❜ REBIRTH.

ind. sel. pri. valka of httyd2. written by itchy.

[hefja]

uhhh

[hefja]

lays down should i ................... make/remake a htty.d muse

[velvetblush]

How to Train Your Dragon Books First & Last Line - Book 5-8 

(Book 1-4) 

[hefja]

shxrtxgal:

▊▊▊-[❇]-▊▊▊—;

“I feel like I am the one the blame.”

Maybe it was the grief that was talking but in his heart that felt more  broken then it had ever been before. His mind set was already made, This was his fault and there was nothing he could do to change that mind set. 

Watching Drago escape into the sea with the other Bewilderbeast his heart sank. He felt as if he had gotten justice but it wouldn’t be over until he officially settled the score. Drago wasn’t gone and he knew this was only going to get worst. 

He was going to lose more people he loved. 

Carefully he wound his arms around his mother. She had no idea the horrors that he and his father been through since their separation. But it didn’t matter now as he held onto his mother tightly. He didn’t want this to happen the way it did but it seemed like it didn’t matter. 

This war was coming. 

“I can’t….I don’t think I’ll be able to overcome this…”

He’d carry the guilt until his time was up. How he let his father perish the way he did. He couldn’t handle that. Maybe handle it better when he was older but in this moment in time his heart ached. 

“This…this is so hard…”

Knowing his father wasn’t coming back. The impending war he knew was coming. It was too much for him. 

                                                  ✥ ✥ ✥ ✥ ✥ ✥

she breathes above him, and when she speaks, it is melodic, a mother’s lullaby. she runs a hand through his hair and it almost seems natural, like she’s been doing it all her life, although of course she hasn’t.

“ i know, ”  she reassures.  “ i know. ”

she doesn’t say :  the only man i ever loved died upon that tumbled shore, upon all those stones black as charcoal, black as midnight, his charred body still upon so much glass and his tremendous heartbeat silent in her ears. she does not say :  the only man i ever loved died while the great bewilderbeast, to whom i owe my life and my heart, bled out on that black beach, and dragon and man victorious receded into the sea.

her son shifts, and arms find their way across her back, with such hesitation that her heart breaks. she doesn’t know how to do this, how to comfort her boy. she does not know how to be a mother to him, when the body of the father who raised him went up in flame, a thousand sun-tipped arrows tucking the shroud tucked in around him. but she gathers hiccup up in her own arms. she dips and presses a kiss to his temple, feather-soft. for a long time, wordlessly, she just holds him, her son, all bone and blood. he startles her with his radiance every day. he did not get that light from her, but from his father.

“ you will, ”  she says, just above a whisper.  “ you will emerge, but things like that take time. you have a resilient heart. i know that; i can see it. you are not weak. you are not weak. if you are still in pain years from now, you will not be weak. shhhh. ”

she knows, too, that there is a war coming, a storm building just past the horizon, hanging over all of berk. it chills the frigid island, hangs heavy on shoulders of all of berk, the certainty of death, that the dragon army wasn’t the worst they will face. that one day drago will emerge from the sea with the lust for victory, for conquering, burning in their eyes, and as they are now, torn, shattered, there is nothing they can do.

she knows that her son is not a warrior. how is he to handle the war that is to come? how can she prepare him? but she must.

“ and i’ll do everything i can to ease the burden, to relieve you of some of your chief duties, to share stories, to make any of this a little more bearable. ”

[lifeinpoetry]

I dream of massacres. / I am a garden of black and red agonies.

Sylvia Plath, from “Three Women,” Winter Trees (via lifeinpoetry)

[hefja]

littlemoreofthis:

Well in his flight out on Toothless he wasn’t actually expecting to run into the vigilante that has been causing him nothing but grief. His men had been telling tales of someone with a similar way of controlling dragons as he did. Not that he believed them. A kinship to the creatures that proved to be more intelligent and useful then all of Berk and the Archipelago wasn’t hard. But now seeing this person close up he could tell that they had a similar way of carrying themselves. Respect for the power, but knowing that control was in your grasp.

