Hey! Wrote this in one sitting with only myself to proofread, so sorry if there's any grammar errors or run on sentences and the like. I had this idea rattling around in my head, and I had a chance to sit down and write it all out in one go.

It's a what-if AU of both HTTYD 1 and 2 - what if Hiccup had never shot down and met Toothless? What would be different? How else could they possibly meet, if they were meant to? And how would their relationship be different?

Posted this to Tumblr as well!

My name is Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third.

A name that I alone carry. Seeing as how I'm the last of the line to carry it.

It's been three years since he came. A madman called Drago Bludvist, who controlled dragons like they were children's toys, and with the power his Bewilderbeast, the Alpha dragon, at his beck and call…

We were no match.

Even with our years of fighting dragons, raid after raid that ravaged our land and crippled our food supply, we were nothing before the feet of the Bewilderbeast. Mere ants that scampered about beneath it, begging to be crushed.

There were so many dragons. Scores more then even the largest dragon raid in Berk's history. We should have known, seen the signs. It was suspicious when the raids had suddenly stopped, not a scale to be seen of the beasts for nearly three days in a row.

We took it as a blessing from the Gods. It was more like a premonition of death.

We fought our hardest. My father… the Chief. Gods, did he fight. He fought til' his last breath. It took three of Bludvist's armoured dragons to finally take him down, their steel plates deflecting his weapons effortlessly.

I tried, I really did. But… even with my inventions, the ones my dad actually did let me finish and use during the raids… I'm no fighter. I've accepted that years ago, even before Astrid won during Dragon training.

Oh Gods, Astrid.

I haven't seen her since we were scattered.

After my father was killed, Bludvist gave us an ultimatum. Join his army of dragon trappers, or perish.

Of course, being Vikings, we chose to fight.

Not many of us survived. Mothers, children and the elders had already been evacuated when Bludvist's army was spotted on the horizon. Hard to hide an armada large enough to blot out the sun when you have an Elder perched on the highest peak of the village.

Astrid stayed to fight, of course. I wouldn't have expected any different. All the adults my age did.

Fishlegs didn't make it. He was never much of a fighter, but he put up a damn good fight. He had learned how to use those strong arms of his, but in the end, nothing can survive after taking a Gronkle blast to the stomach.

The twins… Ruffnut was the first to die. She shielded her brother from a Zippleback explosion. She survived the initial blast, but she died a few hours later, the wound being too deep. Tuffnut fought like a madman after that, rage clouding his senses. He didn't last long after that.

Snotlout survived, I think. He was actually pretty sensible during the battle, having matured with age, and had become a fine Viking. He almost died, taking a good gash to the side pushing me out of the way of a Nightmare.

I owe him my life, but I haven't seen him since the last survivors of Berk managed to flee the smouldering, ice-encased remains of our ancestral home.

Astrid was one of the survivors, thank Gods. Last thing I saw of her was her golden hair shining in the early dawn, on a different boat than I was, as we tried to escape on our last remaining longboats.

We didn't want to. But we had to. Survive, that is. Gobber and Spitelout had fought over it for hours, both sharing the spot of second-in-command. Spitelout because of lineage, and Gobber because of his long-term friendship with the Chief and his son.

I… I didn't want any of it. They tried to get me to be acting Chief but… how? How could I - all six feet of awkward, freckled, me - possibly be Chief? Dad had been trying to prepare me, trying to delegate more and more village duties to me as I got older but…

I couldn't do it.

Eventually Gobber's reasoning won out, and we tried to make our escape off the doomed island. As the last living people of Berk, it was our duty to carry out the blood of the Hairy Hooligan tribe.

While the survivors had initially planned on sticking together, Bludvist caught on to our plans and had set his dragons on us, even as we were fleeing with our tails between our legs.

We had been a half-day's sail from the island when they struck. And as if the Gods themselves wanted to see our people wiped from the face of the earth, a storm rolled in. In the chaos, our boats were separated.

My boat… was capsized. I honestly thought that I was going to die. The last thing I remember seeing of my tribe was Gobber's panicked face as I was tossed overboard by a wave, managing to surface in time to see the boat being swallowed by another. I can only assume everyone onboard drowned… including Gobber.

I clung to a crate for an entire day before I was washed ashore a deserted island.

I haven't seen a single member of my once proud tribe since. I've seen other Vikings, for sure. Passing boats stopping on my island to wait out a storm were the first to find me, thankfully they were of a tribe that was friendly with the Hooligans.

They had taken me back to their island to recover and get some good food in me. I initially had managed to get by with trapping the local wildlife for food, and by some stroke of luck my tiny island had a freshwater spring on it. And thankfully, very few dragons.

I stayed with the tribe for a few months, but I couldn't live there. The village, while more than happy to have me as the son of the Chief of a prominent fellow tribe, and fairly calm despite the constant looming threat of Bludvist, was no Berk. It only stung wounds, ones that I doubt will heal for a long time.

I've struck up a trade as a hermit blacksmith, on my island. I made enough funds during my stay at the village that I was able to buy sufficient supplies to set up my own forge and living hut. I even have a boat that I use if I need to get new supplies, or make deliveries.

I had been content, really. Not happy… I doubt I'll ever be truly happy again after what's happened to my family and people, but I was content. I was making money, keeping myself busy, and alive. More than I could ask for.

It had been almost three whole years when… when it happened.

The day had started off normally, waking up, making myself food, starting the forge up again.

