Chapter Text
Prologue
Most of the islands inside the archipelago suffered from consistent dragon raids, where the beasts would rain down on the tribes living on the islands, claws outstretched and maws releasing bursts of fire and smoldering lava at the people, buildings and animals while trying to capture as many fish, sheep, yaks and every other possible source of food available.
Berk was no exception.
The people have lived on the island for seven generations already, and the dragon raids have never deterred them. They suffered and lost and grieved and mourned. But they were Vikings; warriors. The more the dragons came, the more determined they were to fight just as hard and protect their own.
Leaving Berk was out of the question. They weren’t going to submit to a bunch of mindless beasts. They weren’t going to leave their home because of the risk to their lives. They were going to fight tooth and nail to defend what was theirs. If the dragons were relentless, so the Vikings they had on the other end of their fangs were even more so.
And then came the curse.
New baby Berkians were born to the violent life with the raging raids, but these ones had one difference—they had marks on their skin, like tattoos of dragons. Each baby had its own damning mark, unique in some way or another. And the marks were alive, crawling along the fat, smooth skin of the babies as if exploring the area like hatchlings.
The parents were frantic. They had no idea what was going on. Everyone was certain it was a sign from the gods—some kind of punishment for their inability to finish the dragons off already. It was a bad omen. The gods’ way of telling them that they were disappointed in their failure, in their incapability, in their ongoing war that should have already ended.
Despite the lack of anything sinister appearing in the babies, the villagers started whispering about killing them. If the devils were marked on their skin, it was bad. It meant they were condemned from the very start. It would be merciful to end their pain and suffering now, when it was still fresh and they weren’t aware of much beyond their hunger and confusion.
Naturally, the babies’ parents were less than happy with this conclusion, although they themselves weren’t sure how to process what was happening. They had no way of conversing with the gods to ask them what the next step should be. They had no way of defending their children when the dragons’ marks were so clearly etched on their young skin.
Berk was getting ready for the event, already mourning the new generation they would have to slaughter so they wouldn’t live a cursed life. They prayed to the gods every day, begging for healthy babies next time. They got the message—they had to end the raids faster, deal with the threat and be done with it already. Just please, give them unharmed children.
But before they could so much as lay a hand on either of the babies, lightning struck the earth, cutting off the grim ceremony. The people froze and looked up to the sky as storm clouds covered every inch of it, making the world go dark as it started to snow.
And then—an apparition.
They gasped as two figures appeared out of thin air, standing between them and the condemned babies. They weren’t solid, looking more like creations of mist. But the shapes were unnatural and clear enough to make it obvious this was the work of the gods once more, sending another message.
One of the figures was a tall young man with unruly auburn hair. He wore strange clothes that looked as if they were made of dark scales. His features were soft, his eyes kind. Despite his lanky build and his obvious missing leg, he seemed to stand tall and confident. In his hand there was a flaming sword that made the Berkians back even further away. And his other hand was resting on top of the other figure.
The people felt like fainting as they held their breaths, staring with trepidation at the black-as-night dragon that was curled around the man’s legs, sharp teeth bared as it snarled, glaring at the Berkians like it wanted to blast them to bits. Its wings were folded over its back, frills moving as it seemed to listen carefully and take everything in with sharpened senses. Some noticed the strange, red fin it had attached to its tail where there should have been black.
The two were standing together, like a united front in front of the villagers. Even the man’s kind eyes were challenging, as if daring them to harm the children in any way. They were nothing more than smoke, but they looked so real, so alive. Menacing.
It lasted only a couple of seconds. Then the smoke vanished at once, leaving the Berkians rattled and hysterical, the babies crying in the background from the earlier loud noise that had followed the lightning strike. No one knew what to do next, how to interpret the strange vision.
Until the village elder stepped forward and tried to calm everyone down. He told them it was the gods’ will to keep the dragon-infested children alive. They didn’t know why, they weren’t sure what it meant, but they knew they had to leave the babies unharmed or suffer by the hand of those… those strange spirits.
“God!” cried one of the Berkians. “This must have been a god!”
“The god of the demons,” wailed another. “With his pet.”
“We’re cursed!” a third one chimed in. “We’re cursed by the evil god!”
“The god of dragons,” someone muttered.
“The god of dragons!” everyone agreed fearfully.
The rumor spread around the archipelago, people whispering about the unnamed god and his dragon. The protector of dragons. The man no one dared give a name to. They looked up to Odin and sought his help, but they cowered in fright at the mere mention of the dragons’ god.
They called him the Dragon Lord, or Dragon Master.
No one ever recounted his kind eyes. Instead, they focused on his flaming sword, which must have been the creation of a god, for such a thing could not exist, could not be designed by man. His smile, in the stories, became a loathing scowl. His forest-green eyes were rumored to be filled with the same sort of flames as his sword.
