any moment.

And nothing came.

Running, running, running. Iron, there was iron. It burned his nose, yes. Screamed in his ears and eyes and snuffed his magic out like a gust of wind to the flame of a candle. Running, running, running. His hair, his hair was brown. Mortal. Mortal boy. Please no. Running, running, running. Water. There was water, and he was drowning. Deep beneath the surface. It suffocated him, holding him under its waves. Drowning, drowning, drowning.

Jack awoke again with a shuddering gasp – he hadn't even realized he'd fallen back asleep – shooting upright as he ripped himself from the nightmare. He was shaking, and his hands trembled when he ran them over his tired eyes.

He thumbed the small bandage on the side of his cheek, covering the same cut the man with the dagger gave him the night before.

It wasn't a dream, and he wasn't home. The castle. Whatever. He was in an unknown place, in a bed made of a frosted ice block and layers upon layers of fur blankets. It was comfortable, but much too warm for Jack, who had been thrashing under them for who knows how long (It seemed like his dream self was battling the warmth too, because the fur was frosted and wet beneath his fingers.) He removed the blankets, surveying the room around him carefully as he stood on shaking legs, like a new born calf.

Wherever he was, it certainly wasn't Alfheim like he had so delusionally hoped while half asleep. Instead of the wood floor of the castle – or the ice around him that made up the room – the ground was solid rock and moss, tickling his bare feet. The walls were covered in vines, hanging from its sloped, pointed roof. It was like Jack was inside the thick walls of a hollow iceberg, which was absurd, but honestly wasn't the craziest thing he'd ever seen.

Besides from that, it looked like any other normal room. It was small, and the ice bed – which wasn't much of a block and more like a giant chunk cut out of a frozen sea – was pushed into a corner. There was a hand built wardrobe, only it had no actual legs and was standing haphazardly on some logs, as well as the desk on the wall beside it. The wood seemed well used, each part made different and burns scorched its surfaces. Beside the wardrobe and across from the bed stood a gaping hole in the wall that seemed to slither and turn forever, or at least beyond where Jack could see.

Inside the hall was haphazardly placed stones and boulders. Jack had to climb and hop over them, trying to find the best way to get his bearings on them. There were many other winding paths that stretched out but he chose to follow the widest one. Easier to evade someone if he had to run.

Like the room he woke up in, the walls were made of ice, which made it exponentially easier for Jack to vault off the walls, he figured out. Instead of struggling to climb rocks he managed to hop from wall to wall in a zig zag pattern. It was much faster, and he only had to stop a few collective times to catch his breath.

One of these times Jack hung from the wall itself, his feet firmly planted on the ice wall and his hands gripping a hanging vine that seemed sturdy enough to hold his weight. The ice was almost mirror like, reflecting him if only barely in its surface.

He, honestly, looked much better than he had the last time he woke up in strange surroundings. Yes, his hair was tousled from sleep but he looked and felt more well rested than he had in years. The bags under his eyes less prominent than before, panting after exerting himself by jumping walls just for the heck of it. His clothes were different – a ratty, old, black and white stripped shirt that was much too short for him and two fingerless gloves made out of multiple different fabrics stitched together with leather string – and his white undergarments tied with its usual brown rope to keep them up, because of course they were too big. 

Jack laughed at himself, shaking his head, before leaping off the wall once more. He was actually surprised to see the entrance to a large, tall room not too far ahead. He had nearly been convinced the hall was endless, but that would've been foolish.

Sometimes it was nice to be foolish.

With one final jump, Jack flipped and landed on the moss covered ground of the new room. This one, unlike the others, was covered with cut rocks, the only ice visibly being the spikes on the roof and the occasional patch shining through. There was a terribly handcrafted wooden table made from the base of a tree and a makeshift hearth surrounded by wooden benches. Supplies was stacked on jutting counter-like rocks – baskets full of preserved fish and other meat, herbs hanging from the walls, weapons laying around leisurely, furs just about everywhere, and leather and woodworking materials. It seemed quite cozy, to be truthful, even if the room was tall and large and seemingly empty, it almost seemed full to the brim.

