Author's Note:
TW murder, gore, mature language, panic attack, self-sabotaging behaviour.
Life likes to fuck you over. At least, that's the impression I gather.
It's a chain reaction of variables that go from bad to worse to irreparable damage stemming from a dysfunctional family.
I guess you could say I found my family.
Deep within the icy spikes of the north, and it was great.
Until an arrow cleaved through and smashed it to pieces.
Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third.
15 years earlier, somewhere in the Norwegian sea.
The rocking of the waves against the deck of the boat lulls Hiccup into a state of hypnagogia. The crashes are rhythmic, a constant mesh of wood and water, and provide a false sense of security. A cool draft seeps through the thick wood and condenses onto Hiccup's skin, offering a damp sheen of salt and water, as if it is sweat. Hiccup lays uncomfortably beside stacks of crates, his arm growing numb every passing minute, and his clothes clinging to his skin. He can practically feel one of the crates teetering on the edge of the shelf, threatening to fall and break. A simple blanket is strewn across his body to shield him from the cool deck of the boat. Above him, dust clouds drift down before billowing up when the boat gently shifts directions. Hiccup senses Johann's light steps on the upper deck and pulling sails on the mast. The stretch of the ropes strains on the stern, and a small push encourages the ship to glide faster.
They must be approaching a stretch of wind; vague whistles scream past the boat as it turns, capturing the sails and pulling them along.
Hiccup longs to be free. He longs to harness the wind and ride it. Up in the air, he's seen the dragons soar high, manoeuvring between clouds and drifting aimlessly. Maybe, if he wished it hard enough, Hiccup would grow scales and pointed teeth, spreading his wings, and channelling the wind. His eyes would zero in on the verdure islands, drifting down to settle and prune his scales, before taking off to explore the world. Hiccup would be the apex predator. No Viking could touch him in the air.
Alas, Hiccup remains a scrawny Viking boy, destined to walk the gardens of Midgard, and see, but not feel the gales of the sky.
15 years later, present day, N.W Atlantic Ocean.
"May you bid your place in Valhalla," Hiccup says. Respectfully, he releases the dead body from his sword. He closes their eyes, so the empty, unresponsive clouds of blue don't sear holes into his face. It never gets easier; no matter how many times Hiccup sends Vikings to Valhalla. These soldiers won't get funerals, they simply drift out to sea in abandoned ships, fated to rock and spin until Ragnarök, so Hiccup tries his best to warn Odin and Freya of their arrival.
He flicks the rivers of blood off his sword, wiping the metal on a white flag.
"May Freya accept you, where the great will rest forever. May you drink with Kings and Gods and relive your battle in the Great Halls of Odin. May you be chosen for your strength and glory, and may you be chosen for your courage. For you are the great soldiers of Midgard who will forever serve."
He lights a pyre. Alive, the fire from his sword licks the wood of the sinking ships. He watches the billowing flames in disdain.
An eager nose preens at the leather of Hiccup's armour. Their pack has already departed from the burning wreckage, along with the dragons they freed, but Toothless and an overly keen Nadder remain. She squawks. Hiccup cringes as he takes his eyes away from the bodies they just killed. Stormfly's scales are sporting a beautiful shade of crimson, the occasional chunks of flesh are caught in her scales, but her teeth and neck are miraculously clean. (No doubt the Nadder took a quick dip; Stormfly has always lived up to the vanity of her species.) The crown of spikes is also free from the grotesque garb, remaining a bright array of browns and yellows. Stormfly squawks again, shaking the blood away from her wings. She bobs her head.
"Yeah, yeah, okay, beautiful, we'll clean you up later. But first," He whistles somewhat quietly. It sounds almost empty in the frozen air, a stunted echo in the wind.
It doesn't take long for Toothless to return.
Soon, a black shadow blocks the stars, an intimidating blue glow surrounding it. The dragon lands nimbly. He rocks the ship with his weight, and his wings whisper along the deck, swooshing and dragging. Toothless shakes his body and so the vibrant blue in his veins dims to a vague gleam. Unsurprisingly, he shoves his head in Hiccup's gloved hands, demanding scratches like a cat. He must be intimidating, Hiccup thinks, because the small fires cast an eerie glow in his green eyes. But to him, Toothless means family, and family is all that matters in the spindly hands of Loki.
