Hey there guys, I know this probably sounds like madness, but I felt like I needed to do something like this to find some peace. I'm not looking to just tell the whole world that my dog died (some of you might find that he was just that, a dog, no need to get into these things) as I'm the type of person to keep to myself.
I have two dogs, or rather, had. The one who died was already old, but not to the point where it was about to take him away, y'know, he was 11 years old. I had him since he was a pup and I was little. So these past 11 years, I grew up alongside him and he became a constant in my life. But a couple days ago, he left and I guess it hit me especially hard, because I'd already lost another dog before and it didn't cost this much, but I'd had that one for only 4 years and don't exactly remember much.
Anyways, I guess more than sad that he left, I'm angry because he was forced to. Someone poisoned him and he suffered a lot. Yeah, I felt like hitting something or rather someone... That got to me, and I feel like he should still be here, that it wasn't his time yet, he was still so energetic and in one week, puff! As did the fact that I couldn't watch him one last time after he died and now I deeply regret that, I wish I had gone just for one last goodbye.
So, I'm sorry for this rant, I'm aware I have other stuff to be writing, but I had to get thoughts out of my system and this was it. I used Sharpshot because I just couldn't bear myself to touch Toothless and the Terrible Terror wasn't that developed, so I could add a few traits of my own buddy to him. I'm sorry if this sounds ridiculous, I'm sorry if it's bad, I'm sorry if you don't agree with it but I'm not at all sorry.
Because I feel lighter knowing I passed his image to exist in this piece somehow, in some way.
Thank you if you kept up with me all the way down here, I really appreciate it. And thus, off to my dramatic self...
Hiccup remembered that day crystal clear.
It had been just another regular day at the Academy, if your regular day includes 5 competitive teens and a pacifist other, axe threats, Viking-brawn show-off and, of course, dragons.
He remembered his friends each picking up a creature of their own, the container alive with all the moving colours, and how he had been more worried about knocking some sense into his riders's thick heads (and worrying if giving them Terrors to compete had been really such a nice idea) rather than choosing carefully a dragon of his own.
He remembered looking down at the small lizard in his arms, and how it crawled across his chest, digging his painfully sharp talons through his long, green vest, as if it wanted to escape past his shoulder. He was rather shy until he bonded with Hiccup.
"Hiccup..." Astrid's voice rang gently inside his ears. He heard her boots softly 'puff puffing' on the floor of his hut but was only half aware of the caution in her movements, the worry and pity stitched on her face, as if one wrong, sudden movement would have him shattering down like a delicate piece of china.
"Come on, dragon boy..." She went on, "This isn't good for you. You've got to let it go and move on."
He remembered it all, all but time flying by so fast.
"You've got to let him go."
Hiccup looked down in silence from where he sat on his window's ledge. The sun was setting right on time as it should, casting beautiful palettes of colours over the sky. But he didn't want to look at it, admire it. Instead, he stared down at his hand, clutching at something far more precious.
He remembered the time to pick up a name, and how bad he was at it. He had named the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself 'Toothless´, for Asgard's sake, how wrong could he go with a green, red-stricked, little Terrible Terror?
Sharpshot.
It could have been the subconscious feeling of the skin by his collarbone and shoulder still complaining about the cuts left by the little guy's claws, or the way the dragon had immidiately shot towards his desk like na arrow and promptly thrown everything to the floor as soon as he first stepped inside his room, how he had seemed a natural at sniper fire (ability to launch its fire breath with pinpoint accuracy and in rapid bursts), or really, what came to mind when their eyes met.
Hiccup had known what it was to be connected, to have a bond, with a dragon, so he believed that one.
Toothless crooned worriedly at his rider, and Hiccup desperatly shook away the sad tinge to his faithful dragon's uttering. He knew he wasn't alone on this, as a hand laid as light as a feather on his shoulder to reforce that idea, but somewhy that thought made him sadder, and it became harder to force the hiccups in his chest inside, and the stinging in his eyes to subside:
Because he had company, but Sharpshot was alone.
He remembered the time spent training the clever dragon, and how all that time had paid off. Sharpshot had picked up some tricks too quickly and had caught some simply by watching Hiccup move. They were a great team, and only now could he realise how much shorter that time was than what he had thought it would be years back.
He remembered how playful the lizard was, how he always liked to perch on Hiccup's shoulder after a completed trick or delivered mail.
He remembered the times when the little Terror wasn't off sending messages and letters he wrote, when they were all at home after a particularly tiring day. The way Sharpshot always managed to form a perfect circle when he was off to sleep, and how he seemed to often mistake Hiccup's messy hair for a sort of nest, or just enjoyed seeing his trainer helplessly trying to unknot his claws from his hair. The dragon sure had personality.
Another hand landed on his other shoulder, too softer than a feather, and Hiccup heard a sigh before it squeezed his muscles reassuringly and a kiss was lovingly placed on his auburn mop.
He remembered when a particularly painful night happened and his leg burned under the fire of a thousand Hel's. How easy it had been to open up and let it all out in front of his two companions, Toothless covering him with his massive jet black wing along with the loyal Terror by his head breathing deeply, both sending off waves of peace and calmness. And when his body shook with a wilder sob, he could feel himself being further tucked in and a smaller tongue licking his salty tears.
