Snotlout is so excited for today. He's been excited for three days. That Thawfest win is still fresh in his mind, and his dad has never been more proud. Sure, he's won before, and his dad has been proud then, but this year was particularly special. Finally beat that Haddock boy at his own game , was the main source of pride. Spitelout hasn't let Stoick forget it either and it's funny to watch their chief's cheeks puff out in anger. He can't deny it. It's been a good couple of days.
Spitelout has been smiling. So has his ma. She's been singing again, and Snotlout will never admit out loud how much he missed her singing. Before Thawfest was such a precarious time. Spitelout was angry about a lot of things, pushing Snotlout to be better and better so he'd win. So he wouldn't sully the Jorgenson name.
Now Spitelout has offered to give him some more training because "You did good, but I want to help you get better. " Snotlout has been preening. Because his dad has said that he's done good. And no one can take that from him.
It'll be just them. Spitelout doesn't want him to train with Hookfang, even though those are the events he lost (although Snotlout knows better than to remind his dad of that). He doesn't want Snotlout to become too much like his "wimpy excuse for a nephew" and get too attached to using his dragon. So they set out early in the morning, Hookfang still snoring away in the stables, presumably. Spitelout wouldn't let Snotlout check on his friend, uh, no, his dragon , before they left.
They don't go far. Just far enough into the woods, where there's a small clearing, each of them with three axes over their shoulders. Spitelout wants to work on ax throwing, since he didn't like the fact that Astrid's technique was just a little bit better, despite Snotlout winning the event. Snotlout doesn't care. He just wants to spend time with his father.
There are already battered targets made of stumps of wood in the clearing. It's a common practice place for the Jorgensons. The Hoffersons have a clearing on the other side of the island, as the two families don't get along, and Stoick has given them each a space so they don't kill each other "accidentally" when they both decide to have some practice.
"Alright, boyo," Spitelout grunts, dropping his axes to the ground with a loud clatter. Snotlout puts his own load on top of the pile, looking up at his father excitedly. "Let's warm up first. Shake out the sleep from your arms."
As he's saying this, he's swinging his arms around and stretching them across his chest. Snotlout mimics the movement immediately, trying to do exactly the same as Spitelout. Spitelout smiles at him and Snotlout feels so warm, despite the early morning air. It is a little chilly. Snotlout would have put on some sleeves, but his dad didn't, so he won't either. "Make sure you get them real warm, boyo," Spitelout says sagely, a soft edge to his voice. "Don't want you hurting your shoulder."
"Okay, Dad," Snotlout agrees, windmilling his arms to get the joints warmed up. He's feeling good. Real good.
Snotlout wants to warm up as well as he can, but there's a pinch in his shoulder that isn't going away, no matter how much he stretches. He knows that it would be best to rest it today, and try again tomorrow, but Snotlout would never admit his discomfort to his father. A Viking always pushes through. Besides, Snotlout doesn't know if Spitelout would be willing to train with him again if they don't do it today.
It isn't that bad, truly – just a pinch, right over his right shoulder blade. It's in an awkward spot that is incredibly hard to stretch out. The best way to get rid of the knot would be to get it massaged out. But giving massages is woman's work. And Snotlout cannot ask his mother to do it. Massages are only given by wives. It's one of the perks of getting married.
Spitelout shakes his arms once more and rolls his head. "Okay, boyo. I'm ready. Are you?"
Snotlout mimics the movement and nods, "Yes! Let's do this!"
Spitelout chuckles and picks up two axes. He hands one to Snotlout. "I like your attitude. Let's start off easy with the Big Target."
Snotlout nods eagerly and faces Big Target. Jorgensons aren't known for their creative naming abilities. The target is called Big Target because it's the biggest target in this clearing. It's about the size of Spitelout's chest and easy to hit. Snotlout remembers starting with this target when he was small enough that he had to stand close to Big Target because his ax was too heavy. At this point in his life, hitting Big Target should be easy.
He raises his ax, intending to throw it, but a heavy hand on his shoulder stops him. "Take a few steps back, boyo. It's Big Target, but we don't want it to be too easy. If Big Target were an enemy, you wouldn't throw your ax this close. You'd engage," Spitelout tells him, not unkindly.
"Okay, Dad," Snotlout says, nodding in understanding. He doesn't let his uneasiness show at moving further back. He is sure that he can hit the target, but he's worried that moving too far too early will hurt his shoulder more.
They both take a few steps back, and Big Target seems too far away. "Alright, boyo. Show me what you got."
Snotlout doesn't have time to think. He could try using his left hand to throw the ax, as his left shoulder is fine, but it's weaker. The ax may not stick in the target. So he raises his right arm and throws as hard as he can manage.
He grits his teeth, the knot on his shoulder blade pulling hard. But the ax flies through the air and sticks firmly in the center of Big Target.
Spitelout smiles widely. "Good job, boyo! Good weight, and good form, but you need to use your legs more. Take a step and get more weight and control over the ax." Snotlout nods, soaking up the advice like the earth soaks up water after a drought. "One more with Big Target and we'll move onto Tiny Target," Spitelout says as he hands another ax to Snotlout.
"Okay." Snotlout takes the ax and is a little dismayed to feel that this is one of their heavier axes. Although he won't say a thing about it. Real men don't complain.
He lines up and throws, this time taking a big step to help get some more speed – and, wow, does that ever work. But it throws off his aim by a bit. The ax still hits Big Target, but it's off center, to put it mildly. Snotlout didn't expect one step to make such a difference. He looks at his da, scared that he'll somehow he disappointed but Spitelout is still smiling.
"That's my boy," Spitelout says, squeezing Snotlout's shoulder. Snotlout smiles widely in response. He did good. He made Spitelout proud.
Spitelout turns to their other target. Tiny Target is aptly named as well. It's across the clearing from Big Target and, well, tiny. It's been attached to a wide tree (that is riddled with ax marks) and the target itself is smaller than Snotlout's face, with a tiny, red dot in the middle of it. Tiny Target is Snotlout's own target. Spitelout has a similar target, affixed to the tree a few away from Snotlout's Tiny Target. Spitelout's is riddled with ax marks, and the red dot has been thoroughly destroyed with how many times he has hit the center.
Snotlout takes a deep breath. Today is the day that he wrecks the red dot. He wants to make his da proud. And hitting that target would make Spitelout so proud.
Spitelout hands Snotlout another ax. This one is lighter than the last one. Snotlout tries to take that into account when he throws it. This time, he throws with two hands, needing that extra control. And he hits the target! It's off-center, but it's an accomplishment to even hit the target.
He turns to Spitelout, expecting some more praise, but Spitelout is frowning. He doesn't look angry, but Snotlout still shrinks away from him. "Two hands, Snotlout?" Spitelout asks, disdain dripping from his voice. "What are you? A woman?"
Snotlout flushes. "No. Two hands is better for more control."
Spitelout snorts and picks up an ax himself. He aims at his own target and throws it one-handed. It sounds heavy when it embeds in the wood of the target and Snotlout's flush gets deeper. "Men don't need two hands. That's a woman's way of fighting," Spitelout says, his tone somewhere between disappointed and condescending.
"Okay," Snotlout says, getting another ax for himself. He lines up, taking an extra moment to get used to the weight of the weapon in his hand.
