My whole body was in agony.

A hot core of pain seemed to vibrate and send waves through my torso, as though my solar plexus was a volcano thinking about erupting. My shoulders and hips throbbed in counterpoint rhythm to each other; needles of lightning stabbed my limbs from elbows and knees outward. As for my head…my skull had to have been split clean in half, for there to be this much pain inside it. As if that wasn't bad enough, all I could smell was blood.

I wondered what hit me.

That bothered me worse than all the pain put together, that I couldn't even remember how I'd gotten so badly hurt. Did I fall down a cliff – or off a building, or –

All the theories bouncing around in my aching head seemed to involve being outside.

Because…I was outside. A stiff wind was sweeping over me. And the ground under me…I couldn't feel much through the itching and burning of my hands, but that seemed to be sand – and there were rocks digging into my back, adding rather minimal pain to the rest of my torment.

Rocks and sand. That combination was only found on the beach.

I was outside, and on the beach.

Good. Now what?

Something was banging rather loudly, nearby. And that was a measure of how many of my neurons had been at least temporarily disabled by pain, that I didn't realize until now that the banging wasn't a continuation of that pain but was rather part of the world around me.

Metal. That was a big piece of metal swinging. About the size and shape of – that's a door. A metal house door, hanging open and getting caught by the wind. Something must be wrong with it, for it to not close.

So I was on the beach, close to a house with a wonky door. Next.

I had to open my eyes. They'd nearly been glued shut, my eyelashes caked with dried blood, and they stabbed with pain almost worse than my fingertips, but I managed to pry them open.

At first all I could see was the cloudy sky, with sunlight coming from somewhere behind my head – confirmation number one: I really was outside, and it was either morning or evening. Then, slowly, I turned my head back and forth to see what was around me. Confirmation number two: on my left was an okay view of the ocean and on my right was more beach.

The house, evidently, was somewhere beyond my feet. I would have to sit up to see it.

My eyes hurt to open. My neck hurt to move. The rest of my body was pain incarnate already without moving, so sitting up was going to be a torturous affair. I guess that makes it understandable that I didn't want to move, right?

Of course, option two was to just lie here forever. If the sun was going down, it would soon be night and I would freeze to death before morning – a fate that didn't sound so bad, considering how much I hurt right now; but if the sun was coming up, I would shortly begin to really stink as the blood on my face (and possibly the rest of my body, I couldn't tell) started to warm up.

But I really didn't want to move…

So…is that midmorning or midafternoon, genius? Surely you can figure that out without having to look around again, even if your head's been broken in half.

Let's see. What little I could see of the ocean was to my left, and the sun was behind my head. If it was morning, I was on the north coast of Berk. Did it make sense that I would be there?

Not really. There were only about three months when Berk's north coast wasn't covered in ice, and they'd ended about a month ago. If I were lying on ice, I wouldn't be throbbing in pain; I'd be numb.

Numb is good…

So I was on the south coast, and it was evening. That wasn't so bad. I would endure pain for a couple more hours, and then the sun would go down and it would get cold…I'd go numb and the pain would stop and –

Wait. South coast? South? And the banging door –

My abdominal muscles screamed with agony and my arms and legs shook with the effort of pulling my weight, but I surged to a sitting position. My head rolled freely for a moment as a wave of dizziness met my effort; I sat there stiffly until my balance returned and my senses cleared to the level they'd been before (which, let me clarify, wasn't as clear as they normally were), and then I lifted my head.

The abandoned house of Bordon Belden loomed over me, its rusty front door swinging partially off its hinges. Looking down that dark entryway was like staring down the throat of a dragon…

A memory crashed over me – a phantom in the dark, a grinning skull with blazing eyes; a slinky body pressing down on me, claws gripping around my shoulders and hips, something like a tongue forcing its way down my throat…

I don't know if I screamed or not; I have no idea how I got to my feet. But suddenly I was running for home, faster than I would have thought my legs could carry me in this state – I must have looked like a madman, but I didn't care in the slightest if anyone saw me. My brain was afire with just one thought: get back to civilization.