Hiccup peeks a glance at Stormfly. She stares almost wistfully, towards the ocean and out to sea, air entering her large nostrils, scenting the humidity; she's ready to harness the winds.
He can almost see her- impossibly smaller- gliding in the storm, equipped with a torn wing. It's a huge stroke of luck that Hiccup and Toothless journeyed upon her that day.
Reluctantly, Hiccup sheaths his sword. The ominous SHINK reaches both dragons who, almost synchronised, tense their bodies in preparation for the return home. Stormfly squawks in displeasure, longing to fly in the storm due north, but Hiccup only clicks his tongue in response.
With practised ease, he hoists himself onto Toothless' back, releasing the lever, and shifting his feet into the stirrups. They rise above the bloody destruction, Hiccup watching the fire eat the dead bodies, and beat their wings until they are well above the clouds.
The forge fire slowly burns, little embers of dry wood are pumped with recycled, hot air until they are set alight in a thousand-degree heat. Gradually, the iron burns black, spitting heat onto Hiccup's uncovered hands, as he holds the misshapen sword with long tongs. After a long week of raiding trade ships, Hiccup has collected an abundance of scrap metal: swords bent by the force of dragons; hammers and maces left by the Vikings he had killed; the manacles and the chains used to enslave the dragons he freed and many more with obscure explanations. Over the years, Hiccup has managed to build a fully functional forge equipped with multiple anvils used for welding and shaping and two large hearths' (commonly referred to as forges) shaped to appear as vague dragons. A whetstone appears at the side of the large smithy, powered by well-oiled gears and a large pedal to rotate it, to sharpen the swords and axes.
A box sits outside the dark cave full of warped swords. Hiccup sets down the metal he's working on, it's cooled too much for proper metalwork, and instead sets to burn the grips on the hilt. Leather is commonly used, but unless the swords are forged for germane Vikings, it is cheap and easily broken. It is difficult because leather is hardly flammable (just another reason his Dragon-Fly 3 is built with leather) but the adhesive used to stick the leather to the iron is. Hiccup wipes the sweat from his brow. One would think that years locked away in a forge would build resistance to heat (especially when one's chosen family are dragons), but Hiccup continues to find himself strangled by the blistering heat. Hiccup is left alone in the forge; neither Toothless nor any other dragon dares to interrupt their master whilst he works.
A slight rumble erupts around the room. As if on cue, a small fountain of rocks tumbles from the dry ceiling. They clatter on the floor in uniformed drops, landing near Hiccup and the two forges, spitting a hiss when the embers are disrupted. He looks uncertainly at the rocks- this has been happening too regularly now- and then uncertainly at the heavens.
Suddenly, a mute crooning reaches Hiccup's ears, along with louder growling and scratching of sharp claws against the floor.
His staff- previously propped up against the wall- has clattered to the ground; a sharp rattle must have rung out whilst Hiccup was distracted.
The dragons slither in one by one, primping at scales and wings, flitting around Hiccup's forge. Some of the smaller dragons clamp onto the rocky ceiling; they hang like climbing vines from tiny crevices. Toothless is the only one to nuzzle him in a draconic reassurance.
Hiccup is okay. He can hear Stormfly's worried squawks. Hiccup reaches across Hiccup to prop himself on the staff, the rattled end stationed on the ground. He taps the ground twice, the lodged pebbles shaking ever so slightly. Dragons roar in unison before going silent. The shaking disturbs them, Hiccup suspects, and the unsynchronised rattle of the pebbles worries them. Hiccup has never appreciated his dragons' concern more.
They've almost healed a hole in his soul.
Dragons are more magnificent than Hiccup gives them credit for.
He can hear the whispers. Merchants aren't exactly discreet, Hiccup has gathered, but handy. His coat drags the floor stylishly, sweeping the dust like wings, as to give the image of a dark phantom. Hiccup's auburn hair is pulled back into a single braid, accentuating his sharp features. Sweat pools like water down his back, his being used to a much cooler climate. The sun beats down on him unforgivingly, like it is dead set on fulfilling a personal vendetta, and his heavy clothing does nothing to help. The sweltering heat and blinding light do nothing but weigh Hiccup down, along with the basket of weapons dragging behind him.