This time, Spitelout's eyes feel too heavy on him. Snotlout doesn't want to mess up. He shakes his head, trying to push his father's attention from his mind. But he doesn't manage to do it. He's not thinking of the target when he takes his step and throws as hard as he can.
He misjudges the weight and the ax over-rotates, the handle hitting the target instead of the blade. The sound of wood hitting wood makes Snotlout freeze. He hasn't hit the target with the handle in years. At least not in the presence of his da. And definitely not doing something as simple as standing still and throwing the ax.
The ax falls to the ground and Spitelout sighs. Spitelout's hand is heavy on his shoulder. "It's all right, boyo. Try taking a smaller step, remember the rotations, yeah?"
Snotlout wants to fall over. His dad isn't going to yell at him?
And he even puts another ax into Snotlout's hand.
Snotlout's fingers feel clumsy on the handle, but he can't let that show. Spitelout being nice should not throw him like this. His dad is not a mean person. He only wants to help. Snotlout shouldn't be so scared to mess up.
So he takes a deep breath and lines up again. The ax misses the target, but not by much. And it embeds into the tree it's on. Snotlout throws the last ax and gets a little closer, but it's still not hitting the target. He runs around the clearing, gathering all their axes. Spitelout watches, arms crossed over his chest.
Again, Snotlout throws each ax, taking care to line up properly with each attempt. And he's getting closer, but his shoulder is really starting to hurt. That knot on his shoulder blade is starting to feel like a rock. But he can't. let. it. show. Viking men are strong. They aren't slowed by such things as sore muscles.
Snotlout is starting to only think about his hurt shoulder when he's getting down to the last ax, which is the heaviest one because he did not want to throw it. He doesn't even think when he throws it, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth through the pain.
So he's shocked when he hears Spitelout cheer, "That's my boy! Snotlout, Snotlout, oi, oi, oi!"
He looks at the target: the blade is bisecting that red dot. Snotlout thinks he might cry. He did it. He finally did it!
Spitelout slaps Snotlout's back, right over his knotted shoulder blade, and Snotlout grunts. "Excellent job!" He goes and collects the axes and drops them next to Snotlout. "Let's see if you can do it again."
Snotlout freezes.
He doesn't know if he can do it again. The rest of his arm is starting to hurt, to compensate for the ache in his shoulder. He knows that he should stop. Fishlegs gave Astrid a lecture a couple weeks ago about training too hard actually being detrimental to one's health. At the time, Snotlout listened in amusement. What did Fishface know about training? That Viking was a geek! But Astrid listened to him... and she's gotten better now that she's allowed herself to rest. So Fishface can't be entirely wrong... And he should rest his arm, he knows it, but how can he tell Spitelout that?
"D-Don't you think that I've pushed enough?" Snotlout asks, and the glare his da gives him has him babbling, "I-I mean that, I am still recovering from Thawfest, and that was a full day of... stuff. And now, I should really just take a break because I don't want to get hurt..."
He squeaks out the last part, as Spitelout has started to loom over him.
"Get hurt?" Spitelout echoes. "You think I would allow my only son to hurt himself? Do you think so lowly of me?"
"N-No—"
"Even though I have offered to help you on my day off, you don't want my help. You're just an ungrateful little brat, eh?"
"No, Da—"
"Are you interrupting me?"
Snotlout snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head.
"Take off your helmet."
Snotlout does so without a second thought, eyes on the ground.
"Look at me."
He does and he has a moment of eye contact before Spitelout's hand slaps across his face. Oh gods, it's heavy and hard and Snotlout cries out, unable to contain the sound. Snotlout drops his helmet with the shock and stumbles from the blow.
"Ungrateful little brat. If you don't want my help, tell me so so I don't waste my time." Spitelout stalks over to Tiny Target and pulls the heavy ax from the center of it. "Bring the rest of the axes home yourself." He stomps away. When he's close to the edge of the clearing, he calls over his shoulder, "If you insist on throwing like a girl, maybe that Hofferson lass will teach you. I'm done."
Snotlout watches his da leave, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. What did he do? "…Weak," he whispers under his breath. He was weak. That's what it was.
He sniffs and picks up his helmet. He isn't weak. He isn't.
Snotlout collects the rest of the axes, bringing them back to the center of the clearing. Then he drops all but one, lining up his throw again, that broken red dot mocking him. He can hit it again. He knows it.
And he starts throwing, losing himself in the repeated motions of toss, toss, toss, toss, toss, retrieve, and doing it all over again.
He doesn't notice that it's midday until Hookfang finds him. That's also when he notices that he's drenched in sweat enough that the handles are slipping in his grip, and that his arm is aching, the knot in his back radiating pain.
Hookfang roars a greeting and lands next to Snotlout. But before Snotlout can respond, Hookfang makes a distressed noise and licks at the side of his face.
The touch reminds him of the hit that Spitelout has given him. He flinches from it and touches his face. The skin is hot under his fingers and it hurts to touch. There's no hiding this from the guys. "Who did?" Hookfang demands. "Who hurt!?"
"It's nothing, Hooky. I'm not hurt."
Hookfang huffs. "Look hurt. Who hurt?"
"It was my fault, Hookfang," says Snotlout. "I hurt myself."
Hookfang growls and sniffs, pressing his nose into the bruised skin. Snotlout has to flinch away. It hurts. "Smell sire. Sire did." Smoke comes from Hookfang's nose. "Sire dead."
"No!" Snotlout yells, grabbing Hookfang's jaw. Hookfang stops. And Snotlout knows that it's only their friendship that is keeping Hookfang in place. There's no way that he could stop the dragon.
Hookfang is still growling. Snotlout knows that he can't overpower a Nightmare with his bare hands like his father could. "He didn't do anything wrong... I should be more grateful to him."
"Man not strike child. No honor."
"I am not a child!" Snotlout yells.
"Sire-child."
"That's not important," Snotlout argues, waving a hand. "What matters is what people are going to think when they see this!" He gestures to his face. "Everyone is going to know that I'm ungrateful..."
"Not-grateful?" asks Hookfang.
"Yeah, not grateful..." Snotlout touches his face lightly, frowning at the pain he feels. "I-I can't let people see this..." Snotlout starts to breathe heavily. "They're gonna know. They're only going to look at me and know... I can't let them see me!"
Hookfang's eyes go wide. He hasn't seen Snotlout panic about something like this. He has seen Snotlout panic before: Thawfest was a stressful day for his rider. But not like this.
"What am I going to do, Hookfang?" Snotlout asks, finally looking at his dragon. "I can't just disappear. I've got responsibilities! And I can't hide from my da! He'll know that I'm hiding from him and it'll only make everything worse!" Snotlout is spiralling. He can't breathe.
Hookfang roars, startling Snotlout out of his spiral. Snotlout's face lights up. "Hookfang! You're a genius!"
Hookfang makes a confused noise. "What?" he asks, not following Snotlout's reasoning at all.
"Hookfang! You can burn me!"
Hookfang screeches and shakes his head.
"No, no, no! Listen to me, Hookfang!"
"No! No burn!" Hookfang can't believe his ears. What is Snotlout asking of him? Why would he make such a request?
"Hookfang, please?" Snotlout begs, clasping his hands in front of his chest. "Just a little burn, right over my face!"
Hookfang shakes his head. "NO! Hookfang not-hurt Snotlout!" He's backing away from Snotlout, shaking his head. Hookfang shakes his head again, more firmly this time. "No! Hookfang not-hurt Snotlout! Not-burn!"
