You're never more scared of the thing you're scared of than when you find out more about it. Does that make any sense?

  People think the more you know about the thing you fear, the less afraid of it you'll be. That does not apply with dragons.

 As I read the Book of Dragons page by page on my bed that night, listening to the roars of the very beasts I read about outside my hut, I kept kicking myself for volunteering for Dragon Training. It was late and Aunt Girtha had already gone to bed.


"Arabella Reckless Ratten, eaten on her sixteenth birthday after foolishly signing up to train dragons." I muttered to myself, rubbing my face.


  "....What?" came a low, gravelly voice in my doorway.



  I turned in surprise to see Uncle Grumble standing there, his long, braided gray beard as emotionless as the rest of his face. He always wears his Viking helmet. It's battered and the right horn is longer than the other, and there's a weird scorch mark in the shape of a crescent on it. His cloak is ragged and gray, like his beard and my coat, and it's too big for him and usually covers up his tunic and kilt. He's really short for a Viking, but also very stocky. He has gray eyes like mine, and very bushy eyebrows that make him look stern all the time.


  He was holding a fat staff that used to double as a club when he fought. Now he's retired and spends his days down at the arena watching the kids my age train new dragons. My uncle doesn't talk much ever, and he even grunts less than most Vikings, which is saying a lot. Or, uh, not saying a lot at all, heh heh.

  Sorry, bad joke.


  "Uh..." I blinked at him. He was so motionless, he could've been mistaken for a statue. His eyes were looking at me, but he'd not even moved to face me. "Hi, um, Uncle Grumble."


  He blinked, which is like saying 'hi' for him, I guess.


  I sat up awkwardly. "Um..." Like I said, we don't talk much, so I didn't know what to say. "...What's up?" I asked finally.


  He raised a short finger and pointed it at me. "What was that you said? Dragon Training?"


  I took a deep breath, raising one eyebrow and crooking my neck uncertainly at him. I didnt know whether he was angry or happy or nervous or confused or whatever. I think all of the muscles in his face are frozen so he can't make any facial expressions. I'm telling you, the guy doesn't even smile or frown or hardly blink! Who doesn't blink?!


  "Yeahhh...." I drew out the word uneasily. I decided to explain it to him, and when I did, the thought of explaining what I would have to do tomorrow made me not care who he was or how much we talked as long as I could share my worries with someone, so I slapped my hands down on the bed beside me in frustration and started talking extremely fast.


  "Okay, so earlier tonight I was feeding everybody at the Gathering Hall, because it's my job, right? I mean, it's the lamest job ever for somebody my age, and I already had a run-in with dragons on my way there, so I was already freaking out, and Smog had me on counter duty early. So I'm feeding the village and Hiccup comes up in line and--"


  My Uncle's low, gravely voice stopped me. "Hiccup? Stoic's boy?"



  I looked up. He had raised one terrifically bushy silver eyebrow at me. Still couldn't tell how he felt about anything, but at least I got a reaction.


  "Yeah, Hiccup Haddock. And Astrid."


  We stared at each other, me looking him up and down and trying to decide what to do next, him just standing there. I think the only thing he did besides that was shift his weight from one leg to the other once.


  "Umm..." I hummed after a minute, glancing at my bed and then patting it. "Wanna have a seat?"


  Uncle Grumble moved his steely blue eyes to the bed, blinked (finally!), tightened his mouth like he didn't want to, then grunted like he'd changed his mind and stumped over to the bed. In the quiet room, his footsteps sounded like a dragon's over my wood floor and my bed creaked loudly as he sat down on it with great finality. He didn't look at me or turn to face me like my mom might have, but instead squinted across the room at the wall, with his hands on his staff in-between his legs and his chin resting on them.


  I sighed and put my head in my hands. I probably should have lost my nerve and decided not to tell him, but I'm a teenage girl, Viking or not, and let's face it, we can't keep our mouths shut. Plus, hey, he was sitting down anyway.