Hiccup grimaces. Spectators don't hide their stares. Hiccup is almost self-conscious of his battered state- purple bruises under his eyes and clammy skin- but it's always best to have his face visible. No one is going to trade with a faceless spectre. Moreover, the Dragon Master is well known within these parts.
His buckled boots set an ominous echo across the town square and don't stop until they reach Hiccup's usual stool.
"76."
With a careless toss, a sword is thrown onto Trader Johann's table.
"76!" Johann's incredulous voice begins, "by the gods, master, that is hardly an easy feat. But I suppose with those dragons of yours, it must be a steady day at the market. I remember a lad like that in the Lands of Frankia [1]. He could burst out in-"
"How much, Johann?"
"- bouts of song. Amazing vocals, like a young babe, but rougher. Anyway, the Rex [2] himself saw the passion in the boy-"
"Johann!"
"- so he employed him of course! Now the boy grew up-"
"JOHANN!" His fist nearly ruptures a hole in the wood. He speaks through gritted teeth. "I do not have time for your pathetic stories. Give me my dirhams [3] and I will be gone. There's no need for a trip down memory lane."
Hiccup can hardly contain his sneer.
"You know, not a lot of people appreciate Normanni[4] the way I do. Their people and lands have been pillaged too many times- by people who look like you."
Hiccup looks around. He had thought that they don't look upon him favourably due to his known affiliation with dragons but never thought it to be something deeper. Now, he can see their heads tied in strange cloth, wearing thin, patterned cloth like Persian royalty. Their dresses aren't like his cloaks, built for warmth and practicality, but for style and respect. At the market, bright pigments are bought, to dye cloth for fashion, and not for disguise.
These people live completely different lives; never bothered by dragons, only war and conquerors. Humans after humans. Not Dragons after Vikings.
"This is their livelihood."
And by the gods, Johann's words have never resonated with him so much.
"Normally, 998, but since they were made with scrap, 750."
Hiccup hardly registers what Johann's saying, too busy staring at a family buying fabric. The child, obviously loved, clings onto the dress of the mother. They rock back and forth, a healthy gleam to their skin and hair, as a caring, motherly hand brushes against their cheek. Hiccup feels a subtle sting in his eyes, and before he starts thinking too deeply, looks away.
Johann's expectant face greets him.
"What?"
"Dirhams."
"Oh… thank you, Johann."
"And you, Hiccup."
Hiccup returns home and dreams.
13 years earlier, Dragon Hunter Island, 735 NM away from Berk.
Viggo Grimborn is not a patient man; that much is clear.
The tortured screams (dragons and humans alike) bear no chance at breaking the man's cold heart. Each battery slides across easily- as if it were a sheet of ice. Viggo sits behind his desk. A mahogany table, bought by cheap labour, decorated in obscure maps, and complicated battle plans. It's not often the Chief of the Dragon Hunters wages war against other tribes. He views petty land disputes as trivial and a way of overcompensation. (Of course, this could simply be because Viggo is far too distracted by dragons for their own good.) But he finds himself engaged in a trifling variance with a southern tribe.
SCRATCH. He can hear a scuffle outside. Viggo's brother, Ryker, has never been one for secrecy. No doubt he wants to make a scene. Nonuniformly, a small boy is thrown into his tent. Well, he says boy, but really, by Viking standards at least, he is a young man. Ryker follows through, brandishing his misshapen sword, like a warmonger. The boy's groan is short and quiet as he lands roughly on his hands and knees. He doesn't bother to get up.
"Brother…" Viggo quietly warns. "What is the meaning of this disturbance? As I have previously said, any issues you must solve yourselves."
"Ah know, Viggo, bu' ah found thi' boy snoopin' aroun'. Figured you betta' deal with 'im."
Ryker leaves the tent.