"Please, Hookfang! Please, do it for me?"
"No," Hookfang says firmly. He will not be moved.
Snotlout falls to his knees. "Please, please, please, Hookfang! Burns are much more honorable than this! Help me hide my shame!"
Hookfang hates that that request makes him think for a moment. He understands wanting to hide your shame, the need to show that you are an honorable being. But he shakes his head. He will not hurt his friend. Not purposely. And definitely not when he's already hurt. Besides, this is not Snotlout's fault. If anything, his 'father' should be ashamed. "Not Snotlout-shame," he argues. "Sire-shame. Not-same."
"Hookfang, please. I-I can't be seen like this!" Snotlout's eyes fill with tears, but none fall. His voice is getting shaky. Hookfang does not like seeing that look on Snotlout's face.
"Sire hide. Not Snotlout." Hookfang bursts into flame. His own sire was right after all: humans are insane. Humans are poison. Snotlout's sire hurts him, and instead of burning him to ash, Hookfang is being asked to hurt Snotlout? What sense does that make?
"Please, Hookfang," Snotlout whispers, pleading with his eyes. Hookfang can see his desperation. And he doesn't want Snotlout to be desperate. Not if he can help it…
"Not-want hurt Snotlout," Hookfang argues, weakly. Is he really going to change his mind?
"You won't!" Snotlout assures him, the light coming back into his eyes. "I can handle burns! I can handle anything! I'm a Viking!"
Hookfang snarls and glares at the ground. Is he really going to do this?
But Snotlout's going on. "No one would think twice if I had a burn on my face! You're always flaming up and whatnot!"
Hookfang stills. "Hookfang hurt Snotlout?"
"No, like... not on purpose! I know you're just kidding around, Hooky. And it doesn't really hurt! I mean, I'm a Viking."
Hookfang whines. He doesn't want anyone to think that he hurts his rider... But, he realizes, he has hurt him. Many, many times.
Snotlout's still pleading. "Just a little burn... so people think that you made these marks."
Hookfang bursts into flame, unable to stop remembering. He's flamed up and burned Snotlout, caused him pain, more times than even a human can count. He's refused to listen to him, he's grabbed him in his sharp teeth and tossed him around, he's let him fall. His rider's fragile human flesh is scarred with burns and bruises from Hookfang's rough treatment. No matter how the very thought of it hurts Hookfang now, Snotlout is not asking anything unusual, to Hookfang's shame. Hookfang has asserted his dominance by hurting Snotlout so often that now the humans expect him to hurt his rider – they find nothing strange in it. And this is what Snotlout is counting on.
Hookfang is surprised at how much the knowledge hurts. His flame burns hotter and he roars. He should know better than to lo—to care for a human! He should know better than to let himself care! Now even his assertions of dominance feel like crimes! Humans are poison, poison, poison!
"…Please, Hookfang. Please, please, please help me." Snotlout looks so lost. "Please."
Is it a crime to hurt one you care for if he's begging you to do it? Is it a crime when you only now realize how badly you hurt him before?
"Please help me…"
"N-Not on mark..." Hookfang says after a moment. The thought of burning the already bruised cheek is more than he can bear.
"Thank you, Hookfang," Snotlout sighs.
"Close eyes," Hookfang orders, barely any authority in his voice. Snotlout takes off his helmet and closes his eyes, a smile on his face. Hookfang watches for a moment, sadness settling in his own heart. How is he only seeing the way he hurts his human now, when he's been asked to do it deliberately, instead of just bursting into flame? How can this brave, strong Viking be reduced to begging his friend to hurt him?
"Sorry, little brother."
He shoots out a small breath of flame, aiming for Snotlout's forehead, careful to avoid his eyes. He does, but the flames shoot out and singe off the hair around his face. Snotlout screams in pain, doubling over. His hand flies up to the burned flesh on his head, but stops just before he touches it.
Hookfang is already at his side. He licks up Snotlout's face, soothing the burn with his tongue. Snotlout pats Hookfang's jaw. "Thank you." The thanks make Hookfang feel dirty inside. Is he no better than the Jorgenson-sire? He grunts, licking the burn and caring for it, trying to take the heat out of it. He keeps doing it until he can feel Snotlout's agonized gasps subside into more normal breathing. The humans call dragon saliva 'miraculous' for burns. But still, when the pain has eased enough for Snotlout to look up, Hookfang can see the amount of damage he has caused. The skin is bright red and blistered on his forehead, part of the burn extending to cover the edge of the bruise on his cheek. Snotlout's hair is singed, and his ear is burned. Hookfang whines at the sight. It hurts.
Snotlout touches the burned skin with the tips of his fingers, a smile on his face. "Thank you so much, Hookfang."
Hookfang whines again. He licks up Snotlout's face again, trying his best to soothe every burn, even with the awful taste of burnt hair. "Hookfang did this," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. His sire was right: Humans are poison. He would fly away and never have to see a human again… if it wasn't for the human he's just burned with his own flame.
There's a rustle of wings and Hookfang growls. Who would dare come here? Now? He growls a warning, but his heart sinks when he sees Toothless and Hiccup landing in the clearing.
"Hey Snotlout... I thought I heard you yell," Hiccup says, but trails off when he sees Snotlout's face. "What happened?! You're burned!"
He rushes up to Snotlout, throwing a glare at Hookfang. Toothless coos in understanding towards Hookfang, but it doesn't make him feel any better. Hookfang takes a step back. He keeps his head down, lower than Hiccup. "Don't get all worried, Mother-Hiccup," Snotlout snorts, "we were just trying a trick, and we misjudged the target."
Hiccup growls. "Dragon burns are dangerous, Snotlout! We have to talk to Gothi!"
Hookfang whines, curling into himself. Snotlout waves Hiccup off. "It's no big deal, Hiccup. I don't need to see Gothi, I'm not a wimp!"
Hiccup growls. "Okay, you don't think you need to, but I am going to pull rank on you. If you don't do it, I'll just tell my dad and you know he'll make you. One way or another, I am MAKING you see Gothi! Come on!"
He pulls Snotlout towards Toothless, intending to give his cousin a ride, but Snotlout stops in his tracks. "I can take Hookfang."
Hiccup glowers at Snotlout. "Yeah, like you two won't disappear. I need to get you there. Gothi will have balms for these burns."
"I don't need balms," Snotlout argues.
Hookfang straightens. "Promise."
Hiccup turns his glower on Hookfang. "Promise? You promise what?"
"Take Snotlout to Gothi."
Hiccup bites his lip. "I don't know. How do I know that you won't hurt him again? Or worse? This looks serious!" Hiccup motions towards the marks on Snotlout's face.
Toothless nudges Hiccup, drawing his attention. "Hookfang-promise is Hookfang-law," Toothless tells him softly. Hookfang's chest warms at the recognition. His leader believes in him still.
Hiccup exhales heavily with one last look to Hookfang. "Fine. Take Hookfang," he says to Snotlout. "But straight to Gothi's! I will chase you down!"
Snotlout rolls his eyes. "Fine. But I have to take the axes back home first."
"No. They'll be fine for a few minutes. Let's go."
Hiccup jumps onto Toothless' back, while Snotlout mounts Hookfang. Hiccup fixes his stare on Hookfang, looking straight into the Nightmare's eyes. "Straight to Gothi's."
