Chapter Text
The salt-stained boat scraped against the rocky shore of Berk with a grinding sound that echoed across the harbor. Dawn was breaking over the jagged cliffs, painting the sky in shades of copper and steel—colors that reminded Sigrid too much of dragonfire and blood. He steadied himself against the boat's weathered hull, muscles aching from days of drifting at the mercy of northern currents.
Just a month.
He told himself, the same lie he'd been repeating for decades since he'd lost any place he could call home. I've lived for over a thousand years, but I've never been this lonely. One month among humans, then I'll leave immediately.
The harbor was already stirring with activity. Burly Vikings hauled nets heavy with fish, their voices carrying the particular cadence of people who lived with danger as a constant companion. Dragon raids had a way of sharpening a community's edges, making them wary of anything—or anyone—that didn't belong.
Cover art from yabiiiii
Sigrid pulled his weathered cloak tighter around his shoulders, ensuring every inch of inhuman features remained hidden. No horns protruding from above his head, no scales visible on his neck or the back of his hands, no ancient power crackling around him like lightning. To these people, he was just another storm-tossed wanderer seeking shelter.
"You there!" The voice cracked like a whip across the morning air.
"State your business!"
A group of Vikings approached, hands resting meaningfully on axe handles. Their leader was a broad-shouldered man with suspicious eyes and the kind of scars that spoke of too many dragon encounters. Behind him, others gathered—fishermen abandoning their nets, blacksmiths emerging from forges, all drawn by the prospect of confronting an outsider.
Sigrid raised his hands in the universal gesture of peace, careful to keep his movements slow and human-normal. "I'm just a traveler," he said, letting exhaustion color his voice. It wasn't entirely false—he was tired, bone-deep weary in ways that had nothing to do with physical fatigue.
"My boat was caught in the storm. I was hoping to find shelter, perhaps trade my skills for supplies."
"Skills?" The leader's eyes narrowed further. "What kind of skills does a stranger offer on Berk?"
Before Sigrid could answer, commotion erupted from the village above. Shouts echoed off stone walls, and the acrid smell of smoke began to drift down toward the harbor. A woman came running down the wooden steps, her face pale with panic.
"Bjorn! Thank the gods—we need help at the healing hut! The Monstrous Nightmare attack last night—Ragnor's burns have gone septic, and old Helga says she can't—" The woman stopped abruptly as she noticed Sigrid, wariness replacing urgency in her expression.
Sigrid's enhanced hearing caught fragments of conversation from the village above.
'Healer's dead... dragon fire took the hut... don't know what to do...'
His stomach twisted. Even here, even among humans he'd never met, the endless cycle of violence between dragons and Vikings continued to claim lives.
"You said skills," Bjorn repeated, but his tone had shifted slightly.
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about healing, would you, stranger?"
The irony was almost enough to make Sigrid laugh, if the situation weren't so desperate. An Ancient Dragon—a creature these people would kill on sight—being asked to save lives that dragon fire had threatened. But he'd lived too long, seen too much suffering, to let pride stand in the way of helping.
"I've... picked up some knowledge over the years," he said carefully. "Traveling leaves you with all sorts of skills."
The woman stepped forward, desperation overriding caution.
"Please. Ragnor has a family—three children. And there are others injured from last night's raid. Our healer..." She swallowed hard. "Our healer didn't make it."
Before anyone could respond, heavy footsteps echoed down the harbor steps. The crowd parted instinctively, revealing a young man who commanded attention despite his obvious youth. Auburn hair caught the morning light, and green eyes surveyed the scene with the weight of recent responsibility. This had to be Stoick—the chief Sigrid had heard whispered about during his approach to the island.
"What's happening here?" Stoick's voice carried authority beyond his years, but Sigrid could sense the uncertainty beneath. New leadership, still finding its footing in a world where dragon attacks could destroy everything in a single night.
Bjorn straightened. "Stranger washed up on our shores, Chief. Claims he might have healing knowledge. Given what happened to Ingrid last night..."
Stoick's gaze fixed on Sigrid, measuring. Those green eyes held pain—recent loss, the burden of leadership thrust upon young shoulders, the weight of protecting people who looked to him for answers he didn't have. Sigrid recognized the look. He'd worn it himself, centuries ago, when he'd been the last of his kind tasked with protecting something precious.
"What's your name, stranger?"
"Sigrid," he replied simply. "Just Sigrid."
"And where do you come from, Just Sigrid?"
The question hung in the salt-tinged air. Around them, Vikings waited with the particular stillness of people accustomed to violence, ready to defend their home against any threat. Sigrid could feel their suspicion like a physical weight, could hear the way hands shifted toward weapons, could smell the lingering smoke and fear from the previous night's attack.
"From a place that no longer exists," he said quietly. "Fire and war have a way of erasing history."
Something shifted in Stoick's expression—a flicker of recognition, perhaps even sympathy. Here was a young chief who'd inherited a war he didn't start, responsible for people whose lives hung in the balance of decisions he had to make without guidance. The burden of leadership was written in the tension of his shoulders, the careful way he held himself.
"Bjorn," Stoick said finally, "Escort our guest to the healing hut. If he can help Ragnor and the others..." He paused, then addressed Sigrid directly.
"If you can save lives today, stranger, Berk will remember. But understand this—we've learned to be cautious with outsiders. These are dangerous times."
As if summoned by his words, a distant roar echoed across the morning sky. Every Viking present tensed, hands moving to weapons with practiced ease. But the sound faded without the telltale whistle of approaching wings, and gradually, the crowd began to disperse.
Sigrid followed Bjorn up the winding path toward the village, acutely aware of the eyes tracking his movement. With each step, he felt the weight of deception settling around his shoulders like a familiar cloak. These people needed a healer, and he could provide that service without revealing what he truly was.
One month.
He reminded himself again, even as something in Stoick's earnest green eyes suggested that leaving might prove more complicated than he'd planned.
Behind him, the harbor waves whispered against the shore with the sound of secrets yet to be revealed.