Chapter
for skálds to sing,
i leave these runes knowingly
There are dragons, ever since I was a boy. At this point in age, I remember some roars better than some voices. I wonder, dear reader, which dragon would be your favourite? Do you call them by the same name as the ones used by my tongue? The great, grim sky dragons that nested on the clifftops like gigantic, scary birds, we call those “Deadly Nadders”. Little, brown, scuttly dragons that hunted down the mice and rats in well-organised packs are lovingly named “Terrible Terrors” and feared by wives, for they often stole cauldron ingredients. Preposterously huge sea dragons that were twenty times as big as the big blue whale, spitting hot sea water that made your skin melt—yes, those are our “Scauldrons”. Do you know any of these? Have you tried befriending them? How about riding them? They enjoy eating fish, in case you need any tips.
When I was younger than a lad, I both feared and envied them. Many in my tribe wanted to steal their wings and eat their hearts. I’m ashamed to say I wasn’t much different. It was only when I met a Night Fury that I changed. I saw in him a bit of me, and he must’ve seen in me a bit of himself, too. He showed me greatness without any words. It was as if he was saying, Look, look around. We are everywhere you look. In the depths of the sea, with bones and fangs that sometimes get mistaken for rocks or Southern rarities, swimming with fish, exploring the shipwrecks. When the ground quakes, or lava spews from the entrails of the Earth, it’s the dragons, probably Gronckles or Eruptodons, feasting on rocks, inviting us to venture further and share stories with them. He showed me wonder, the skies, courage, mercy and ruthlessness—I became who I am thanks to him.
Thus, the Night Fury I met that fateful day in the woods became my brother. His name is Toothless. We flew everywhere together, and now that I can no longer mount a saddle, he walks by my side. I took one of his tail fins, and he took my leg, but he has given me so much: though I’m old and grey and losing some of my sight, I remember our adventures as if they beat like a second heart.
My mantle shall be passed on soon enough, I can feel it in my bones. I have one last task I must take care of—not as a chief, but as the First Dragon Rider—to you, reading this. Perhaps you shall find this old book of chronicles only a few years after my passing, or perhaps much later, in a world I know nothing of. But I want to leave you with our memories—from me, from Toothless, from my father, from my friends, from Berk. I want to tell you that we are not folktales. We existed. We breathed, we loved, we grieved, we persisted, we fought, we resisted. We lived. Everything I’ll tell you here is the truth. This is not a story of a hero born for excellence or of a village destined for legends. This is the truth of how we wove and fixed a broken world—and of the old, wild creatures who became one with us. This is a story of togetherness. And now it is your duty to keep writing it with me.