Hookfang nods. He takes off first, heading directly for Gothi's house. Snotlout tries to steer them away, but Hookfang will not be diverted. "Come on, Hooky. We don't need to see the healer."
Hookfang scoffs and doesn't respond. He needs to make sure that his little brother is okay. And he makes a promise to himself that the Jorgenson-sire will not push Snotlout to such lows again.
Gothi watches the Ingerman boy puttering around, pounding herbs and stirring pastes. Her volunteer's intelligent, she'll give him that, with a mind like a steel trap for facts and figures. She needs only tell him a formula once and he's got it committed to memory, and he comes up here to help her without pay, asking only knowledge in return. He doesn't appear to have the Inner Eye that a sage needs – she still doesn't know who's going to fulfil that particular function for Berk when she goes on to Valhalla – but he'll make a pretty decent healer if he can outgrow the testosterone-fueled insanity that seems to plague every teenager in Midgard and the male sex in general. His dragon is very loving as well, a good healer's partner. If Gothi ever acquires a dragon other than a Terror, she'll choose a Gronckle. The short wingspan is great for accessing hard-to-reach places where a patient might need her, and…
…Speaking of dragons, is that the Jorgenson boy's dragon? Is he headed here?
It is. He swoops in with a great beat of gigantic wings, the power of the storm they kick up nearly putting out the fire under one of the cauldrons. Close on their heels are Hiccup and his Night Fury, who land more sedately. Then Snotlout climbs down off his Nightmare's back, and Fishlegs gasps loudly behind her. "Snotlout!" he yells, darting around Gothi to run towards his little friend. "What happened? Hookfang—He wouldn't do that! Who was it? Was it him? Are you okay?"
At the mere sight of Fishlegs, Snotlout turns, clearly about to climb on Hookfang again and take off. It's the dragon who stops him, clamping his jaws around the child's waistcoat. "Let go of me, Hookfang! All I needed was for Fishface to be here as well! What's next, they gonna charge admission?"
"I didn't come here to follow you!" Fishlegs bursts out. "You know I come here to study with Gothi on days off from the Academy! You're the one who came swooping in here looking like you tangled with a…" Fishlegs looks at Snotlout's dragon, "…a Monstrous Nightmare." The dragon whines and ducks his head low to the ground. "Are you okay, Hookfang?" Fishlegs asks, voice soft. "Did something make you do this? Was something controlling you or…"
The dragon whines again and Snotlout growls. "He doesn't want your pity. Neither do I. That's it for the cross-examination, we're leaving." Snotlout turns and bumps into a solid wall of Hiccup. Well, not so solid, Gothi thinks in amusement – the stocky boy's momentum knocks Hiccup flat on his back and she has a sudden flash of an older Hiccup laying the Jorgenson boy out with a single punch – but Hiccup's Night Fury and Snotlout's own dragon rear up, spreading their wings. "What?"
"Promised," the Nightmare rumbles. Gothi's Dragonese is limited, but she can get that much.
"I'm not hanging around here for Fishface to stare at me and—and—and…" Snotlout waves his hands. "And have a reason to laugh at me – at us! Why do you come up here? To see us when we're weak and laugh at us? Remember it for later?"
Her assistant sets his jaw and draws himself up. "I can go."
Gothi would hit Snotlout in the head with her staff, except the head appears to be where he's most injured. There's a nebulous inkling of something deeper than a burn and an impact, but she'd have to lay her hands on him to know more.
"Yeah! Go!" growls Snotlout at the Ingerman boy. "I don't want you staring at me like some freakshow! Go!" He waves his hands again, and grimaces, the motion clearly painful.
Hiccup frowns, coming forward. "What's wrong with your shoulder, Snotlout?"
"Shut up!" the child all but screams, and Gothi starts as Snotlout whirls and shoves Hiccup away, slamming both hands into his chest. Hiccup staggers back. With a growl, Toothless bounds forward to catch him with his head and a wing before he can hit the ground. Snotlout's right arm contracts spastically and he lets out a frightening, animal squeal. He doubles over, groaning and clutching at his right shoulder, losing his balance and falling forward.
Before the boy's dragon can catch him, her assistant darts forward and snatches him up around the waist. Good instincts. Before Snotlout can say anything, Gothi gives him her best death-glare and presses a finger to her lips. She's quite indulgent of childish tantrums, but everything has its limits. Then she meets her assistant's eyes. Get him inside, she motions. "Sorry, Snotlout," Fishlegs says, thin and embarrassed. He has nothing to be embarrassed about, she frowns. His conduct has been exemplary: he's taken his little friend's insults and accusations without batting an eye and still has it in him to catch him when he falls. She tries to convey that with a look, but his worried eyes see nothing but the injured boy. Still carrying him around the waist, Fishlegs easily lifts the Jorgenson child against his chest, legs dangling several inches above the ground ("Hey! I can walk!") and carries him in through the door, depositing him on one of the pallet-beds Gothi keeps for patients.
Gothi approaches the boy, who glares; she glares right back. It's a good thing she's worked on keeping up the 'formidable' part of her reputation, for Vikings are some of the worst patients a healer could be cursed to work on. Her Glare #1 has quelled an injured Stoick the Vast: it takes a far lower setting, Glare #23, to work on this stubborn child. He subsides into the covers. It doesn't take an Inner Eye to see the fear lurking beneath the bravado, although a child like Fishlegs would easily miss it. You're safe, she scrawls on a tablet. First, what seems to be the trouble with your shoulder?
"Isn't the burn…" Fishlegs ventures tentatively.
Seeing a teaching moment, Gothi gestures to him to remove the Jorgenson boy's tunic while she scrawls: Triage. Burn usually worse. But collapsed from shoulder injury. Direct cause of collapse first.
"Nothing is wrong with it. It's fine." Snotlout squirms away from Fishlegs' attempt to help him off with his clothing. "Quit that, Fishface!"
Gothi is just arranging her face into Glare #15 when the Jorgensons' dragon roars. The sound is so loud it rattles the containers on the shelves. She whips round to the dragon, aiming Glare #34 at him, but he's looking only at his rider, aiming a pretty impressive Dragon Glare #12 at the boy. "Shoulder, bad pain," the Nightmare says to Snotlout. "Not-lie. Snotlout working shoulder too hard."
"I'm not lying! And the pain's not that bad!"
"Lying," the dragon says flatly. "Pain bad. Shoulder not-fine."
"Fine," Snotlout huffs. Gothi moves closer and starts to help the stubborn patient off with his tunic, since he's rejected her assistant's help and is clearly in too much pain to remove it himself. The Nightmare slides his head over and hooks a fang – his name is Hookfang, she remembers it now – into the tunic, pulling it off on the side opposite Gothi's. "Traitor," the boy mutters in an aside to the dragon, who just looks smug.
Gothi nods her thanks to the Nightmare, Hookfang. He may look fierce, but he has the patience of a godling. Freyja knows, if Gothi were a dragon and had Snotlout as a rider, she would long since have digested him. Have the dragon put some logs on the fire and build it up, she scrawls to Fishlegs. And you stay here, I need you to help me and observe.
While her assistant is doing the necessary, Gothi turns to Snotlout, gesturing to him to turn on his side. Then she palpates the spot on his back that seems to be giving him trouble.
And she's sucked in.
I'm too old for this shit, she thinks as she's plunged into the child's wretchedness. She didn't want to know he'd worked himself into an injury to ease the misery in his soul. Lightly, she touches her fingertips to the bruise on his cheek—and jerks, feeling his father's heavy hand strike him across the face.
