So it obviously took much longer than I expected to be able to post this chapter up, but I am now officially free of classes. So from now on things should be a lot more snappy. ^_^ Anyways, as a bit of a consolation, this chapter's a bit longer than usual.

Enjoy. =D

The Death Line by SilverstarsEbonyskies

Ch. 6: Second Encounter

Hiccup struggled, sweat dripping sticky paths down his face; his hair pressed thinly against his forehead. The urge to wipe his brow almost overpowered him, but he fought the compulsion and tightened his grip on the Viking's corpse. He tried to keep focused, despite being lightheaded, but his mind swirled in mad circles. He had known this man, the one he held on his back, like he knew all the dead from his village. His name had been Gnaw. He had run a shop of miscellaneous odds and ends, which his wife would have to take over now. He had never minded when Hiccup came in to explore the knick-knacks...

He was so, so heavy, and Hiccup was sure he'd drop him if he didn't keep hold with both of his hands. He could envision the big man slipping off of his back and tumbling down the rocky cliff, head cracking sickeningly against it with every rotation. The thought made him pale, even though the previous exertions had made his face a shockingly bright red.

Looking up, Hiccup squinted. It was approaching midday. He'd have to hurry. Warrior training would have been postponed due to the work that needed to get done, but it would be soon. In fact, most of the dead had been cleared out already. He would even be the last one back if he didn't hurry. The slope was so steep though, and Gnaw had been one of the largest men in the village. Alas, Hiccup hadn't had a choice. One of the villagers had pointed him towards the corpse and ordered him to take it. All the villagers within hearing distance would have thrown a fit if he had dared to refuse. Hiccup wouldn't have doubted if it was done out of spite. She had to have known that he wouldn't be able to carry him up there with any efficiency.

Hiccup grunted as he strained upwards again, comforted by one thing. He knew for a fact that the Night Fury wasn't among the deceased. His curiosity had impelled him to check meticulously for his black hair and dark clothes. He would have noticed immediately if he'd been there. He would have stood out. So he wasn't dead. Probably. He could be mortally wounded now, wasting away his last moments in his own village, but somehow that didn't seem like the way a man like him would die.

Hiccup wrestled the corpse up the cliff little by little, seeking footholds large enough to support the weight without crumbling. This would have been so much easier if he could have used one of his hands, but he was constrained by his lack of muscle. Gods damn it, why was he so weak? He had stopped feeling the burn a while ago, but such a weighty tiredness fell upon him at this moment that he had to stop and tremble. He couldn't stop now; he'd come so far, the furthest he'd ever gotten trying to lug this thing. The villagers would be incensed at him if he came back empty-handed, and...he just wanted so badly to finally succeed at something, to prove himself at least vaguely competent.

The moment passed, the weight lifting, and he moved upwards again, soldiering on to the top. He was still exhausted, but he couldn't, wouldn't, let himself stop again. He was mere feet away now. Inch by inch, he closed the gap, until, to his surprised relief, he could just barely see over the cusp of the cliff to the trees beyond. With a gargantuan effort, he heaved the corpse up and over him to lie on the flat land in front of him, and bracing his hands on the edge, he pulled himself over too. He lay there next to that corpse, gasping for breath. He almost felt numb from the exertion.

Just as the tension was about to leave him, just as he was about to let himself enjoy his small victory, he heard the sound of clumsy footsteps lumbering through the brush a few feet away. Hiccup sprang to his feet, wanting anything but to appear weak. He needn't have bothered. The short and thuggish figure of Snotlout emerged from the forest. He seemed as though he were looking for something, and he looked taken aback when he realized Hiccup was there. Snotlout immediately became defensive.

"What are you doing here?" He sneered, crossing his arms, "Shouldn't you be at the village, loser?"

Before Hiccup could answer, Snotlout noticed the corpse beside him, "Ahahaha, what, trying to actually be useful? You should know you're too lame for that. I thought by now you'd lock yourself away in your house to rot for the good of the village."

Hiccup's face and neck burned with a humiliated flush, and he couldn't make himself meet Snotlout's eyes. Hiccup's tongue itched with the need to say something sarcastic as a retort, but he held himself in check. He had a bad feeling about this.

Snotlout smirked stupidly and trudged a few, threatening steps closer to Hiccup. "You know the only reason we haven't all run you out is because of your dad." He laughed, and continued on in a cruel imitation of piteous tone, "And our poor chief only keeps you hoping you'll shape up one day. Y'know, hoping you'll actually turn into a real Viking."

Hiccup reeled, stunned at the unusually pointed accusations, and edged back as Snotlout took another step. Hiccup felt hemmed in, trapped. It was a discomfiting though not unfamiliar feeling.

"So how about it, Hiccup?" Snotlout scoffed, "Are you a Viking yet?"