At this comment, the boy looks up. For some reason, he looks familiar. A square face, with a jaw that will one day be strong, and a long, straight nose. Shaggy auburn hair conceals his eyes, but Viggo reckons they'll be as bold as the rest of his features. Various freckles scatter across his cheeks like stars, and when he parts his lips, his teeth are crooked. He's built like a fishbone (obvious in his bony wrists and baggy clothes) but his hands are large and speckled in cuts and burns. Those are the hands of a blacksmith, Viggo thinks. He's at that awkward stage when teenage limbs are too long for their body, no doubt this boy is lean but clumsy; therefore he got caught.
Viggo is almost impressed. This mere boy has managed to infiltrate the most highly guarded isles in the Barbaric Archipelago, but then he sees the dragon scales scattered on the floor beside his head. Viggo sighs disappointedly.
"Here I was, thinking you would be different to any other vagabond who seeks a new future in my island. Alas, they never penetrate my skilled guards, but you're not any different from them, are you? Stealing. How common."
That gets a response. The boy's previously blank face morphs into a bitter, angry glare, his eyebrows furrowing and nose crinkling when Viggo calls him common. Ah, so he isn't. Potentially, this boy was living a life of luxury before being promptly dumped on. An arranged marriage perhaps, or maybe the boy ran away with a lover which resulted in a flop. Only the gods know, but Viggo figures he can get something out of this boy.
"You are nothing but the scum at my feet now, boy, and I tend to wash myself of the dirty work. My brother here will do it."
Suddenly, Viggo hears a muffled scuffle. The boy shifts slightly. His large hands reach out, his fingers clasping over a small dark scale. The pile is a multitude of different colours, shapes, and sizes, but he focuses on this one scale.
"Have you ever seen a Night Fury, Viggo Grimborn?"
Present-day.
The cave is coated in a thick layer of snow when Hiccup and Toothless make the long trek down the mountain. Thick sheets of ice gleam in the dappled sunlight, some icicles drip water as they gradually melt, whilst small paw-prints litter the snowy ground. They lead to a secluded enclave that is scattered in stray twigs, branches, and rotting leaves. In the corner, sound asleep, the dormant dragon lays. Toothless' large body casts a threatening shadow over the tiny hatchling.
Slowly, the hatchling yawns. Its cute yawn quickly morphs into a strangled cry when it spots a domineering Night Fury. Fretting and panicking the baby dragon flaps its petit wings, floating right into Hiccup's open arms. It snuggles into his chest, seeking warmth and safety, its own sharp crown lightly scratching Hiccup's armour.
"Okay, okay…" gently, he manages to pry the baby away from his chest, holding it out at arm's length. The hatchling squeals, wriggling its feet in an effort to regain a safe space.
Hiccup carefully treads to the trickling river by the entrance to the cave, the water is warm and crystal clear, and places the baby in the water. It releases a contented sigh- happy to paddle in the water.
Smiling, his eyes drift to Toothless- who drops to the floor, wings opening and closing, eclipsing the light in the room. After a few minutes of fussing, he settles and decides to lick his front paws earnestly. A tiny squeak sounds from the river. He glances back, but the dragon has already scrambled out of the water. It's insistent, it appears, when it violently tugs on Hiccup's leg and intends to drag him in.
Toothless chuckles his weird, guttural laugh, rolling his eyes as his rider is bothered by the tiny hatchling. Hiccup guffaws indignantly. In response, he kicks off his boots and throws them at him.
Bullseye, Hiccup comments. The heel of the shoe smacks Toothless in between his eyes, catching the Night Fury by surprise. His green eyes narrow comically, and his tail drops in front of him, swaying back and forth.
"Oh, I see what's happening here." Hiccup almost mocks Toothless, wringing his hands and loosening his wrists. "You want to fight, big guy?"
The hatchling squeaks, and Toothless playfully roars, swinging his tail. Hiccup skilfully removes his dragon-scale armour, opening the buckles on his chest and arms, and it falls to the floor, the sound of metal clinking resounding in the cave. His vambraces follow, clacking against each other, and then he steps out of the heavy trousers that protect is skin from flame and frost. His feet protest, the floor is cold stone, but the callouses forbid Hiccup from crying out in pain.
Toothless snorts smoke. Hiccup smirks. He's too confident; He forgets I know where his weak spots are.