She staggers backwards, landing against the soft surface of her assistant. "Gothi! You okay?"
She nods to Fishlegs, collecting herself. Damn Inner Fucking Eye to Helheim and back, anyway. Briefly, Gothi wonders how her carved staff would look up Spitelout Jorgenson's arse. She suppresses the urge, though. The perks of being a Wise Woman are only garnered by controlling her urge to shove things up people's arses. Even extremely deserving arses.
She scrawls instructions to Fishlegs. Normally, she'd have him work the knot out with the patient lying on his face, but with the entire forehead and cheek out of commission, she won't risk it. Having a burly, strong assistant is definitely a plus. Support him upright, she insists. Can't lay him face-down. Then, see this muscle group here? She draws a sketch, watching the boy soak in her information. Move your fingers like this – she shows him on his own shoulder – only harder. Until the knot releases.
Then she looks at the dragon and points from her assistant to her patient. Enforce his right to do his job. The dragon nods seriously and rumbles at the patient, who starts objecting, but she turns away from the spectacle – it may be entertaining, but she has work to do.
Moving away, Gothi pounds the last of her silverweed for a batch of burn balm – she still has the ingredients on hand and prepared, although the days are gone when she'd need bucketfuls of the stuff twenty-four hours a day. These days, while there are more accidental fires than there used to be, there are also dragons to lick the burns caused by their flame, and dragon saliva has turned out to be an extremely efficacious burn remedy. For most burns, that's sufficient. This one has been thoroughly treated with that remedy, but now needs her more traditional balm – the dragon's done all he can, and…
"…feel to be doing women's work, Fishface?"
"You think there aren't any male healers? What is even wrong with you, Snotlout?"
"Ah, I was just thinking, some people are born to serve, and some people are born to lead."
"Yeah, whatever. Just hold still because your great leadership was gonna leave you without the use of that arm. Good thing we're here to serve." Snotlout pales. Good on Ingerman, not letting the brat get to him. Well, Gothi is forced to admit, if he's acting out, it's with good reason: it's hard to deny the desperate longing for acceptance she's seen, the fierce and burning desire that makes the boy idolize and parrot his father incessantly – the brokenness inside that makes him hide the fact that the man struck him, and fills his thoughts with I earned it.
Still mixing, she glances over. Her assistant has her patient's chest supported on one giant hand, providing counter-pressure for his big fingers digging into the injured back and shoulder muscles. They're not torn, thank all the gods, but it was a close thing. The Jorgenson boy is grunting in what she doesn't need an Inner Eye to tell is relief, but trying very hard to hide it. "I don't need… uhh… babying. I'm not weak like the rest of you! I'm a Jorgenson!"
"Yeah, that's why you abused your shoulder so bad you nearly crippled it for life," Fishlegs retorts, kneading carefully. Gothi snaps her fingers for attention; when Fishlegs looks up, she rotates her shoulder. Obliging and intelligent, he takes the patient's shoulder in one hand while rotating it slowly with the other, running his fingers over the injured muscles with care. She smiles at him as Snotlout yells, "Ow! Careful with that! You jealous? Wanna cripple me?"
"No, you're doing a pretty good job of that yourself."
Hookfang rumbles. "Shut up, Hookfang."
Hookfang rumbles louder, and pushes his tail crosswise to Snotlout's chest to give him something to lean on for the massage. "Thank you, Hookfang," Fishlegs says sweetly.
"Welcome," preens Hookfang.
"Traitor," Snotlout mutters.
The dragon busily licks a claw. "Snotlout not-here."
"What does that… Oh!" Fishlegs grins. "You mean ignore him?"
"'Ignore'?" Hookfang rolls the new word around in his mouth. "Snotlout talking but Snotlout not-here?"
"Yes. 'Ignore.'"
"'Ignore.'" A deep purr issues from the dragon, rattling the containers. "Good human-word."
"You don't have to be so smug about it," grumbles the Jorgenson boy, but his voice is softer. His pain must be greatly relieved now. She's holding off on the willowbark tea to check if the actual treatments are working. So far, so good.
The balm is a nice smooth paste now. Gothi steps close to the patient's face, pausing to assess Fishlegs' technique. He's stopped pressing now and is just sandwiching his red-faced patient's shoulder between his big, warm hands. He's a natural. She smiles and pats his shoulder, and he starts – he must have been completely absorbed in his work. "Sorry," he blurts. "Startled me."
"Ow. Easy on the muscles, Fishface," complains the patient. "It took me a long time to build up this beautiful Viking physique of awesomeness."
Her assistant rolls his eyes and keeps working as Gothi moves around him to check the burn. Unlike the bruise on his cheek, it doesn't seem to have any bitterness radiating from it. Accidents do happen, she thinks, scooping salve and touching the boy's blistered forehead—
And the knowledge shocks through her: Dragon burn. Deliberate.
Involuntarily, her eyes snap up to the Nightmare, who shrinks into himself. He knows she can tell. Now she can see that the dragon has been making himself small and keeping his head always down out of guilt. But she can feel no malice in the burn… how can it be deliberate, yet not malicious?
She gestures for Fishlegs to move aside. "Something wrong?" he asks worriedly. She shakes her head no, and moves into the space he's vacated for better access to her patient's face. Gothi slathers salve onto the red and blistered flesh, bewildered at the love and gratitude she feels bursting up her arm when she touches it. The mystery is too tempting. It's cheating, but as she's touching the burn, she puts a hand behind her to touch the dragon, who's staying close. Pretending to pet him, she keeps her hand on the child's face, and closes a hand round his wing, completing the conduit.
She's knocked sideways by a human and a dragon making a desperate pact. Please, Hookfang. Help me hide my shame.
Taking a deep breath, Gothi lets the connection flow. It's little more than broken images, but she can piece it together: Everyone will know I disobeyed and earned this punishment, the dragon backing up and shrieking refusal, the child's desperate pleas, the dragon – little more than a child himself in dragon years – giving in.
Now it makes sense: the burn is a gift, asked for and received. The dragon was an unwilling aggressor, pained at his own actions, lovingly caring for the injury he inflicted, and now desperate to help. Tentatively, she strokes the dragon's wing, and he chuffs, a moan escaping him. Well, she grumbles to herself, spreading the balm on the burn and feeling her arms tingle with safety love friendship , the child is certainly appreciative of the gift.
She should have known, really, after all these years, with that family. She's felt flashes of misery and tears. And she's seen brighter days, too: glimpses of the boy out of that house, on… an edge? That's what keeps coming, and it makes no sense, but there you go. These things don't come with instructions. It's all bound up with Hiccup leading them. Oh well, it'll make sense eventually.
She lets her assistant finish caring for the injury, then finally hands him the willowbark tea. Snotlout splutters and complains and accuses Fishlegs of trying to poison him, until Hookfang growls at him and he subsides, drinking it down. Once his pain is gone, he slumps, exhaustion taking him.
Spitelout stomps up to Gothi's hut.
He went back to the clearing after supper; his wife was making a big deal about Snotlout not being there for the meal. Spitelout told her that Snotlout probably couldn't show his face for a while, that he was probably thinking about what he did wrong today. But all Spitelout found was the rest of the family axes, still stuck in the targets.