He was a demon, a monster. But a powerful one they knew was not to be trifled with. And the look in that dragon’s eyes… they knew it would be sent from Asgard if they disrespected the damned babies or so much as entertained the idea of getting rid of them.
The raids continued. The Vikings fought. But now they prayed to a new god, begging him to have mercy on them, to take it easy, to forgive them for whatever sin they had done to draw his ire. They’d left the babies alive, after all. They’d heard his warning and acted accordingly. So why were they still being attacked?
In the meantime, the babies grew. Berk was hesitant around them, unsure how to proceed. They feared these Vikings would grow up to be wild and strange. They feared they might join the dragons and betray their own tribe. But instead, the babies became children, and the children became adults. They fought alongside their people, recognizing the threat the dragons posed.
But they still had the dragons etched on their skin. It didn’t hurt, nor did it make them act out in any way. The strangest thing these people did was see no real threat in the little beasts they had attached to their very being. They weren’t sure what the dragons meant, just like everyone else, but they grew up this way—they were far less frightened by the phenomenon.
Yet the older they got, the bigger the dragons became. They were still rather small—never bigger than the palm of a person’s hand. But they grew sharper and more detailed until they looked just like the raiding dragons that were attacking the island. And when the kids became teenagers, the dragons started popping out of their humans’ skin, appearing in front of the alarmed Vikings in their full size.
They made the mistake of attacking the first dragon that had done it. The human it belonged to was too stunned to react, but his mother reacted instantly—she saw a dragon, so she grabbed her mace and attacked with a battle cry. The dragon never even had a chance.
It fell dead at her feet after letting out a shriek of agony.
Unfortunately, right next to the dragon’s body lay the boy’s one, no longer breathing.
It happened three more times before the Berkians realized that somehow the lives of these children were connected to the dragons. If they wanted the teenagers to be alive, they had to leave the dragons be—let them come out and keep an eye on them, but not kill them.
So the remaining dragons poked out and started exploring Berk, staying close to their humans, who anxiously looked over their shoulders to make sure no one was attacking their dragons. They had to keep an eye on the strange dragons too, to prevent them from burning down the village or killing all their livestock.
Luckily, these dragons seemed to be much more civil. The Berkians watched, utterly fascinated, as they roamed around, cawing and crooning at everything around them without setting fire to their houses. They still chased the sheep and ate their fish, but they never harmed the livestock—it looked more like they were playing a game.
Then came the next raid. The strange dragons were still up and about. They rarely ever returned to their humans’ skin, instead preferring to stretch their bodies and enjoy their freedom. The Berkians thought nothing of it and instead hollered loudly as they ran around the village to fight the monsters invading their home.
But something changed in the strange dragons. Their domesticated personalities shifted. Their pupils narrowed down and their wings flapped anxiously as they got out too, joining the fray—but not to help their humans, but to fight them along with the other dragons.
More such dragons were killed that day. More humans dropped dead inexplicably, joining their ancestors.
The ones who weren’t killed by the time the raid was over, looked mostly dazed, as if they were waking up from a dream. They were caged and locked away, the Viking prodding at them to see how they were reacting. But they were clearly domestic again, warbling in distress at the sight of their humans so far away, staring at them with fear in their eyes.
They were let out eventually. But the next time there was a raid, the dragons’ humans tied them down or locked them up so they wouldn’t be able to help the other dragons. They weren’t sure why it was happening, but Berk wasn’t going to take any chances. It was best this way, with the dragons hissing and spitting without being able to hurt anyone.
To the frustration of the Vikings, the first batch of demon-infested babies was only the beginning. Every other child since that point in time came out into the world with their own dragon hatchling tattooed on their skin. They were never harmed, of course, since the story of the Dragon Lord showing up to show his displeasure was being told again and again, passing on from father to son.
Eventually, Berk was left with only people who had these unique dragons. They knew other islands didn’t have the same phenomenon, but to them, it was ordinary. They kept on fearing the dragon god, but they no longer feared each other. No one killed these dragons and no one shunned them out. They were a part of their society that they had to lock up only during raids.
As time moved on, people started referring to the demons as dragon souls—meaning they were draconic, sure, but they were related to their humans’ souls. They never strayed too far, never flew away from Berk. They didn’t always listen—Vikings had to shout at them constantly to try and get a reaction out of the beasts—but they weren’t as harmful as the raiding dragons, which was good.
And tucked in the back of the Meade Hall, covered in shadows and collecting dust bunnies and spider webs, was an old, faded painting of an old ceremony—one where the Berkians stood in an arch around several wailing babies, a tall man with a flaming sword and his dragon separating the two groups.