"Oh, hello," a voice from behind Jack spoke, causing him to whip his neck around from examining the space, "I didn't think you'd be up so soon,"

Jacks voice died on his tongue, his mouth suddenly feeling as if a scorpion made its home between his teeth. Dry, very dry.

The owner of the voice was a woman, heavily accented with a kind sort of face. She wore something moderately like large armour, which made her seem more imposing than how she actually presented herself, though, knowing Midgard, that was probably the point. She held a staff at her side, made of the bones of some creature Jack couldn't place, and it clicked when she moved from her perch on the edge of a gaping hole – one that led to a much larger space behind her – he hadn't noticed before. The sight of the staff made him itch for his own. He didn't realize how attached he got to the stick before it was out of his grasp. 

When he didn't reply – not like he really could, he almost didn't understand a word she was saying, actually. Sure, he learned Norse, but it wasn't much different from any other dialect he had to consume. He was sure the words would sound strange in his mouth, like they weren't made to be there. – the armoured woman continued.

"Don't know how you befriended that Light Fury of yours –" She hopped down from her ledge, walking past him without even a glance. She carried a basket full of fish, and she set it down on one of the rocks – "Finicky one, she is. Never stayed long until she flew you here. Had to pry her from your side to let you rest," She shook her head, laughing to herself softly. "Mind tossing a bit of wood into that fire? You must be starving,"

Jack – trying to stop his stupid big mouth from spewing the questions swirling in his mind – wordlessly gathered the firewood and stacked them into the bonfire pit. He hesitantly took some flint and steel the woman handed to him as she sat – grateful for the gloves on his hands that protected him from the iron components – and rested fish on sticks onto the open fire. Jack lit it, albeit with the help of a small gust of wind, flinching back and staying about an arms reach from the flames.

They sat in silence until Jack could finally trust his voice and whirling mind. 

"Light...Fury?" It was the first question that came to mind. (It came out as a question at least.) Whatever a Light Fury was, he didn't know it.

The woman gave him a look, blinking at him as if she were shocked. "You speak?" She asked, but quickly shook her head after. "The dragon that saved you. White scales ringin' any bells?"

Jack frowned – and ignored the comment, reluctantly – wracking his memory, until it finally hit him like a bag of coal struck over the head. He quickly nodded. "They're reflective, not white." He drummed his fingers on his knees. "Her name is Khione,"

She nodded slowly, taking off the (slightly burnt) fish from the open flame and handing one to Jack. He bit into it gratefully, ignoring its taste and texture (how could someone manage to make Cod tough, he didn't know) and devoured most of the fish in seconds. He hadn't realized how hungry he was.

The woman stared at him, which only made him shuffle in his seat nervously, barely taking a bite out of her own meal.

"D'ya mind telling me your name?"

Jack swallowed, surveying her. "Only if you tell me yours first,"

Her eyes ran over his ears and hair – which Jack now, stupidly, realized he should've gone hunting for his cloak to cover up – before shrugging. "Valka,"

Blinking, he picked at the bones of his fish, setting some he found interesting aside, debating what name he should chose. He had many, even if he didn't like some, so he went with his first.

"Jack," he grinned, and was grateful when Valka returned it.

–––

"They're gonna hate me," 

Valka cackled, leading the way through another one of the winding corridors, her triplet braids flying behind her like fish in a river or birds migrating south. 

"Don't be like that." She waved him off dismissively, but never looked back to see his pout and glower. "They could sniff you out from a mile away, I'm sure they're used to you by now,"

Somehow, the thought of giant lizards being able to smell him wasn't exactly reassuring. Who would've thought?

He fought to catch up, their damaged capes and cloaks meshing with each other. Jack had agonized over her cape, insisting she'd at least let him mend the ends of it while she slaved over fitting old pants and a shirt for him. Valka had simply waved him off, saying something or other about it only tearing again even if he did. He, reluctantly, gave up on his prodding at help but did eventually manage to convince her to let him leather work the shoes and such she insisted on making him ("Your fingers are practically falling off, boy! You should be more mindful to walk around bare foot,") 

No matter how many times Jack had reiterated that it would me much more concerning if he wasn't a mere breath away from freezing to death (by mortal terms), she simply wouldn't have it. Stupid shoes, stupid layers.

(He actually didn't really mind it, being fretted over. Valka was like what Jack would imagine a mother to be, but he wouldn't tell her that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.)