  I started again, slower. "Hiccup was all nice to me this morning on my way to work, then he introduced me to Astrid in the food line, and SHE was all nice to me, and when I was about to leave they--the whole Dragon Trainer group thing--they all invited me to eat with them."


  A smile crept into my voice when I remembered the goofy teens who were trying to be my friends. "And right before they all left, they started talking about 'my potential', or whatever that means, and getting scalded and falling off dragons, and Typhoomerangs and who knows what else....and before I knew it, I'm a Dragon Trainer."


  I sighed. "I don't know what to do now. I mean, I've got to tell them I can't, right?  It's like, impossible. I want them to be my friends, but...but if they find out--how, you know, I am around dragons..." I gestured hopelessly, then put my head in my hands.


  After the moments of silence that followed my rant, Uncle Grumble's voice surprised me.


  He said, "There's a dragon down at the arena. Terrible Terror. Baby. Couldn't fly."

  I stared at him. He was still sitting like a stone beside me, his feet firmly planted, chin on his hands on his staff, not looking at me but staring off into the distance. Really? Had he even been listening?

 "Oh." I wrinkled my eyebrows at him, then ducked my head and muttered, "Gee, I thought you might have some advice, or we were gonna bond or something her--"

  He cut me off. "Trainers tried everything. Fed it, stroked it's scales, encouraged it...finally figured out why it couldn't fly." Uncle Grumble shifted his weight and gestured with one hand. "Wouldn't fly cuz it didn't know it had wings. Never spread 'em open before, it's mother never taught it how."


  Okay, call me blind, but I still didn't get it. This time I didn't interrupt, though, one, because he wasn't going to listen to me until he was done, and two, because even though I didn't get it, he sounded like he might be going somewhere with this.


  Finally my Uncle Grumble turned to me and his steely blue eyes met mine. His bushy eyebrows pointed sternly down at his niece, and he said quietly, "Fear never does anything good for you. Only makes you stop before you try. Cripples you, makes you uncertain. Never know 'till you test yourself."


  I swallowed and nodded mutely, unable to speak. My Uncle had hardly ever spoken more than ten words a week to anybody since I started living with him. Now here he is giving me advice.


  And he's right.

***

  That night, I dreamt I was the Terrible Terror hatchling down at the arena. I learned how to spread my wings, and I flew off a cliff over the sea. I felt the wind whistle around me and saw how high up I was. I realized how incredible it was to fly. I could go anywhere, do anything! I was completely free to have adventures and anything I wanted.

  Then my dream turned into a nightmare. My wings snapped shut and I was plummeting straight into the jaws of a huge Monstrous Nightmare.


  My eyes snapped open. They met squash-colored, reptilian eyes that stared blankly into mine, freezing me in place. Was this another dream? I blinked, and the dragon eyes were still there. They blinked, too, shaking me out of my stance.

  To my surprise, Scramble was seated in my bed, on my stomach! I yelped and sat up fast, sending him flying across the room, as usual. His red wings shot out and he flapped unsteadily before he hit the floor.

  I got out of bed and trotted downstairs, neglecting to put my hair up in my haste to get away from Scramble.


  "Aunt Girtha, your dragon was in my--"


  "Sur-priiiizzzeee!" shouted my Aunt as I entered the kitchen.


  I smiled. There was a beautifully made breakfast waiting for me on the rugged wooden table. At least, it was beautiful by Viking standards. There was a burnt egg and some stale toast, with a basically fried fish that had the wrong seasoning sprinkled over it, topped off with a glass of yak milk.


...Okay, so my Aunt's not the best cook in the world. But it was still sweet.


  "Happy twelfth birthday, m'dear!" she cooed, pouring yaks milk into one mug then emptying that into another cup. Once again, I don't know why.


  "I'm sixteen, Aunt Girtha." I corrected, sitting at the table.


  "Och, that's right. Going to work this morning, dear? I'm sure Smog'll give ye a short day's work on ye'r birthday, turning fourteen and all, a big deal I should say. Wait a moment." she glanced around. "Oh, there it is." she pointed at the stairs. Why was she looking for the stairs?