His wife stayed hidden when he returned the axes home. He threw them to the ground in their entryway. She will clean up the mess by the time he gets back. He knows she will. He doesn't need to tell her. And anyway, she loves a clean house. It's part of her duties.
Then, when Spitelout demanded of his wretched little nephew to tell him where his son was, it turns out that Snotlout is hiding with Gothi. The little coward. He can't face his own father. And Spitelout has to track him down. The kid only continues to be ungrateful.
Spitelout is breathing heavily when he finally reaches Gothi's hut. Why does she have to live on top of the highest hill in the village? Seems counterproductive since she's also their healer, but that's not why he's here.
That stupid Nightmare is sitting outside the hut, smoke rising off his body. He glares at Spitelout as he tromps up to the hut. Spitelout ignores him. He can take out that dragon any time he wants. He is not scared.
Spitelout pounds four times on the door. "I know you're in there, boyo! Don't hide from me!" Spitelout yells through the wood. The door opens and Spitelout has to look down. Gothi is glaring at him.
"Where's my son?" he asks her, trying to sound calm. He knows better than to anger her.
She puts her fingers to her lips in a shushing motion and slams the door in his face.
Spitelout stares at the door, eyes wide and confused for only a moment. Then he knocks, softer this time.
She opens the door and ushers him inside, a small smile on her face. Spitelout grumbles at the treatment. He's not some misbehaving child. She points him to the chair at her table and he sits without a word, grumbling all the way.
Gothi grabs one of her wax tablets and Spitelout frowns at it. He hates having to interpret her doodles; he's probably the worst at doing so. She grabs a small stick and starts carving into the wax. Spitelout tries to follow it, only interpreting every other doodle sufficiently in his mind. He doesn't want to say anything out loud and be wrong. Gothi doesn't speak, but everyone would know within the week. And he doesn't want to be put on the same level as that bumbling blacksmith. "Snotlout is… sleeping… here?" he asks, confused.
She nods and motions towards the back of her hut.
"What for? Is he hiding? That little coward—" His rant is cut off with a quick smack to his head from Gothi's staff. He shuts up because he's shocked, not because it hurts; she points to the tablet, an exasperated look on her face.
Spitelout's ears turn pink as he tries to read what's written there. Why is this so confusing to read? Everyone can do it, why can't he? And why can't she talk like a normal person, anyway? Finally, he deciphers a few words. "Injur-Injury? Snotlout was injured? Doing what?"
Gothi shrugs, but points to her own face and her shoulder. "His arm and face? What did that brat get into now?"
Gothi grabs a fresh tablet and draws a crude picture of a Nightmare. Spitelout laughs out loud. "That dumb bastard got himself hurt by that stupid dragon?"
Gothi glares at Spitelout. Her grip tightens on her staff, but before she can do anything, a small voice comes from the bedroom area. "Da? What are you doing here?"
Spitelout and Gothi look to the bedroom door and Snotlout is standing there, leaning against the frame. He's favoring his left side, his right arm bound to his chest.
Spitelout bursts out laughing when he sees the boy's face. The skin is obviously very burnt, but there's some sort of green paste sitting on top of that, like badly applied war paint, and it looks hilarious. "Ha! Did you piss off yer dragon?" Spitelout grins. "I thought he was your friend. "
Snotlout swallows and looks at the floor, his cheeks turning pink. Well, just the one cheek, since the bruise on his other one has discolored the skin. "N-No... we were practicing a move and misjudged—"
"Why would you think it would be a good idea to do an aiming trick with a Nightmare? They have the least control over their flame!" Spitelout is bent over laughing. Really, it's too funny. Snotlout always comes up with these crazy ideas and he always ends up hurt, but he never stops. You'd think that the boy would learn his lesson! But no, he will insist on listening to Stoick's whelp, who preaches trusting dragons like they're human.
Gothi swings her staff and gets Spitelout in the side. That one hurt. He grunts, laughs stopping immediately, his hand going to his bruised side. "Ouch, crazy old lady," Spitelout grouses. She hits his other side. For good measure. "Fine, fine, it's not funny," Spitelout growls, glaring at the old bat. "So the dragon got ya, huh?" He turns his attention back to his son. "What'd he do to your arm?"
Snotlout's left arm crosses over his body, covering his right arm as much as he can. "U-Uh..."
Just then, there's a knock at the door. "Gothi?"
Spitelout frowns. It's that Ingerman kid, but it's after supper; surely it's too late for that little geek to be interning under Gothi at this hour? "I brought some more bittersweet silverweed. Uh, to soak overnight for burn ointment."
Gothi goes to the door and pulls the Ingerman kid inside. He almost drops the plants he's carrying with how harshly the old woman tugs. Spitelout snorts. Letting himself be ordered around by that little woman? What an embarrassment. Gothi glares at him, then takes all the plants from Fishlegs, throwing them onto the table and grabbing a tablet. She holds it out to Fishlegs, who scans over the images quickly.
"Oh. The arm," Fishlegs says and looks at Spitelout. "Snotlout's right arm was really tense. He could barely lift it. He was in a lot of pain."
Spitelout rolls his eyes. "Probably whined about it."
Fishlegs' face turns serious. Almost angry, although what could be pissing him off is a mystery. "No. No, he didn't even tell us he was hurt." The fire in his tone almost makes him sound like a proper Viking. "Hiccup made him come here for the burns."
Spitelout looks at Snotlout, then the other two. Gothi and Fishlegs are glaring at him, and Snotlout is still staring at the floor. "Are you really hurt?" he asks softly. "Did I push you too hard?"
Snotlout's eyes snap to his. "No! No you didn't push me too hard!"
"I think that it was the axe-throwing that caused the damage. Hiccup says he found him in the Jorgenson Practice Clearing. He said that Snotlout looked exhausted," Fishlegs growls.
But Spitelout ignores the whelp. Who cares what he thinks? He can care for his son just fine. "I'm sorry, Snotlout. I never wanted you to hurt yourself!"
Snotlout looks absolutely shocked. "N-No, dad, it's okay. It was my own dumb fault anyways..."
"Well, what do we have to do to get you back into fighting shape? It's obviously bad, and I don't want to make it worse."
Fishlegs clears his throat for attention. Gothi has placed another tablet into Fishlegs' hands. "Gothi says the injury is very serious. He needs to rest, otherwise he could lose movement in that arm." Snotlout visibly pales at that. "She wants him to stay here overnight, so she can make sure that the burns are healing well."
"Well you can't just do nothing with the arm until it heals, boyo." Spitelout turns to Gothi. "I thought you were a healer."
Fishlegs' grip tightens on the tablet and he inhales sharply. Gothi stabs her staff into the ground twice, a warning. "No... I was getting to that," Fishlegs grits out through his teeth. "If he'd rested it when he should have, it wouldn't have gotten this bad, but now what he needs is—"
"I don't have all night, boyo," Spitelout cuts off the blather. "I've got a wife waiting at home." It sounds like Snotlout makes a sound at that, but when Spitelout looks at him, he doesn't look like he's moved one bit.
"Snotlout will…" Fishlegs clears his throat and looks at Snotlout, talking to him instead of the elder Jorgenson. "You'll have to come out here every day for two weeks. Gothi will guide you through some exercises to help with the movement in your arm. I'll come by and massage your back for you after supper, since Gothi doesn't have the same strength in her hands anymore."