Valka laughed as she preceded Jack, bounding over him with skill only one could posses from memorization and repetition. He huffed at the obvious gap in advantage in their unspoken race.

Good thing Jack was a cheater.

Giving the wind a whisper, a small melody so old he barely remembered the words, but the winds recognized it in a quick snap. It picked him up, flinging him down the hall with childish glee. The winds in Midgard were much younger than they were in Alfheim, Jack was grateful for that. The winds were always a grumpy old coot, anyways.

He flew down the hall, turning to see Valka's aghast and perhaps maybe a bit offended look painted on her face. Jack only laughed and stuck his tongue out, resting his staff on his shoulder with ease, pretending to relax like he was bathing in the sun.

There was a split second where Jack could see Valka's eyes grow wide, and open her mouth to shout before-

BAM!

He flew right into a doorway. 

Groaning, Jack took a few moments to blink away the dots filling his vision, rolling over so his face wasn't eating the ground. He had spun, loosing his momentum in the air and landed head first into the ground. Not ideal.

Valka's face (who, mind you, was very very blurry, and no matter how shit Jacks vision would get, that wasn't really a good sign) came into view, and he tried to swat her away as he picked himself up, groping for his staff that had fallen out of his grip for leverage.

Once Jack stood – and once Valka was sure he didn't suffer any major injuries – he finally took in where they were.

It was the main hub of the sanctuary, and it was an entirely different echo system from outside of the ice. There was foliage a brighter green than Jack had ever seen and the water crystal blue and clear. There were waterfalls and land outcroppings that stood taller than any tree in there and even islands full of nests and wildlife.

Not to mention the dragons.

Because, yes, Jack was very aware Valka did house, and feed, and take care of dragons. That much, she had told him. She rescued them, one of the only humans to do so, from people called 'Dragon Hunters'. People who almost mindless with hate and fear, under the command of chiefs and a man called Drago Bludvist.

Jack knew they were controlled by much greater, but his heart won over his mind in the decision not to tell Valka. She deserved to know, but..he should let her live first.

But to be honest, Jack didn't really know how many dragons she had.

Hundred of them, thousands, and they were everywhere. Where ever Jack looked there seemed to be a new type, ones with crowns of horns or tales equipped with razors and spikes, of all sizes and colours, ones that called to others noises Jack had never heard before, and ones that glowed iridescently in the dark caves and corners that littered the environment around them.

It was...breathtaking.

Once Jack had figured out to transfer air back into his lungs, it was – again – promptly knocked out of him by something – a few things – knocking him to the ground.

I really have to stop doing that. He thought to himself, rolling over and trying to prod whatever the fuck was on him off.

Valka, who was being unhelpful, was laughing above him, so he assumed it wasn't immediate danger-kill-on-sight situation. It was still slightly inconvenient, no matter how much she found it hilarious or not.

After trying and failing to fight off whatever was on him – small horned dragons, it seemed, with tiny wings the size of their body's and heads bigger than that – he stood instead, letting the creatures cling to him reluctantly, but not without a huff and his head held high to remain even some of his dignity.

Once Valka's laughs were reduced to only small giggles, she spoke. "They like you,"

"For dinner, yeah," he winced as one of them but down on his ear, nibbling on the jagged and still healing wound. "How do you keep track of so many?"

Valka grinned, and it was wicked. Mischievous, even. She had dimples. "I don't need to," she said, "he does."

Before Jack could voice his confusion, or even quirk an eyebrow up like he usually would, a low and loud rumbling filled the air and shook the ground beneath them. The roar of a giant dragon.

One larger than life, all white and grey and brown with spikes protruding from its head like a crown and tusks the size of small mountains. The small dragons fled from Jack, bowing down to the beast, and so did all the others. In the end, Jack was the only one that stood in the face of the king, so close he was sure if he stretched out he would be able to feel the scales of its skin.

The dragon huffed, sending a cold breeze of ice Jacks way. The fae beamed, letting the snow tangle in his hair and clothes before waving his hand in front of him – much more dramatic than was necessary – to form a dancing snow flake out of mid air, blowing it towards the Bewilderbeast. The snowflake, ever so small, barely touched the dragons snout before it burst into a flurry of snow and blue magic. The Alpha blinked the firn out of its eyes, staring down at the Wyldfae before him before letting out something of a guttural choke – that Jack supposed was intended to be a laugh – before resting back into the water once more, a sea spray of geysers in its wake.

