.

Chapter 27: Die to Fly

(Hiccup)

Hiccup came to his senses, feeling the cold of the winter's night tighten around his bones. He was not even shivering, so numb he was. Had he remained unconscious for much longer, he would have certainly died. He needed to get up and move. He knew this, and yet, some part of him held him to the ground.

Was it all over? Was his life finally at an end? Without Toothless, what else could possibly await him? Only misery, though even that was not going to last long, before death took him eventually. He could not survive without his friend. He could very well anticipate the inevitable, and lay there, waiting for whatever afterlife the gods chose for the likes of him, an outcast, a failure, and a coward too, apparently.

Hiccup was not sure if his own gods had any power so far from home, but it seemed prudent to assume that none of the southern gods, whose temples he had discovered just yesterday, would be any more approving of such behavior. So, with a strenuous effort of will, Hiccup tried to summon his anger, as he had the night he had found his other dragon-friends dead. Without Toothless beside him, however, he was weak. Useless.

He still had to get up. Perhaps Toothless was alive. He could not give up yet. Not until he was sure it was all over.

I can always die tomorrow.

It was an oddly comforting thought, and it helped him rise from the layer of crumbling leaves on the ground.

The movement made him very aware of how cold he truly was. He shivered frantically, and, for a moment, dying seemed like the easier option. As he got up, his stomach also cramped and groaned. He had not eaten in about a day and a half. Hiccup searched the battle-scarred ground around him. Luckily, despite the darkness, he found what he was looking for.

Tossed beside a tree, opened by someone and obviously discarded, Hiccup spotted the bundle of dried meat he had saved from his broken basket during their crossing of the Wicked Waters. The meat inside had been moistened by the storm and was now somewhat dry again, but, alas, it was not going to be any good in the future. Dry meat could spoil again when wet. Maybe it had gone bad already. Hoping otherwise, Hiccup studied a few slices in the darkness, raising them to the starlight that shone dimly through the branches above.

He shook off one small insect, but saw no maggots, so he bit a slice.

That batch of dry meat had never tasted particularly good, and mild moisture and apprehension were now making it taste even worse, despite his hunger. He could not afford to get sick from eating spoiled meat, so Hiccup closed his eyes, swallowed the slice he had already put in his mouth, hoping it would grant him some strength, then tossed the rest. He still had three silver coins; he could survive a while with those in the city.

He took a deep, cold breath. Then, he tried to open his mind, to reach out, hoping to hear Toothless speak, to feel his presence, yet he heard nothing. There had always been a limit to the reach of his inner hearing. Still, there probably was something. He closed his eyes, and focused.

Then again, maybe not. His mind was not as capable as he had hoped. He had never been able to connect to Toothless on his own after all.

Hiccup studied the ground once more, concentrating strenuously on all his other senses.

The captors had obviously hauled Toothless away from the place, and, soon enough, Hiccup found a wide groove on the forest's floor. It was intermittent; someone had tried to cover it with leaves, but it was deep, and Hiccup could still follow the trail, eastwards and southwards. He moved on, as the forest descended towards what he now knew was the valley of Tinas city.

The groove seemed to deviate abruptly from its straight path. Leaves seemed to have been displaced here as well, and…

…another scorch-mark!

In the night, Hiccup smelled the burnt sap and wood, before seeing the source. A tree's trunk sported a charred patch, and so did the surrounding ground. It was small for a Night Fury's blast, but it still had that very distinct dragon-fire scent.

Toothless had fought them off again here. They had not muzzled him properly perhaps, and he had tried to free himself. He had clearly failed, but this was still terrific news.

He's been taken alive!

Hiccup smiled; tears of relief gathered at the corners of his eyes, but this was not the time to celebrate. He still had to find him.

Something cracked in the distance behind him. A piece of wood, perhaps a stick or a crunching of leaves, soft, but loud enough for Hiccup's hearing. Was someone still out here?

Of course! They just found a dragon wearing a saddle! They must have left scouts in the area.

But then, why had they not caught him already? Had they missed him? It was dark, and he was small, wrapped in a dark-brown pelt, but still… Had he been mistaken for a wild animal? Had Loki, master of all disguises, smiled upon him? He could not let such luck go to waste.

Or will I?

For a moment, Hiccup considered showing himself to the scouts. It was the quickest way to rejoin Toothless. Quick, brave, but ultimately stupid. It was the worst possible course of action, if he wanted to free his friend.

No, he needed to remain unseen at all costs. So, stealthily, like those times on Old Balheim when he had taught himself how to sneak up on rabbits with a knife, Hiccup sprinted ahead, careful not to be heard, guided by dim starlight, following the groove in the ground and the now unmistakable tracks of men.