Snotlout flushes from the base of his neck to the roots of his hair, but he doesn't say a word. Spitelout has the urge to comment on Fishlegs doing women's work, but he's not the boy's father. He has no say if he turns into a bikja. "Also, Gothi will make you some ointment to take home as well. But I can explain that when you have to leave." Fishlegs smiles at Snotlout once, then turns his attention to Spitelout, frown back on his face. "Do you have any questions?"
Spitelout wants to smack the boy for his insolence, but, again, he's not the boy's father, and he has better places to be. "No," he snarls at Fishlegs, then softens towards his son. "Take care of yourself. Get some rest. I'll come see ya tomorrow."
"Thanks, dad," Snotlout smiles softly.
Spitelout nods and leaves without another word. He doesn't have much of a reason to stay there any more. The crazy old bat will take care of Snotlout. He can come back tomorrow, but tonight, he and his wife have the house to themselves. Maybe they can do something fun.
Spitelout smiles and starts whistling as he walks back towards his house.
Fishlegs feels his ire rise as he sees Snotlout standing there like a good little soldier when he can barely stand. "Get back to bed, Snotlout. You shouldn't even be on your feet."
"It wasn't my legs that were hurt, Fishface," Snotlout sneers at him. "What would you know about respect for your father, anyway?"
Fishlegs recoils like he's been slapped. But he collects himself. "Probably nothing. But I do know you need to be in bed." And he sweeps Snotlout up in his arms like he weighs no more than a Terrible Terror.
"Let go of me! I can walk!"
"Yeah, I don't doubt it." Gently, Fishlegs lowers Snotlout to the bed on his back. Ideally, he'd lay him on his side, but his right side has the injured arm and his left is slathered in ointments from the burn and... and the other injury. Fishlegs can't know for sure, and he isn't one for loose talk, but his close examination has turned up finger-marks in Snotlout's cheek, and it makes him seethe inside to imagine the cause of them. He doesn't know what kind of mess happened with the burn, but he can tell from Hookfang's demeanor that the dragon is heartbroken. And while Snotlout isn't Fishlegs' favorite person, the whole business is leaving a bitter taste in Fishlegs' mouth.
"How did it feel to be doing women's work?" Snotlout mutters. "Good thing you're going to be coming to our house. Maybe get some pointers on how to be a real Viking."
"Mm," Fishlegs grunts. Snotlout is such a fucking asshole to them all the time, and Fish hates it, but seeing his role model, he's honestly not all that surprised. "Get some rest," he commands, throwing the blanket out to billow over his patient, and stalks off, not wanting to hear any more insults this evening.
"I'm done," he says to Gothi, perhaps a little more sharply than he'd like. He makes up for it by being extra polite with his next words. "Do you need anything? Before I head home?" His princess hums in mid-air outside the window, waiting.
Gothi smiles. She scratches on a tablet: You are a good friend, Fishlegs Ingerman.
Fishlegs feels oddly sad. "He's not my friend."
In time, you will find he is. And more.
"Yeah, okay," sighs Fishlegs. He absolutely respects and believes in Gothi, but he's not in the mood for the all-Vikings-are-comrades-in-arms-and-we-must-all-stick-together speech. He may feel sorry for Snotlout, but Snotlout's right, that's not the same as liking or friendship, and they have nothing in common and Fishlegs has always despised bullies anyway. Thinking of whether that extends to people raised by bullies makes his head hurt, so he ignores it. "Good night, Gothi."
Gothi sighs and waves him a good night. He clambers on Meatlug, who stops to speak to Hookfang. "Bring Hookfang fish?" she asks solicitously.
Fishlegs realizes with a mild shock that Hookfang hasn't eaten all day. "Hookfang! Why didn't you go eat?"
"Meatlug brought him from Great Hall while you work," Meatlug says sweetly - and smugly. "Meant tomorrow."
Fishlegs flings his arms around Meatlug, who licks him, smiling. "What would I do without you, girl?"
Hookfang gives a sad smile. "Snotlout always-ask same. 'What Snotlout do without Hookfang?' Hookfang always-answer, 'Much silly things.'"
"He's gonna be okay, Hookfang," Fishlegs reassures.
"Of course." Hookfang bursts into flame. It takes him a couple of tries to extinguish it.
"Aren't you going to the stables?" Fishlegs asks him.
Hookfang spreads his wings. "Stables too hot. Cooler here." The wind is biting, and a light snow is starting to fall. Sighing, Fishlegs hops off Meatlug and knocks on Gothi's door…
Convincing her is easy. Fishlegs has the impression she's been waiting for him to come back in. Exiting the hut, Fishlegs flings the door open. "Get inside. I don't want to find an ice sculpture here in the morning," he says, only half-jokingly. Dragons may have inner fire, but there's a limit to how much cold they can endure. "Get inside." He watches the dragon's long, sinuous form slip into Gothi's hut. "Don't break anything," he warns, "and DON'T eat any of her Terrors! She told me if you do, she'll make you barf them up and then make ME eat them."
Fishlegs' heart fills with warmth when Hookfang lets out a great, honking laugh.
Hookfang slinks through the healer's hut, low to the ground. The herbal smells all around are odd, but not unpleasant. But there's only one scent in his nostrils, and it gladdens him to smell it untainted by fear and pain. His poor little brother is lying in bed, arm bound, face covered in human concoctions. He's feigning sleep, but he isn't sleeping.
"Glad hatchling better," Hookfang says before he can stop it. Hookfang chokes once the words are out. That sounded way too soft. Snotlout, like Hookfang, believes in appearing strong.
But his rider doesn't seem to mind. "Hookfang!" he whispers in delight, in deference to the late hour, and sits up in bed. It's hard with his bad arm, and Hookfang rumbles a rebuke, bringing his head under Snotlout's back to support him. He can't use his wings - unfurl one wing and he'll bring half the hut down. "You're here!"
Snotlout throws an arm around Hookfang's neck. Hookfang notices that the human taboo on naked emotion (a taboo clearly not shared by their Queen's rider) seems to be waived in darkness and privacy. "Hooky," his human says again, voice trembling. It makes Hookfang tremble a little himself. Then he has to stop trembling, as the healer's table starts vibrating and the containers on it jiggle and hum.
He slides closer to his human's bed, pressing close, daring to nuzzle the uninjured side of his face. He's shocked when Snotlout nuzzles back, pressing his unhurt cheek against Hookfang's eye-bulbs and scratching under his chin. "I missed you," comes the shocking, whispered confession.
At those words, Hookfang feels a dam in him break. A great groan bursts forth, rattling Gothi's containers again, and he shakes his head, wishing he could vent his emotions in salty water like humans. Or flame without destroying the humans' place of healing.
"Hooky!" Snotlout whispers in alarm. Hookfang can't seem to stop himself whining, even though out of the corner of his eye he can see the old human pulling a pillow over her ears - it's like everything he's been through today has decided to find vent through his voice. Snotlout's unhurt arm tightens around his neck, pulling him in close. "I gotcha, Fangster. What's wrong? I'm here. The Snotman will take care of it."
Hookfang blinks and lets his head thud down - carefully - in Snotlout's lap. His rider is so badly hurt the healer won't let him out of her house, his arm needs the utmost care or he will lose the use of it, his face is bruised and swollen from his own sire's hands and the rest of it is burned and blistered from... Hookfang moans... from the one who calls himself his clutchmate. "Not brother," he grunts, shaking his head. "Not-worth."