Still, Hiccup didn't answer, but it didn't seem like one had been expected. Snotlout took another step. He was right in front of Hiccup now, and any sense of joviality Snotlout had dropped from his face, leaving an uncharacteristically cold expression.

"I should be the chief's son." He spat with frigid spite, "I can fight better than you, people like me better than you, and I fit in better than you. I am a Viking! I belong here."

Snotlout pushed forward one more step, his face inches from Hiccup's, and he grasped Hiccup's shoulders with a steely grip. He seemed possessed with hatred.

"You don't." Snotlout hissed. He flung his arms out, flinging Hiccup backwards.

Hiccup flailed, arms flying out, feet searching for purchase. There was none; he was over the edge, and he was falling.

Fang sped through the rocky valley of the Death Line, inwardly cursing himself the whole way. This was none of his business. The kid and his troubles had nothing to do with him. He understood that they were both, in a sense, outcasts, but that did not obligate him to help. Why should he even be concerned?

Yet, despite his continued mental protests, he found himself moving faster to where he saw the Berkian boy fall. It wasn't likely that he died. The incline was steep, but not a sheer drop. He would have broken his fall several times on the way down. The only real danger was if he smashed his head against the rock on the way...

Fang quickened his pace when he spotted the boy crumpled in a heap at the base of the incline. He spared a glance upwards, just to make sure the malicious idiot who had pushed the boy over wasn't still hanging around, and then knelt at the boy's side. He was unconscious —that much was readily apparent— but breathing. With brusque but gentle hands, he arranged the boy on his back and prodded around his body, searching thoroughly for injuries of any kind. His fingertips came away red after touching the scalp; Fang frowned. A blow to the head then, but no other serious injuries. If it was hard enough, however, a strike to the skull could leave someone incapacitated for life.

He had to wake the boy up. Fang, though, didn't particularly want to be seen. He sighed and then roughly tried to shake him awake anyways. The kinder side of his nature was getting the better of him, and it made Fang uneasy. He shouldn't be associating himself with members of the enemy clan. So what the hell was he doing?

Cutting his internal debate short, Fang stopped shaking him and pushed himself out of kneeling and into a crouch. There hadn't been any response from the shaking, not even a flutter of an eyelid. He cradled his own head in his hands and massaged his temples.

"I should just leave you here," Fang muttered, "This isn't my problem."

Looking at the boy's face, he tried to tell himself that. It wasn't his problem; it wasn't his problem. He'd already gone above and beyond what anyone could ever expect of him. The boy had spared his life before, and he had spared his. They had no obligations between them. There existed no reason why he should do anything else for this underfed scrap of a Viking, of a Berkian.

And yet...

Resigned, Fang slipped his arms under him and lifted him up, rising to his feet as he did so. There was just something intriguing about him. Something strange, unusual. To be honest, he didn't even seem like part of the Berk clan, nor did he seem like a true Viking. He had no doubt that this was why he was an outsider in his own village. What is different is scorned, and Fang knew this from experience.

So just this once, Fang would extend his help towards this sad creature. Just this once, he would act generously towards his enemy beyond the bonds of debt. After this, he vowed, no more. His life's goal was to be his clan's greatest and most respected warrior. One day, he might be called upon to slay this boy. He would have no qualms.

He spent the short journey up the wall of the valley reassuring himself of this. War was not forgiving, was not kind, and was not pretty. He knew in the course of his life there would be many things that might unsettle him late at night after the battle frenzy had faded away, when he lay awake without the comfort of dreams. That was the path he had been born to, and the path he would follow until his own death, whenever that may be.

He was destined to shed blood for the sake of his clan, he told himself as he lay the boy down at the crest, Berkian blood. Nothing would change that.

Just as he was about to draw away, leaving the boy to be found by his kin, the boy himself began to shift. The boy groaned, gaining consciousness. Fang froze and watched as the boy sat up and felt his injury. He didn't move, even when the boy's eyes landed on him.

"W-what...?'' The boy questioned, frazzled.

Fang almost didn't reply, and his face became stony and expressionless when he did. "You fell and went unconscious. I carried you up."

"Heh, I didn't think we'd meet again, let alone like this." The boy said, "I guess...I guess I should thank you." He went on when Fang said nothing in response, "...Um. Well. My name's Hiccup."

Fang almost snorted. An odd name for an odd boy. The boy, Hiccup he supposed, was looking at him expectantly. It dawned on him that he wanted his name in return. He felt a flash of anger at that. As if this scrawny thing was entitled to anything at all. He bet the boy already knew it anyways. He was somewhat infamous in Berk.

But the boy began to look downcast, and without his consent he said, "Fang."

Hiccup smiled, "Fang, huh? Kind of a scary name." He chuckled, "But y'know, you're really not that bad. I mean, I'm still alive, right?"

Fang frowned.

"Would it be alright if I called you something else instead?"

No. No it wouldn't. Fang, however, failed to vocalize this.

"Toothless." The boy said grinning.