What if hiccup was not an only child? ,What if he had un older sister that's a year older than him ?, What if hiccup was not the first to ride a Dragon ?, What if toothless wasn't the last of his kind ?,What if she had her eye on a curtain blonde ha...
Hela's eyes narrowed as she absorbed the details Hiccup had just disclosed. "So, if I understand correctly," she began, carefully choosing her words, "while I was off pursuing a lead from Saphira, you decided to take a baby dragon—"
Hiccup interjected, "I prefer to think of it as a rescue, not a theft."
Hela fixed him with a pointed gaze. "Unfortunately, the dragon's mother didn't see it that way," she remarked wearily. "The potential consequences of such actions could have been dire. Our already fragile alliance with dragons could have been severely compromised if the mother had retaliated against the village."
Hiccup looked down, admitting, "When you put it like that, I realize it might not have been the best decision."
Hela placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and he looked up at her. "I know how passionate you are about anything dragon-related, and encountering a new species must have been particularly thrilling for you," she said. "Just be more cautious next time, okay, little brother?"
Hiccup nodded in understanding. "Okay."
"Now then tell me everything you've learned from that Dragon," Hela asks, smiling when she sees how his face lights up as he starts telling her everything.
~~~~
The forge is a chaotic blend of order and disorder—tools are meticulously arranged yet seem to be in perpetual motion as if the very essence of creation is alive. Heavy anvils and forges occupy the space, while the walls are adorned with relics of past creations: axes, swords, and hammers, remnants of a more straightforward craft.
The forge comes to life as the fire crackles and roars, a dragon's breath consuming the iron. Hela carefully places her scales into the flames, watching as the colour changes from a deep black to a bright orange. At just the right temperature she knows it will be at its most malleable. She reaches for her tongs, gripping the glowing piece and withdrawing it from the fire with a practised motion, the heat radiating against her leather apron.
With a swift motion, she brings it down onto the anvil, the contact sending sparks flying like fireflies on a summer night. Each strike of her hammer shapes it, elongating it into the form of a blade. She strikes hard, shaping the tang and the blade, which will be concealed within a mechanism that allows for swift deployment. The rhythm of her hammer is purposeful—deliberate. Each blow reflects years of knowledge passed down through generations, a mastery honed through blood, sweat, and countless hours in the forge 'it also being an outlet for her rage at the loss of her mother'.
As she works, she envisions the one who will wield this blade, Astrid. The blade not only needs to represent a weapon of precision but also become an extension of Astrid's very being. It must be swift, discreet, and deadly.
Once the blade’s shape is satisfactory, her attention shifts to the mechanism that will allow for its concealed engagement. This component is something she's been working on for a while—wheels and springs that must be machined with a tolerance so precise that any flaw could lead to catastrophic failure as she learned from past trials. Hela expertly forges intricate parts from brass and steel, ensuring that each piece meshes perfectly. Just to make sure she made everything she reviews her drawing one last time.
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