“I didn’t know the airs were being restricted by another dragon rider.” He waved his hand as if to make light of her tone. Toothless on edge as his wings battered hard to keep them afloat, growl in his throat. The beasts mood matching the underlying annoyance in Hiccup’s own voice.

“Unless you are the one I’ve been trying to look for.”

“ the one you’re looking out for ? ”  she echoes back, tone flat. her mask darkens her words, lends an sinister air to her voice. clouds torn by her stormcutter’s wings spin around them, and between them the whole world looks shattered, like the fractal cracks of frozen ponds, like the patterns of rising peaks. she knows no other dragon riders, no other who would dare mount a dragon, who would hold their life before a creature of scale and sky and call it joy. she must decide, and quickly, what to do about this dragon-riding boy, but she hovers, curious, cloudjumper’s wings cutting apart the clouds.

“ i don’t know what you mean. these skies are not safe for dragons, not anymore. there are trappers, ”  she calls. always learning new tricks. who knew if they could take to the air. she cannot assume this territory is safe, cannot assume the safety of anything beyond the impenetrable ice of her sanctuary.  “ there are bad men who seek to own the skies. ”

[velvetblush]

How to Train Your Dragon Books First & Last Line - Book 1-4

(Book 5-8) 

[hefja]

i’ve been busy on jim where i’ve got a queue running so i’m gonna be here on val setting up the same thing.

[hefja]

i’ve been here on jim & taking advantage of this blog’s semi-active status. 

[hefja]

bringerxfstorms:

He looked at her with his golden eyes. Vast intelligence held within them as his nostrils flared, taking in her scent. With a turn of his massive head, he began to push her towards his shoulder. Sensing that she wanted to test his trust which he accepted as many smell of dragons came to him.

A certain smell came to him, and while not larger than the sea dweller king of dragons, he would not harm her as she was a friend to all. He could see much in ones eyes and perhaps the flattery helped. Soft sounds rumbled in his throat. Low and almost like a feline purr. The dark violet scales were very hard and rough. It would make for an uncomfortable ride.

she saw her own eyes in his, in great irises like pure gold, saw the divisive angles of her face. the scent of her sanctuary clung to her  --  in this place, so far from home, she held on to every bit of familiarity she had, and let the rush of novelty course through her.

that roughened snout seemed so gentle before her, and she let her hands run along a roughness that never ceased to amaze her, that never settled into familiar.  “ are you sure ? ”  she asked, but the dragon lowered himself before her, guided her toward the curve of great shoulders, so she climbed. without her staff, with just her hands on his scales, there was something intimate about the connection being forged.  ( and forged it truly is, for the fire that made a sun of her  /  for the lightning that made a storm of him. )

[hefja]

vigmadr:

he retracts his hand, his cheeks are painted a rosy color when she speaks. he gives the woman a small nod of approval  –  he’d be sure to keep away from pranking her. not because she is hiccup’s mother but because he can tell she is quite cunning. and the fact that he knew who to joke with and to be wary of. her laugh jolted him slightly but hearing her laughter brought a smile to his face. 

her laughter sounded similar to hiccup’s, except at a faster pace and more airy. he wanted to hide the smile on his face but it was hard. she had that air about her that her son shared. he loved being around him and the others. something he never openly shares but hoped his presence was enough to convey those silent feelings of affection.

❝  —— i’m glad i never went with ‘ old woman ‘  or I‘m sure i’d of felt it later. not only from you. ❞ he wasn’t talking about her son. he was sure talking about astrid. she voiced her opinion with her fist rather than her mouth. a scowl nearly form on his face as she talks about being good to his sister. that was near impossible because of how they acted around each other. he shrugs lightly, not giving an answer to how he’d appreciate ruffnut. he couldn’t afford getting lectured right now.

especially when he was having a great time with the chief's mother.

