This…is Berk. At least that's the name Hiccup's given it. A combination of 'Brrr' and…well, you know what he ended up with. Anyway, Berk, for short.
It's twelve days north of Hopeless and a few degrees south of Freezing to Death. The Gamemakers did a good job of picking it; it's located solidly on the Meridian of Misery.
It's not all bad. Maybe the sky likes to drool on this little spit of land nine times out of ten, but that's a perfectly acceptable way to get fresh water as far as he's concerned. And maybe it's pretty freaking cold, but it's easier to sleep lightly when he feels chilled to the bone. And maybe the river is full of mutt piranhas (he saw one thrashing Tribute get stripped to the bones in about a minute), but they taste pretty good. And maybe the island's fauna is comprised entirely out of pine trees and all the poisonous berry plants under the sun, but as useless as they are for food, the pine trees make some pretty nice shelters and the poisonous berries, well…
As Hiccup shivers and debates whether to clean his berry-stained fingers in saltwater or leave them as is, the Terror that's been following him around for some incomprehensible reason sniffs his drying vest and blanket and makes a face.
"You torch it, you replace it," Hiccup informs it over its growling.
I'd like to see you try, the Terror's body language challenges as he gives Hiccup a haughty, mocking stare.
Hiccup grins. In all honesty, he really likes this little guy. Toothless is his best friend, but he can really connect with this Terror. It's like seeing himself in dragon form: small, mocking, and witty.
"Oh?"
Then, quicker than the Terror can escape, he lunges forward and grabs it, one hand at the base of its neck and the other around its tail as it squirms, although he notices it doesn't try to flame or bite or even claw him.
Instead it almost relaxes as he drapes it across his shoulders, firmly wrapping its tail around his neck, and lets him strut along the bank proudly. He can feel the Terror convulsing with hisses of laughter and sticks his nose in the air. "There. Quite a dashing fashion statement, if I say so myself. ERK!"
Okay. Maybe wrapping a Terror around his neck wasn't a great idea, he thinks as the living scarf becomes a choker.
Then the pressure disappears.
"What the-?!"
A faded green tattoo of a Terror with a mischievous, I-got-you-now expression slides out from under his sleeve and its head lifts up off his skin and a forked tongue pokes out at him.
"Haha. Real amusing…No, I am not going to fall for the 'stop hitting yourself!' trick again.
"Are you pouting at me? You poor wittle baby boo…
"Berry smell or disgustingly cheerful cartoon daisies? Yeah, that's what I thought. So like I said, no flames, please."
Kneeling, he brushes the newly dyed black and purple fabric on the inside of his vest that has turned it into a reversible camouflage – mottled like the forest on one side, dark as night on the other.
"Finally!" He swings it on and grabs his pack, the Terror climbing up to sit on his head.
They've lingered far longer than he wanted to. The Terror is looking around, eyes narrow and nostrils flaring. His gaze lingers on the East, so Hiccup heads South, hyperaware of every step he takes, every move he plays.
And even as he creeps through the woods, away from the ocean, his mind still drifts and he wonders when they will catch on to his little game. Or maybe they already have. But they haven't killed him yet, so…
He needs to be convincing. He's sure he's been plenty entertaining, at least as entertaining as he can be without the I.C.K. (I Can Kill!) factor. Horsing around with a Terror and his little inventions are pretty good, right? Straying between the Careers (now a trio) and the Anti-Careers (recently made a duet) so they have no reason to drive him anywhere, check. Sometimes he wonders if there's this little display of 24 buttons, each with a name – female/male District blah Tribute – in the Gamemakers' hole. If there's a person who stands there, thinking, 'why, District 7 boy hasn't been miserable enough lately!' and pushes the button and throws, like, a forest fire at him.
He wonders what those people think of the Terror. It's the only dragon he's seen on the island and it's spent vast amounts of time either on his shoulder or on his head.
Come nightfall, he's once again in a pine tree, blanket acting as a hammock and vest turned inside out. The Career trio is right below him, small fire going and a couple of animals cooking. Their weapons are lying beside them, a wicked-looking axe the size of the girl sitting next to it – Gwen, was it? – and a vast array of daggers, knives, and other weapons that Hiccup is sure Luke has scavenged from the Tributes he's killed. Hiccup isn't sure what to call the third weapon that looks like a curved double-headed axe, but he does know what to call the third member of the Careers:
"That…was…AWESOME!"
Deranged. Even as old as the Terror is, he can probably smell crazy on this guy.
"We lost her," Luke states as he disinterestedly pokes his dinner with a stick.
The girl snorts. "Her leg – and her life – are as good as gone. All she did was buy herself a getaway to nowhere."
Hiccup snuggles a little deeper into his makeshift hammock, the Terror curled up on his stomach. He really hates hearing conversations like this. That's the one thing about Berk that he hates most of all: the neighbors.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Dagur's voice somehow reaches him halfway up the tree as clearly as if he's on the next tree branch, raising the hairs on Hiccup's arms. "I heard dear little District 7 girl's a rough nut to crack."
His heart freezes.
"We'll spread out tomorrow morning. Keep a triangle and move down the river. Then we'll find her and I'll kill her."
"Honor's mine," the girl disputes, grinning. "You don't owe her anything."
"And you do?"
"A haircut, a broken nose, and a swing through the neck."
Hiccup stares at the night sky as the deadly squabbling continues. The world feels cold. Goosebumps crawl up his arms and his breathing slows.
He can't help.
He can't help, he can't help, he can't help.
Of course, he can climb down and take their weapons or just ask the Terror to do it, or go find her, or-
It's the rules, he cuts himself off grimly. Your own rules.
No hurting. No helping. Appear to be engaged, but don't do a thing.
And even as Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III reminds himself of that decision he made, remembers the green eyes he stared into with his dagger raised high and sees the person he saw lying there, teetering just on the brink, he can't help but feel like it's all in vain and a part of him is shriveling up and dying anyway.