I actually had almost calmed down by the time I got home. Then the front door swung open under my shove and banged into the wall, and I nearly lost it again at the déjà vu the noise triggered. I fought the door closed and turned around –

To see my dad come rushing around the corner, his eyes widening in shock at my disheveled, bloody state.

"WHAT THE HELL?"

Those three words must have knocked me out, because the next thing I remember – clearly – is waking up in a hospital bed. Staring at the ceiling, probing the depths of my own head, I decided that I'd been tanked up on drugs here for at least a week while nameless people in scrubs tried to get some answers out of me about what had happened. Every time I started to go loco – seemed that the memory had an extraordinary amount of trauma attached to it, imagine that – I'd earn another dose and be sent back to La-La Land for a few hours.

Just trying to think about what had happened was making my heart rate go up, if that annoying machine was anything to go by.

"Hickory?"

I looked at the door.

Gordon. In all his one-armed, peg-legged glory.

Somehow, seeing him was making me self-conscious. I was grateful that someone had cleaned me up, at least: this conversation would be awkward enough without the stench of blood permeating the room.

He shuffled in and sat down next to my bed, punching a couple buttons to sit me up. "How are you doing?"

"Okay, I guess." Was that my voice? It was hardly a whisper; I was louder when I was stoned into incoherent mumbles.

"You've been here almost a week."

"Uh-huh."

"Missed a lot of school; you'd be behind if you hadn't already been ahead."

"Mm."

Not only was my volume way lower than usual, but my word count was down: I was usually much chattier than this. Did I still have drugs in my system? Would I feel this…tense inside if I were on drugs? Surely everything I was on was more in the line of relaxants…did someone slip something else into…

"By the way, you're not pregnant."

My head jerked up like it was on a string, and I gaped at Gordon. "What?" It wasn't quite a yelp, but it was considerably more than a whisper.

Was that a joke?

Gordon smirked a little. "I wondered if that would get a rise out of you." Then he went back to serious. "You've had every kind of scan that a doctor can use on a human body – ever since they figured out what it was you were so afraid had happened when you encountered that dragon. You're clean."

The memory flared in my mind again, and something snapped in my chest. "Oh, gods…" I covered my face with both hands as tears poured from my eyes; it hurt a bit to sob, but sob I did as Gordon patted my shoulder. Sweet relief from a terror I hadn't wanted to consciously acknowledge.

See, everything I remembered (and shied away from when I wasn't on drugs) bore a horrible resemblance to rape. That panic Gordon was talking about, that kept earning me fresh rounds of sedatives? That had been a conviction that the dragon – a Night Fury, I was sure of it – had implanted some kind of dragon fetus inside me. That I was playing host to a parasite that would kill me the minute it was strong enough to survive on its own.

Which, now that I was off all or most of the drugs, didn't make sense. Didn't dragons lay eggs?

Well, logic was panic's prey; as long as that was what I was that scared of, I couldn't reason my way to any more rational conclusion.

I seemed to have a new problem, though: now that I'd started crying, I couldn't make myself stop. I probably was starting to sound rather desperate as I tried and failed to calm my breathing – and surely even the densest of observers could have seen the plea for help in my face when I lowered my hands, wrapping their arms around my chest in a weak attempt to stop the heaves from the outside.

Blessed Gordon, he figured out within a few seconds that I was in real distress. He met the nurse at the door and explained what had happened.

"…And I'm very sorry, I wasn't expecting a good thing to get so out of hand."

"It's mostly the drugs; his emotional reactions are stronger than he is right now," she said as she prepared something in a plastic cup. "He's off the worst offenders now, so he'll be completely back to normal by Monday…" she came over. I was half expecting her to hold the cup to my lips, but instead – in a bedside manner that I preferred, actually – she tugged the arm that was not tethered by an IV away from my body and firmly pressed the cup into my hand with the sharp order of, "Drink!"