“ if you went with old woman, you’d end up calling yourself an old man. ”  her face holds a wry humor, a muddled amusement that puddles in the laughter lines across her. she is melody given form  --  her rough hands, her eyes upturned toward the clouds and higher, her voice half hoarse and half harmony. beside her son’s friend, she thinks, she can shoulder some of the burden a little while longer. too long has she let the tragedy of war fall to those she couldn’t rescue from it. she failed this boy, and his sister, and all of them.

she is used to something closed-off in the eyes of berk’s younger generation, those old enough to have been raised in a world turned war-zone. sometimes she thinks she is a tragic figure to them, just one more broken old woman decimated by the years, decimated by fire, decimated by her own fierce heart.

she remembers what it is like, to feel that close to someone. to feel their blood under your skin, to find their eyes first in any crowd. with her vow to remain in berk despite the itching wanderlust beneath her skin, the terror of being trapped down, keeps her searching, now, for that bloodline-connection with her son. the son she abandoned.. she leans back, breathes cold, cleansing air, watching shapes in cloud and spire of rock. at length, she says, with warmth trickling through her voice,  “ it’s a good place you’ve made it into. i’m very impressed. ”

[hefja]

dreicha:

she had heard once a phrase about elephants, the descendants of mammoths, never forgetting.  it seems more cruel than a thing to marvel at.  to remember hunger, thirst, being hunted.  she remembers, of course.  it is hard not to.  remembers scrabbling at a broad back to stay on, the blank fear that gave way to instincts she didn’t think she had.  and how she burned, a living wildfire trapped in ice that only gained more layers over the years.  her tongue tasted that blood she had wished to spill for far too long, but her jaws were swifter.  a prey’s death unbefitting of a monster.  a shudder shakes her back like the beginnings of an avalanche.  

pacifists was how she had previously described her tribe.  though fearsome and dangerous, they did not attack first.  she is not proud of all her killing, knows it to only have fueled the flames of fear against her kind.  but it was necessary and she would do it again if given the chance.  her neck bows, arches up her spine and tightens muscles before lean body shifts, melting into a lower stance folding legs underneath till belly touches ground.  “aye, I killed them. not all, outlived the others, but the ones who started it knew my teeth at their end.” 

it seems she has spent a lifetime among beasts, or longer. kill-or-be-killed, she has learned, is nothing but survival. that is fact, and nothing more.  “ sometimes, it’s what you need to do, ”  she says. in a vision of the past, she holds a mace shivering before her, sweat on her palms loosening her grip. in a vision of the past, she stands between man and dragon and screams for peace until her throat aches, and she still finds traces of blood on her hands in the morning. she’d dreamt of participating in that bloodbath, as if blood was a mark of adulthood, a rite of passage, and then, when she had it, it threatens to consume..

how can she judge a dragon the way she would judge a man ?  in the sanctuary, in the long unspeaking years, she is stripped of her morality. death is death. fear and fierce protectiveness are part of a natural order, but so is blood. and this dragon  --  she shudders like swallowing unbearable recollections. she lowers herself before valka and for a moment valka is uncertain  --  and she reaches out her arms to the dragon’s neck, and climbs.

[ursbornhauser]

Norway, simply beautiful

[hefja]

INHERITANCES :  WAR

one.   this is ascension :  surrender; the furious climb  /  your body made an offering to the sky. your gods know no mercy, only blood & mead, only the thick glow of a bonfire, only the expanse of clouds rolling themselves out for you  /  for them  /  for every desperate heart here.

two.   the fight, the strain, the fierce push in your heart. you are all fire here, your blade a furious dance through the air. you bleed & when you rise to your feet you are grinning. you are all fire, the way it swallows, the way it ravages, the way it leaves you wanting.