Hiccup winces remembering how he knows where Toothless' weak spots are.
Hiccups heart throbs, nearly collapsing in his chest, and his throat clogs up. He can barely breathe. By the gods, the air is thin in here. Has it always been this thin? Normally Hiccup can breathe in thin air (years on a dragon will do that to you), but his throat is strangling him. Oh, Freya, he can't breathe. He can't breathe. Why can't he breathe?
Suddenly, he's on the cold floor. There's a weight on his chest. He can't move. Iron shackles anchor him to the floor. A wet, textured thing drags a line down Hiccup's face, rendering him speechless, and he gulps in a handful of air. Yes, this thing is helping. The wet squelch of Toothless' tongue helps to ground Hiccup, but his head feels heavy. So heavy. He clasps a shaking hand to his chest. In response, his racing heart refuses to calm down. He longs for the familiar caress of Heather's hands- she used to hold him when his heart went funny and distract him from the confines of his dark mind. Now he has a brother instead of his sister- Toothless being the ideal replacement. It's been quite a while since Hiccup has retreated to his dark place.
Gods. Hiccup needs to grow up.
(Where are you, Heather?)
It's night by the time Toothless and Hiccup exit the cave. Hatchling fed and washed, it went to sleep with no fuss or interference on Toothless' part. But the Night Fury is subdued. Normally, he would be fritting around the place, happy to escape the small (for him anyway) cave, but now, is head hangs (but eyes keen), pinpointing Hiccup's every move.
"Look after him whilst I'm gone, Toothless. Hiccup needs you, okay, boy. Don't leave him now." Heather's words have clearly stayed with him, only leaving Hiccup when he knows he can handle himself (when they raid ships together is a good example). But the years of Heather's absence have drilled a hole so deep in Hiccup's heart, Toothless isn't sure anyone can cure it.
Hiccup veers off the path, dredging the ground for loose scales and dragon claws. He finds a fair few, but they're mostly adolescent Monstrous Nightmare or mother Singetails, so the scales are thin- not so good for armour or for selling. Nonetheless, he clears them from the nest, the smaller Nightmares scuttling closer to nuzzle their snouts into his chest. Absentmindedly, Hiccup scratches their head, rubbing the gel into their scales, or massaging the junction where the wings meet the back, making sure their skin isn't dry or cracked. Hiccup has learned to care for these dragons- they have the decency to accept his quirks and differences (him being a Viking), and many of the younger dragons he has nurtured from birth. Sadly, most of these dragons are rescued, or born to fatally injured mothers, so he has ensured their safety personally and taken it upon himself to search for foster mothers. He playfights with them for a while, until one sets herself aflame, and her mother returns to fetch her. She gives Hiccup a croon and he only chuckles, crooning back. Dusting off his suit, he sighs.
That's enough for tonight.
After he warranties the dragons return to their respective families, he looks back, and Toothless is climbing his way across the jagged rocks towards their wing of the nest- the highest point. His tail is poised, swishing to the left when he makes a light jump, and swinging to the right when his claws miss a rock. It's Toothless' little game and Hiccup never questions it. He does eye the gears on Toothless' tail, though. Over the years, Toothless' new-and-improved tail (of course, it will never be better than the real deal, but Hiccup can't exactly rewind time), has rapidly changed as Hiccup grows his inventory. His skills as a blacksmith, and as 'Dragon Master', have allowed him to create a machine both he and Toothless are happy with. Some days, Hiccup's sure Toothless feels contempt towards the metal contraption. Even though he never complains aloud; it fails to lessen the pit in Hiccup's stomach.
He swallows the lump in his throat. As usual, his chest feels incredibly tight. Hiccup knows he isn't going to get much sleep tonight.
He arrives in his cave just in time; the embers of the fire lit this morning glow a bright orange. It's humid and water condenses onto every surface, so when Hiccup pulls back some blankets, they're hot and slightly damp.
"Fuck…"
He collapses onto the bed, ignoring the sweat that pools in the spaces in his armour, and kicks off his boots, wiggling his toes. Hiccup sits up, his feet meeting the cool, damp floor. He sighs in relief.