I nearly spilled it getting it to my mouth, and nearly choked on it trying to drink – but once I got my tongue and throat sorted out into the rhythm of swallowing, I didn't stop until I'd finished it off. It was very sweet and heavy, either a thin syrup or a thick juice, and it felt good on a throat raw from crying…and my sobs having been interrupted, they didn't start back up again when I finally took a breath. At least, not to the same vicious degree; they were more like a collection of sighs.

"Am I going to fall asleep?" I croaked as I handed the cup back.

"You'd have a pretty easy time dozing off, but no; it's just going to make you a little fuzzy."

"Gotcha." I settled into the pillow. "When do I go home?"

"As soon as you pass the psych tests."

I nodded, not really caring.

She'd said it was mostly the drugs that made me so emotionally unstable, and that the ones that were the most responsible had already been stopped. They wouldn't give me any mental test until all the mind-altering drugs had cleared out of my system, so I'd be completely back to normal by then and would pass their tests.

Right?

I got home Sunday night, with prescriptions for a couple of drugs.

Turns out, my recent trauma burned some new circuits in my brain. I now have panic attacks: whenever I feel sufficiently threatened, everything shuts off except my most basic fight-or-flight survival instincts. Which kicks in first is, apparently, determined by the situation. Outside the Bordon house, it had been a "run for your life" situation; according to my dad, when he'd startled me in the hallway last Saturday night I had instantly started fighting off invisible attackers. Maybe I hallucinate; nobody knows for certain, because I don't remember what I saw or heard during either of my panic attacks.

In either case my coordination goes down, as does my ability to perceive pain: I could beat myself black and blue on every obstacle and never notice until my body simply can't take any more. It seems that in the hallway, I had gone convulsing against the wall and probably would have given myself a concussion if Dad hadn't grabbed me up in a bear hug, blood and all. I'd passed out altogether after that.

That scared me enough to accept the drugs. I hadn't known I had the strength to do that to myself.

The milder one came in an inhaler; its purpose was to calm me down and keep the panic attacks from happening in the first place. I didn't like it much – or slightly more to the point, I didn't like how I felt like a stoner for using it at all, and while the drug was actually in my lungs I liked how calm it made me feel. Not happy: if anything, while under its effects I seemed to be a little depressed. Maybe that was me and how I was always a little depressed, I don't know; I think I'd simultaneously enjoy it more and be bothered by it more if it made me happy.

The more potent one was a lot like a sleeping agent, and had to be injected with a gadget like an EpiPen; I always had to have it with me, and both Dad and Gordon got lessons (which I didn't watch) on how to use it. It would knock me out for several hours, giving my brain time to reroute from a panic attack and my body a chance to recover from whatever I did to myself. That's why all the truly important people in my life had to know how it worked (because it wasn't likely I'd be in any shape to tell anyone how it worked when I needed it). I asked the doctor if I could use it as a sleep aid, and he didn't say no, he just said that it would be best if I learned how to tell when I was going to have nightmares and only use it then.

I injected a dose that night. After lying in bed wide awake for a couple of hours worrying about what my classmates would say or do if they saw me puffing on an inhaler.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I had gotten distracted halfway through dressing by a scar – a massive, white, rough-edged slash running vertically from my breastbone almost to my navel. Nobody had mentioned any surgeries, so it must have been put there by the Night Fury. It looked impressive.

I didn't remember getting it.

Of course, thinking too hard about the Night Fury attack would send me into a panic attack, so I would likely always be fuzzy about any mysterious scars decorating my body.

"Hiccup, are you ready to go?" Dad poked his head into the bathroom, where I was standing fully dressed from the waist down.

"Just need my shirt," I answered, looking around to see where I'd put it.

"The one you're holding?"

I looked blankly at the bundle of green fabric in my hand. "Uh…yeah."

Dad smirked. "You know, if your classmates tease you about the drugs you're on, you could always show them that scar; I bet they'd be impressed."

I rolled my eyes. "I'll bet. 'Hey, check it out, I have this massive scar and I can't think too hard about how I got it or I go PTSD.' Fantastic." I pulled my shirt on.