Valka stood from her kneel, gawking at him before she shook her head, exasperated. "Seems like he likes you, too,"

Jack shook the snow out of his hair, shagging it off like a dog. "I have a way," he grinned into his words, "with creatures."

Several more small dragons bounded upon him once more, nearly toppling him over again. Valka howled.

"Clearly."

–––

Jack grumbled from where he stood, his patience worn thin like an old sheet. 

Valka had set out nearly an hour or two ago on a mission, one for rescue. The goal was to ambush a Dragon Hunter ship and release whatever was in the cages, leading them back to the sanctuary under the cloak of darkness and the heavy clouds above. Apparently, the goal was also to leave Jack behind.

He had begged – literally begged on his hands and knees, which was utterly humiliating no matter how desperate he was – to join them on the mission, but Valka wouldn't have a word of it. Her logic was, without a dragon to bond with, none of the wild ones they tamed and nurtured would let him ride them. They were wild animals, and yes, they could be tamed, but a dragon and human bond was such a spiritual thing. Valka herself didn't ride any other in favour of her bond with Cloudjumper, her large Stormcutter dragon that had brought her in long ago. So, in the end, without a dragon to ride and protect him when she couldn't, there was no greater risk than letting him leave the sanctuary.

And he was fed up.

The farthest Jack had gotten out of the sanctuary for some air was the black sand beaches where the ice burg of an island resided, and the view of the islands in the distance only making his longing grow larger. It had been days since he's been out in the world, in the woods, and he wasn't about to let it go now just because Valka said it was unsafe for him without a dragon. He'd survived long enough without one anyways, so what gives?

Jack was there now, on that black sand, right where he was only hours before when they had left. The beach waves were cold and unkind on his feet – now bare from untying and tossing his shoes to the side, along with his heavy cloak – but he didn't mind. Not really. His only deep concern was being swept away by the waves if they grew too big, no Light Fury to save him against the currents.

What gives?

"..Khione," Jack spoke hesitantly, searching for the right words even if he wasn't sure the winds would carry his voice far enough for her to hear, wherever she was. "where are you?"

The winds blew around him, caressing his face and ruffling his hair and taking his words right out of his throat, leaving him to gasp for air as he waited for a response he was sure wouldn't happen.

The moon haired boy tensed when he felt the glare of a creature right behind him.

Craning his neck backwards, Jack grinned at the Light Fury who slowly revealed herself, a mask of invisibility falling from her scales as she prowled closer, a low growl deep within her, too hostile to be a purr, and accompanied with iridescent glow of fire growing in her throat.

Despite this, the boys smile never wavered. The dragon would even say it widened, creasing his eyes into half moons with crows feet at their corner. He was an infectious one, that spirit, and almost made Khione's hostility waver.

Jack turned fully to the dragon, stepping out of the water – attempting to ignore how the sand stuck to his feet, even if it irritated him – but stopped his match when she growled, glowing brighter with a warning to fire if he came closer.

"You have to let them come to you," Valka had said, reaching her hand out loosely to let a blind Raincutter sniff her before it preened into her hand. "Don't look into their eyes, wild ones find that as a challenge,"

Jack, foolishly, had taken the advice with a grain of salt at the time, but was now grateful for it more than ever.

He turned his head away – shutting his eyes tight like the darkness behind his eyelids would chase away the chance of getting his arm bit off – and reached out with a flat palm towards the dragons snout, similar to how he had pet her only days before, except he was initiating the contact.

There was a stale silence, only the crashing waves against his heals baring any hope that time hadn't stopped.

A cool, scaly nose was placed into the palm of Jacks hand and he took the chance of a quick glance to see that Khione had closed her eyes, welcoming something that neither spoke of.

Perhaps a forming bond, but one could never know with a Fury.

Jack crowed under his breath, moving his hand slowly to scratch behind the dragons ear plates, just above her jaw.

"What do you say about a fly?"

She preened, mimicking him with a gummy smile that he took as yes.