"What?" Snotlout's breathing stutters under Hookfang's ear. "Why? What'd I do, Hookfang?" His human whisper is raw, desperate. "Please tell me! I can make it better! Give me another chance!"
"Shut up." Human idioms are useful sometimes. "Not Snotlout who needs another chance."
Snotlout is silent, digesting this for a while. "Then who?"
Hookfang shakes his head slightly. His human can be dense sometimes. "Hookfang. Hookfang need forgiveness."
"What? But you didn't do anything wrong!"
Hookfang takes in a deep breath, wishing he could let it out in a jet of flame. Human idioms? Convenient. Human homes, not so much. "Not-wrong how? Hookfang hurt little brother, hurt..." Ah, fuck it. "Hurt beloved."
For some reason, Snotlout lets out a little cry, as though he's been punched in the chest. "Snotlout in pain? Call healer?" he asks.
"No... No, I... Oh, Hookfang..." Snotlout rubs his cheek against Hookfang's face, and Hookfang feels the tiny drops of water the humans call 'tears' on his snout. "Oh, Hookfang. You didn't hurt me."
Hookfang snorts.
"No, listen. I begged you to. And even then you were so careful, and you licked it right away... That made the pain go away. You didn't want me to hurt, I know you didn't want me to hurt. You only did it because I begged you to. I know you wouldn't hurt me, Hookfang."
"Hookfang hurt. Always hurt. Before," Hookfang confesses. "Flamed. Hurt..." He swallows. It's hard to say this to his rider, bedridden with an injured arm and a bruised and blistered face. "Hurt Snotlout-brother." He shakes his head carefully, wanting so much to flame, to roar. His dominance seems so unimportant now his little human is weak and in pain. "Pride," he growls, furious at himself. "Only pride."
But Snotlout's rubbing his cheek and scratching his chin, and smiling. "I'm onto you, Hooky. You only flame up when you think I said something disrespectful. Don't let Hiccup know I said that!"
Hookfang shakes his head minutely, all he can do with his chin resting in his human's lap. "Punishment for disrespect," he says slowly, realizing it himself, "not-should hurt beloved."
"Oh, Hooky." Snotlout holds his head and strokes his face, whispering to him in the dark. "It's okay."
"Hookfang no-honor."
"What? How can you even say that? You're the best dragon I know!"
But Hookfang grunts. He doesn't deserve the caresses his human brother is lavishing on him. "Not-honor, strong hurt weak."
"I'm not weak! I'm a Viking…" But Snotlout trails off. "Okay, you hurt me." Hookfang groans. "But – don't tell anyone, but just between us – I treated you bad, Hooky." Snotlout lowers his voice to a whisper. "I talked like I owned you. I treated you like a thrall. That wasn't honorable of me either."
Hookfang falls silent, remembering how it stung to be told 'Listen to your master.' How he would have done anything to stop the human saying that. Anything… short of leaving. "Hookfang not-know what do," he admits. "Not master. Not leave. Only hurt." The word 'master' was a show of dominance. Hookfang understood dominance. So he asserted his own, in the only way he knew how.
"Yeah. If you hadn't done that… I might have…" Snotlout lowers his voice. "Don't tell anyone, but sometimes I think my dad doesn't respect dragons as much as he could… he just doesn't get you guys…. And if you'd let me talk to you like that, uh…" He rubs Hookfang's snout. "I might have turned out like him. You had to teach me to respect dragons the hard way."
"No more hard way," Hookfang groans. His tail caresses Snotlout's poor shoulder. Cautiously, he unfurls the very tip of his wing to cover him. "Not-can…" He licks the uninjured cheek, sniffs at the burned flesh weeping beneath the green salve. "Not-can," he repeats desperately.
Snotlout rubs and caresses him more. "Hey, Hooky. C'mon, we're a team, okay? We go way back, right? Let's just forgive and forget. You and me. Okay? Huh? Can we just call it even?"
Hookfang looks up into Snotlout's face. His human brother's familiar features are almost unrecognizable, what with the burns, the ointment and the swelling. The place where his sire struck him is puffed-up and shiny; the place where Hookfang burned him is badly blistered and smeared with glistening green. The arm he abused with too-long training is bound and wrapped, evidence of more damage beneath the skin. Hookfang's urge to flame is almost unbearable, but he tamps it down. His urge to pledge undying love and protection is also almost unbearable, but he tamps that down as well. Unable to do anything else, he presses his eye-bulbs into Snotlout's stomach and vents his feelings in a heart-deep groan, quickly stifled into a whimper.
It's the best thing he could have done. Snotlout's good arm wraps around his head tight, the hand of his other arm managing to reach to scratch under his chin. Hookfang feels his tension slipping away. Beneath his cheek, he can hear his rider's fragile stomach resonate with a gentle chuckle. "Hey. Hey, Hooky. We're a team, you and me. Warriors, remember? We can do anything! Nothing's too hard for us!" Snotlout lowers his injured face to Hookfang's, so close that the ointment's smell blots out everything else, and presses his unhurt cheek to the top of his eye-bulbs again. "You and me. Invincible. Right? Huh, Hookfang?" His voice softens. "Please don't feel bad, Hooky. I got you. I... I'm sorry I made you do that. I didn't know it was gonna hurt you so bad."
"Hookfang not-hurt." But he knows it's a lie.
"Yeah, right. I didn't realize..." Snotlout's voice wavers a bit, his good hand clinging to Hookfang tighter. "I didn't think it'd hurt you that bad to, uh... to burn me. We humans say 'you talk a good game,' you know," he barrels on. "You're this big bad dragon and you don't ever show weakness. Which is good," Snotlout declares, "because I'm a big bad human and I don't ever show weakness. But I guess, around each other... We can maybe, uh..."
"Let..." Hookfang uses the human idiom hesitantly. "Let guard down?"
"Yeah," Snotlout nods. "I really didn't know it'd hit you that hard, Fangster. I guess I wasn't thinking straight. Next time I'll find something else to do or..."
Hookfang growls. "We."
"Huh?"
"We find else. No 'I.' 'We.' Snotlout need, Snotlout come to Hookfang. Else Hookfang burn crisp," he warns, wondering how much bite his threat has now that Snotlout knows it has no teeth. Now Snotlout knows that putting a mark on his rider hurts Hookfang as much or more than an arrow in the chest.
Huh. Probably a lot, judging by the wave of sincerity-promise that comes rolling off his human's scent like the warm air off the summer sea. "I'll come to you first, Hookfang. Promise." Snotlout's head weighs heavier on Hookfang's eyes all of a sudden, and he yawns.
"Sleep," commands Hookfang. He slides his head off Snotlout's lap and uses the top of his head to help him lie back down. With one of his fangs, he pulls the covers up onto his little brother, then sweeps his tail around - slowly and carefully, so as not to break anything in the healer's house - and lays it across Snotlout's chest. The human's soft, stubby hand immediately curls around it. The touch is scarcely a touch at all, yet it sends the oddest sensation of warmth prickling throughout Hookfang's body.
He's scared to lick his human's injured face, so he licks his own tail, letting his tongue caress the soft little hand clutching it. Snotlout murmurs, already half-asleep. Hookfang arranges himself curled around the bed - there won't be any threats in the night, but it never hurts to be prepared, he tells himself - and closes his eyes.
He shares his rider's dreams, and in them there are battles, and victories, and freedom.