Quiet chirping enters the mouth of the cave.
Sharpshot, Hiccup's personal messenger-Terror, launches herself into Hiccup's arms. Hiccup welcomes the distraction, a pleasant feeling seeps into his heart when her little head juts into his chest. As usual, her green scales are coated in a sheen of muck. He doesn't know how she does it- he's never seen her feet touch the ground. Sharpshot's always hovering or digging her claws into Hiccup's shoulder armour when she perches on him. Now, she weasels her way up his arm, until she's nestled in the junction where his shoulder meets his neck.
"Okay, Sharpshot," she gives a whine when he instead places her on his bed. "I need to get out of this armour…"
The buckles come undone first. The two pieces creating the first layer fall to the floor unceremoniously. Next, Hiccup reaches down to his calves, where he relieves 2 scramasax from their sheaths. He tuns them over in his hands, noting the blades are quite dull. Hiccup predicts a long day at the anvil. He wraps them in leather, placing them next to Sharpshot. At his ankles, he unclips his spare cartridges. His sword, Inferno, is leaning against the wall far from his bed. It's next to his staff which glares at him unassumingly. Hiccup runs his hands up and down the armour protecting his legs. His nails catch slightly on the individual dragon scales, but he finds no new grooves or threatening scratches. Hiccup takes it off. Now, he untucks his notebook from underneath his breastplate. Its contents spill like water onto the bed: loose parchments spin and flutter onto the brown sheets, the violent hues of reds and blues stark against the neutral shades. These are his visages of dragons- whether they're friendly or not. There are teeth stained with blood, scales ripped and torn, claws matted with gore and brains. There are also polished skins, gleaming white teeth, and huge, endearing pupils expanded in rings of beautiful orange and caring blues. The notebook is his past. And his future.
Sighing, and eyeing Sharpshot as she jumps away from the flailing paper, he gently shoves them back inside the book. Next, he releases the catch on his chest plates. They open like butterfly wings to reveal a burgundy kyrtill [5]. It's mismatched, discoloured thread holding holes closed and the thick wool holds the key-hole neckline together. Hiccup reaches for his forearms and unbuckles his vambraces. They're made from dragon scales, with a coating of Gronckle-iron to protect him from stray swords and knives when he's in combat. They, too, follow the rest of his armour on the bed.
The sunlight streams through the mouth of the cave, shining a light on Sharpshot's dirty scales and body. Clipped to her feet is a scroll, rolled up tight, and knotted together with a single white thread.
Hiccup remains confused.
Normally, the immediate instinct is to check his personal messenger for new messages, but Hiccup's lethargic state leaves too much unseen. On another day, he'd have noticed it minutes ago, Toothless would be at his side immediately and they'd fly off to the clouds.
Desperate, he snatches the scroll.
It reads:
Frjádagr, Thor's Hammer
Meet me when the máni meets the ocean
[6] [7]
[1] Frankia » 21st century France and Germany.
[2] Rex » Latin for King.
[3] Dirhams » An Arabic currency used circa 11th-12th century Europe.
[4] Normanni » Latin for Norsemen, often used interchangeably with the Normans (settlers from Normandy, France, in England).
[5] Kyrtill » the outer garment for the man's upper body, also called the overtunic.
[6] Frjádagr » (also Friggjardagr/Friggjardagur) the old Norse name for Friday, Named for the supposed goddess of marriage, Frigg, Odin's wife.
[7] Máni » essentially the moon personified in Norse mythology.
Author's note:
First, I'm sorry. Back in December, I managed to delete all my pre-written, planning and character notes so I had to restart. I was considering deleting the first two chapters and re-writing them, but I ended up writing this. I hope I characterised Hiccup correctly. He's obviously not canon Hiccup (and neither are Astrid and Stoick for that matter), so he won't act like him. I just want you to feel for this Hiccup. Whether that's positive or negative thoughts, it doesn't matter, my writing just aims to make you, as readers, feel something for my characterisation.
This isn't beta-read, only edited and re-read by myself. There will be grammar errors and awkward phrasing- I do try though.
Anyway, maybe I'll see you in a month.
Who knows?