three.   you stand at the edge of the world & you don’t remember how to breathe. all this sea  /  all this sky  /  the endless, tumultuous blue of it. you are holding out your hands to catch some glorious shard of it. you cut your heart on some shard of it, & when you bleed, light spills out from beneath your ribs.  ( this is how a girl becomes the sunrise. )

four.   you stumble in the dark, through caves lit with glowing afterimages, through bays rolling bioluminescent. 

five.   you are the fiercest thing alive  /  your soft & shifting heart.

six.   the stars whisper secrets in old legends, in long-forgotten tongues  --  whisper tales told in whispers  /  tales told loud & full, warrior-wild. stars gaze stoic before the prow of your ship, like a silent promise, like a beacon drawing you onward, onward. beneath your skin, blood calls to the sky’s blood, to the sempiternal. this is your heart, singing. listen. you are girl ascendant, & nothing can hold you down.

seven.   behind your eyelids you spin tales out of clouds. you lift your arms & they are wings, & you are glistening glorious, & the only path is on, & on, & on.

eight.   you hear your name in whispers, reverent & dark & tangled. you don’t remember your name. you are just a girl. you are holding all this light inside of you. let it go.

nine.   your family holds your hands, holds you close. the tragedy reverses itself :  your tears inverted, your grief rolling backwards from beneath your ribs. you are holding their hands & you are fuller than you have ever been.

ten.   you are holding out your hands and between them is a space where you build a new home out of fire. you are holding out your hands & they are burnt & everything  is alight with glorious promise. you are girl triumphant, here, girl glorious. this is the world you dream of, its soft, cloud-touched edges. this is you, more alive than you’ve ever been, furious & forgiving. there is no way back.there is no way out, & for the first time, you don’t need one.

[weshouldallburn-together]

[hefja]

"do you think hiccup will like it? for the baby, i mean." she settles beside valka, worry painted across her face ; down her arms in the form of shivers and goosed flesh. in her fingers, callous and rough, she attempts to hold delicately to a harshly stitched and misshapen furred onesie. ( for ur floof :3 )

a fierce spike of nostalgia ravages her, quick as the arc of a shooting star, battlefield-quick. for a moment, her eyes find the dirt, find her boots, something unnameable and uncertain rising within her. 

she takes the onesie, runs her fingers over the loose stitching, over soft fur and the softer hide beneath. with her tongue between her teeth, she probes, tests the needlework, the shape. 

“ you’re improving, ”  she says. she has never been good with tact, with swallowing the truth  –  with swallowing any part of herself. she has always been :  barefoot  /  wild  /  raw, body become the swell of battle, body become pure motion. she cannot fold herself up, make herself smaller, sweeter, kinder  –  and this girl ?  she is all truth. she is honest as they come, relentless, fearless, a marvel to behold. something in her is burning and val can’t say for sure where it is, only that it spells power for astrid, and valka is in awe.

“ i think hiccup will like anything you make, ”  valka says, honest and plain.  “ but here, sit with me. tighten the stitching here – ”  she slides a hand inside the garment and presses gently at the seams with her fingertips, the peach of her skin showing through.

“ you want it to be practical, before pretty. ”  she still keeps bone needles, stones and shells inside deep pockets; she is used to holding her own survival in her hands, survival being her ability to become a dragon  –  she adjusts the staff, re-calibrates the hissing shells within, smears sweat from her face. she pulls needle through her dragon-garb, her makeshift likeness, until it is something that makes her one of them.

and she knows. how do you balance two worlds ?  how do you make yourself enough for both ?

the sea laps at the stones, this rocky beach she sits on, stone rough and scraping beneath her, this unforgiving place she has come again to hold in her heart as home. it has been so long since her years in the sanctuary, and still she wakes unsettled by the silence of this place, the way sloping walls swallow the breaths of thousands of dragons, the way the wood keeps the chill in.

at last, she says,  “ you have to have faith in yourself. ”

[ganseyblues]

truce, twenty one pilots