Moon Fire

Chapter 12

Hey, guys! Sorry this took so long. School and life got in the way . . . A LOT . . . but it's finally here!

Also, my friend Crimson-Demon is sad because her story, Masked Love, isn't getting any comments or votes besides mine. She's an amazing writer and her stories deserve every bit of love that mine are getting. So if you would, please, go check out her story after you're done with this chapter, we'd both appreciate it. (It's a romance story if that's a selling point with anyone. Just so you know.)

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By the time the sun had gone down that evening, Hiccup knew his way around the "dragon forge", as he'd come to call it, almost as well as he'd known Gobber's forge. He checked several times to make sure he had everything he needed. As far as tools went, he was prepared in every way possible. The only thing stopping him was the fact that he didn't have the shape or the measurements he needed, and he kind of wanted it to be a surprise for the Alpha. He paced around his room, thinking for a while, until he tripped on the chest by his bed. Curiosity overtaking him, Hiccup opened the chest, sat down, and started going through the contents. What he saw amazed him. Whole scrolls and books filled with hundreds of drawings of dragons, each with their breed name under them, every intricate detail carefully preserved on the parchment. Most breeds he recognized, like Gronckles, Nadders, and Timberjacks, but there were a few he didn't know, like the Death Song, which was beautiful, or the Eruptodon, which was kind of ugly, but impressive all the same.

Where had all of this information come from?

Hiccup checked the chest's contents for a name and finally found one: Alf. No surname. No title. Odd. Most adult Vikings had titles: Phlegma the Fierce, Magnus the Destroyer. Gobber had one, too, but it had been so long since he'd used it, everyone forgot what it was. Perhaps Alf wasn't fond of his nickname and chose not to use it.

After glancing at the drawings some more, Hiccup sifted through the chest again, picking up a small book. At first, he thought little of it, but the first page read, in faded script, Final Accou—the rest was too blurry to make out. Intrigued, Hiccup turned to the next page. Alf's hand was messy, but fortunately still legible.

I've never kept a journal before. I prefer to keep my thoughts and plans safely in my head, where they might not be seen and used against me to string me up as the traitor I might very well become. In my head, everything is safe. Everything turns out okay. But at the moment, I do not see any way I can come out of this on top. I live in the hope that one day, someone, somewhere, will see dragons for what they really are: the epitome, the perfect balance, of intelligence, strength, and beauty.

Hiccup stopped short. So he wasn't the only one who had fallen for them. Good to know he wasn't losing his mind.

I should have kept my mouth shut. The moment I suggested that dragons were not the monsters we had been taught to fear and destroy, they no longer saw me as one of their own. To them, I am a pariah, an outcast. I can hardly leave my home without being hounded by people I thought were my friends, people I have fought beside in battle.

Things are getting worse every day. The chief has offered me a deal: kill a dragon, renounce my claims, and I will be pardoned. Refusal brings death. But no one understands, nor ever will, the turmoil in my mind. I cannot kill a dragon. My research has become like a child to me, my life's work. To kill a dragon would be to throw all of that away, and then all of that knowledge would be for nothing.

Besides, even if, for some reason, I do accept the chief's offer, the rest of the village will never take me back. I have considered leaving several times, and I know that as soon as I reach the harbor, they will kill me no matter what I say. But it might be my only choice. I can't betray the dragons or myself, and I will never be accepted here. I have to go. With any luck, I'll be able to write more in the future.