He remembered when he talked to the little lizard in that baby voice that made Toothless roll his eyes. While deep down, both loved the attention, Sharpshot always was the less prideful of the two and would poke his little tongue out while he walked across his floor, his body curving in almost a circle, as if those words were tickling his side with happiness and he couldn't stay put.
He remembered when they had moved out of Berk to Dragon's Edge. How he didn't see much of his smaller buddy for a while as he explored new territory and knew new ways. He remembered being worried after some time, but he also remembered laughing it off when he found the dragon tiredly snoozing off on Toothless' stone bed, pretty much pissing the Night Fury off (but ending up sharing it and then sleeping on top of the jet black head). Terrible Terrors had a great sense of orientation, and always managed to find their way home.
He remembered when Sharpshot didn't come home. Or rather, he remembered when he left. The last time Hiccup saw him, he didn't know if he wished to know it was a goodbye. He had sent a letter to Dagur on Berserker Island, and had tied the roll on the Terror's leg before giving him a lovingly scratch on the top of his scaly head, big, round, shiny eyes staring up at him while so, and then watching him fly off his window.
The last image he held was of a small sillouette getting smaller by the second as it vanished into the sunset.
Hiccup was before the sunset now, but he knew he wouldn't be seeing it returning.
He hiccuped a sob, trying to conceal it.
He was never coming back.
Because Sharpshot was dead.
No. Because Sharpshot had been killed, the ire in him corrected.
Sharpshot had been taken from him, Sharpshot had been taken of his own life.
He remembered it had come under the form of a letter, tied to the leg of another Terrible Terror. He had instantly frowned at that, wondering why it wasn't his loyal friend instead. It would only make sense for it to be the same messager both way.s
Deep down, his gut knew it. Deep down he knew the reason why, and so had anxiously opened the letter to find Dagur's inconsistent writing.
His buddy had been dying then. Poisoned. According to Berserk's healer, Sharpshot had probably stopped somewhere and been given something to eat.
Something deadly. His guess? Bored Dragon Hunters or some other scum of their kin, with a hate for dragons and a like for watching them suffer. He could only imagine the laughter as they fed his tired and always-ready-to-eat Terrible Terror the bite-of-death. He could see the little creature struggling to reach the destination, even when suffering, because Sharpshot took the job very seriously when it came to air mail. If only he hadn't eaten the thing...
In an acrid, sardonic way, he had laughed through the pain: that dragon always loved to eat.
It had supposedly burnt its insides and caused several internal bleedings. Dagur had wanted to save Hiccup the details, so he could take the news better, and so proceeded to tell Hiccup how the dragon's insides had been completly destroyed and a mess inside- since Terrors were smaller and despite being fireproof on the insides (sort of) they were not poison proof- and how the little guy was suffering. Somehow, inside Dagur's head, that had made sense, telling someone the details after telling them he didn't want to do it because they were horrible. To Hiccup? It had made him green and sick.
Because Sharpshot was suffering through unholy amounts of pain.
The thought alone left him on his knees, devastated.
He remembered when he had Toothless ready to fly over to the Berserkers. Before they could, though, another Terror arrived with a second message: It was done. Sharpshot had left.
He remembered sucking the tears in, the riders looking at him worriedly, even the twins. He shook them off. He wanted to mourn in silence with no one to watch. He barely made it to his hut before the pain was too much to bear and the tears started leaking while he held almost onto dear life to the Night Fury's neck.
And he still feels the guilt of leaving his little friend alone, because he'd been too weak. Too weak to go see him one last time. Too weak to stand seeing Sharpshot's lifeless body.
He feels like he left the Terror alone. Like he abandoned him.
He feels he should have been there, at least.
He should have gone to say goodbye. To take his beloved dragon to Vanaheim for a final rest at last.
Now it was too late, all of him was gone, leaving a green, little scale on his palm and a heart-wrenching feeling of guilt and sorrow.
Sometimes he would look around and expect the lizard to show up from somewhere, momentarily forgetting the dragon would never return. He would adress his two dragons, only to have that same ice bucket fall over his head.
"He wouldn't blaim you, Hiccup. He knew you cared for him, and not being there didn't change it. This way you get to remember him for his good days, the days where he was well not when he was... in bad shape. " Astrid's voice echoed in his head, and he realised he'd thrown his arms around her middle and buried his face in her chest, silent and defeated.
Suddenly, he found his voice, and had the necessity to utter one single question, as if hearing the answer from someone else would make him feel any better and at peace, "Was he happy?"
She placed another kiss on top of his head, "He was more than happy, Hiccup. He had you. He had a good life, even he knew it. His time just came a bit too early, but what he lived was worth enough. Believe me."
He hummed, still feeling the frigid feeling of loss clawing at his stomach.
He snuggled against her, feeling her arms around him and Toothless' resonating breathing as the dragon laid his head on his lap affectionatly.
He remembered his dragon in his golden days, about that Astrid was right, and that would be his way of honoring him, he guessed. By remembering their good times together and the special things that made the little Terror his little Terror.
Because Sharpshot had been good for him, and Hiccup, thankful, never wanted or would forget that. He had to let go but...
Hiccup would always remember his Sharpshot.