"No need to think too hard about it. You fought a dragon for it. You – Hiccup – fought a Night Fury and didn't die."

I went very still, staring at my reflection.

Dad had a point. That I had the scar in the first place meant a dragon saw me as worth the effort of attacking; that I was still alive was proof that I was capable of defending myself. That was really all anyone needed to know – for now, at least. And maybe one day I would be able to face my inner demons without being overwhelmed by them, and be able to share those details with someone.

I just hoped I wouldn't have to repeat the part of the tale I could tell, over and over again.

Not a problem.

Evidently, when I'd run home in a raw panic, I'd gone straight through the center of town. The mayor's son, running home all covered in blood, was the most exciting thing to happen that day – and anyone who hadn't seen it had heard about it from someone who had. Dad must have had enough consideration to hold a press conference or something and make sure the truth was crystal clear; goodness knows, I'd have enough to worry about without muddled rumors hanging over my head.

Didn't mean there weren't whispers following me around at school, though. And if those whispers were anything to go by, my classmates were expecting me to pull a Borden Belden and wander aimlessly around the school muttering to myself.

I wondered how many people were disappointed when I didn't oblige, and how many were relieved.

"Hick!"

I turned to look at Fisher, who was looking me over anxiously as he rushed up. "I guess you heard," I said with no real emotion.

"Heard? I saw you running home! I saw you in the hospital a couple of times, I, I…" he grabbed my shoulders and shook his head. "I had to see that you were really okay."

My spirits lifted a bit. Here was one person who was likely relieved that I wasn't going nuts. "Yeah, I'm fine. Mostly." I gestured at the path I was taking, indicating that he should walk with me: I was Gordon's assistant, handling field hockey equipment, and I didn't want to be late.

"Yeah…" Fisher glanced around and lowered his voice. "What's this about panic attacks?"

And at least he believed it enough to take it seriously. I lowered my voice in response, even though we were now outside and there was no one around to hear us. "I'm on drugs to suppress them – and I've got an injection on me for in case one happens anyway. It's no big deal."

"Right. But, uh, if they do happen…how bad are they?"

I rubbed the back of my head slowly. "Bad enough. Did you know that I actually have enough strength to beat myself senseless?"

Fisher's eyes widened. "So it's like a seizure, then."

"If I can't run. But I should be okay as long as nobody does anything that too strongly reminds me of…of the Night Fury attack." There. I said it. I actually said Night Fury attack out loud to another person – and the sky didn't fall on me.

Fisher seemed to understand that, too. "That was the hardest thing you've ever said, wasn't it?"

"I know that burying traumatic memories isn't the way to handle them, but I really can't get them in the open right now – except when I'm so tanked on drugs that my emotions can't get a grip on them, and I don't like doing that." I shrugged. "With any luck, after a few months of assimilating them quietly, I'll be able to talk to the therapists about what happened."

"Yeah, we don't want to turn you into a druggie." Fisher patted my shoulder and walked away, leaving me to find Gordon on my own.

Only girls play hockey at this school. And before you look at me like I'm a total nutcase, let me remind you that even the guys who don't play sports are enough bigger than me to rough me up; I didn't want to tempt the football players by being anywhere near their turf.

Fisher played football, come to think of it. I just never thought of him as a sportsman, despite his size.

Just as I was getting to the soccer field, I caught sight of something bounding along the outskirts of the school grounds. Berk Academy was kind of on the outskirts of town, so we saw a lot of creatures walk practically right up to the fences and stare at us. This creature wasn't normal, though. It was dark-bodied, and as it stopped and looked right at me I could see its gleaming otherworldly eyes. It looked like...

The Night Fury? Was it following me?

"Hiccup! Get over here!"

I jumped, startled, and stared in Gordon's direction. My mouth worked silently for a moment, and I gestured at the Night Fury – but when I turned my head to look again, it was gone.

So I was hallucinating now. Great.

I decided not to say anything. At least, not unless I saw it again.