The calm morning had been split by a horrendous, awful screech. One I hadn't heard in what felt like ages, and it made my blood run cold. I instinctively ducked, as one always did in my village when they heard this sound.

A dark shape shot over the treeline, screaming all the way before cutting off suddenly, like it had run into something.

Common sense told me to stay away from it. Burning curiosity told me otherwise, and I ran towards the direction the dragon had fallen, my apron still tied around my waist.

I ran blindly, not knowing if I was running headlong into a furious and bloodthirsty dragon, or a dead one. I followed the trail of broken branches and snapped treetops, pine needles and leaves still raining down from the canopy.

Eventually I came up to the freshwater spring on my island. The spring was in a small cove that was deep set into the earth, the water pouring into a small pond from a waterfall that spouted out of the side of the cove.

At the far side of the cove in the morning shadows lay a crumpled black shape, marking the end of a large gouge in the earth that led to the shores of the pond. The water of the pond was still rippling and muddy from the impact.

As I stood there, the shape groaned, a long, pain-laden sound that tugged at my chest. No creature should have made such a sound. Unfurling its wings and crying out in distress, the dragon revealed itself.

Night Fury.

The name rang in my mind, echoing off memories of long past days, standing on the inside of the forge and ducking with the whole village in unison as the unholy offspring of lightning and death screeched over our heads.

I watched numbly as the dragon took a few painful steps, wincing and testing its limbs. Nothing seemed to be broken, miraculously. It inspected itself, and even from here I could see fresh wounds on it, gashes caked in dirt from the cove floor. It looked like the Night Fury had been attacked by its kin, and had barely gotten away with its life.

As the dragon turned in my direction, I instinctively ducked down, not wanting a blast of fire in the face for just being in the same area as a Night Fury.

A Night Fury! I could hardly believe it. The one that had been attacking my village with the raids so long ago had suddenly disappeared one night, never returning to help demolish our homes and defenses.

We had taken it as a blessing from the Gods. We had thought - hoped - that the blasted creature had gotten itself killed somehow.

Perhaps it had. But perhaps it hadn't. The chances of this Night Fury being the same one that had helped raid our village was slim, but it was still an incredible thought.

And an angry one. As rage flooded through me, common sense was thrown to the wind as I stood up, the dragon spotting me and going on alert.

"Hey, You stupid dragon! This is my island, go find your own to crash on! Get out of here, before I kill you and use your skin as decoration for my walls!" I spat at it, anger and pain and frustration roaring through my veins. How dare this demon show itself after so long! After I had managed to finally find some semblance of peace, this thing had arrived like a wraith of pain long buried.

I wasn't well equipped to fight a dragon right then and there, but I would have tried to kill that dragon with my bare hands had I the chance.

The dragon screamed at me, its large eyes slanting in anger and fear.

My sudden burst of adrenaline evaporated when the Night Fury charged at me, and I hit the dirt. My knees crumpled under me and I scrambled away from the edge of the cove, seeing black claws rake just where my toes had been.

But no furious dragon came over the lip of the cove, teeth bared and ready to bite off my face. What I did come was a angry, frustrated screech and the sound of claws scraping against rock.

I heard that sound a few more times as I sat on the mossy ground and tried to keep control of my bladder. The dragon let out one more angry roar before there was silence, and it took me a few dozen heartbeats before I was brave enough to wobble back over to the lip of the cove.

Curled against the rock directly underneath me was the Night Fury, licking its wounds clean. With my nose pressed to the ground, I peeked down at the dragon. In the morning light I could make out more of the dragons shape and details. Its scales were a midnight black, mottled with slightly lighter splotches of grey to break up its shape against the night sky.

The end of its tail was tipped with a set of fins - or at least what had been a set of fins. One of the fins was horribly injured, burned and gashed so badly that a few of the spines were missing, as well as most of the skin and flesh that stretched between the spines.

Putting two and two together, I figured that that was why I wasn't a smudge of blood on the grass - with the fin that damaged, the dragon couldn't fly. Ships couldn't sail without sails, of course.

I dared to inch closer to get a better look, and to my dismay I dislodged a pebble that clattered down and landed directly on top of the Night Fury's head.

The dragon jolted, looking straight up at me with slit pupils. I got an eyeful of the largest, brightest, deepest green eyes I had ever seen before the eyes became slanted in anger, and I scrambled back out of sight before the first growl left the dragon's throat.

Stumbling to my feet I took off in the direction of my hut. Thoughts and memories raced through my head, ideas and possibilities welling up in my throat.

I hate dragons. I really do. They've been a constant in my life, a constant of death and pain and sadness.

But atop all that was a curiosity burning like I had never felt before, gliding atop the anger and the sadness like oil on water.

As I burst into my hut, I started searching. For what, I didn't even know till I had laid my eyes on it and was already reaching for it. Sketchbook in one hand, drawing charcoal in the other, my feet steered me back in the direction of the Night Fury almost on their own.

I couldn't describe the sensation that was welling in my chest. I still can't.

It was bright, and hot, and incredibly strong. It's still there, even hours later as I look back over my drawings and sketches of the Night Fury, taken from the safety of large boulders and trees that lined the edge of the cove.

I'd dare to call it a passion, almost. Something is telling me that… I need this dragon. I've needed it for a long time. And I don't know if it's my poor sense of judgement, or some prank from the gods, but I have a feeling that Night Fury needs me as well.

If Bludvist can ride dragons…

Why can't I?