The tracks led him south-east. Hiccup came out of the forest from a steep, rocky hillside, further south from the city, which he could still see to his left, torches and lamps illuminating its walls and towers in flickering patches. There seemed to be many more farms in this part of the valley.

Hiccup took the most obvious path downhill, and tracks and instincts led him to a large, wooden barn. Checking his surroundings to make sure he was alone, he sneaked into the barn through one small side-door. It had no latch or lock. In fact, the whole structure was in a state of disrepair.

Inside, the place was spacious, and, though darkness swallowed every corner, Hiccup could still see it was utterly empty; suspiciously so. No animals, no hay, no feed. Only mere dust, which seemed to have been recently swept, for there were no tracks displacing it anywhere on the floor. Fearing a trap, Hiccup left the place silently.

Hiding again amongst the crops of the fields surrounding the barn, under the cover of night, Hiccup forced himself to stop, breathe, and think. Was the barn a dead end? It could not be. Toothless had obviously been taken there at some point. Yet, when Hiccup checked the road at the other side of the barn, he found no groove in the dirt leading away from it, only hoofmarks and wheel-lines, which were not uncommon on the dirt-roads of this kingdom.

What did they do in there?

Crouching on the ground, rubbing his forehead, an answer formed slowly into his mind.

They are keeping him a secret!

Dragons were famously rare in the mainland, so the news of a captured dragon nearby would have likely caused panic in the city. Whoever was in charge here was no idiot.

Yes, they dragged Toothless from the forest, and hid him in this barn during the day, so he would not be seen. Then, they probably tied him to a wheeled cart, concealing him somehow, and then they took him away, pulled by horses. If they are being so careful, maybe they waited for nightfall before taking him away. Maybe they are still on the road!

Hiccup tensed, and quickly took the dirt-road leading away from the barn. He followed the wheel-tracks towards the southern edge of the city. He tried to hurry, but found nobody on his path.

Before long, Hiccup spotted one of the southern gates of the city. From this side, it seemed, the buildings continued far outside the city walls. There were mostly taverns and stables, but also regular households, and some people seemed to be already awake at this time, strolling casually in and out of a few establishments, and even in and out of the city.

At the gate, guards patrolled the battlements along the walls, looking down sleepily on the few pedestrians. Fortunately, they paid little mind to Hiccup as he entered the city. Nobody seemed to be looking for young, scruffy, Viking boys.

Once inside, Hiccup hurried onwards, cautiously as he could, avoiding the much fewer guards around at night, and staying near the same road from which he had entered the city, and which seemed to be leading directly to the castle.

He was only halfway to his supposed destination, when day began to break; the sky to his right was glowing faintly already. He ran faster, hoping to intercept the cart that he was sure was carrying Toothless.

When he finally got to the castle, ignoring the beauties and extravagances of this side of the city, Hiccup found nothing, except for another ring of stone walls, and a wide, vaulted entrance, its portcullis lowered, two fully armored warriors standing by it. The two men had tall, decorated halberds in their hands, which they did not point at him. He was clearly not a threat. They both looked surprised, however, and one scowled at him through his gleaming helmet.

"Ve tu nomàs si vàre, radlo?" The man barked. "Vàane! Saerìs!"

Hiccup did not understand the words, but the sentiment was obvious. He was being asked to leave, and not in a polite manner.

Hiccup did not move. He tried to peer into the castle's bailey through the iron grate of the portcullis, unwilling to give up on the probably futile chase, but the man stepped forward menacingly, preparing for a kick, shouting:

"Saerìs! Otto radlo butàri!"

At that, Hiccup scrambled back. He was not going to be able to save Toothless if they imprisoned him too for whatever crime he was committing by standing there. Heart beating in his throat, he fled, passing underneath the tall aqueduct, and scuttling down a steep, zig-zagging path in the cliff, which led him quickly to the docks . Looking back, the guard had not chased after him.

What was he to do now? What had he even hoped to achieve by coming here? How could he hope to sneak into an actual castle? Most importantly, how could he hope to free Toothless, surely the most treasured prisoner in the history of this southern place? All, of course, assuming the dragon had actually been brought here.

Was his inner ear playing tricks with him? Was Toothless truly attempting to reach him? Was that what he was feeling? He could not be sure. It felt more like an instinct, though his instincts had never been particularly reliable in the past. Could he trust them now?

Hiccup saw no other choice. This was his only lead, and he had to save Toothless.

As the sun dawned, however, the impossibility of the task fell over him, and his hopes of seeing his friend again began to fade with the last of the night's shadows. He walked the streets of the waking city, pondering frantically. He even returned to the high city, where finely-attired people began to fill the paved streets, some on foot, some ensconced in decorated palanquins, some lounging in horse-pulled carriages. Hiccup was regularly spotted by patrolling guards, who chased him away. No ragged boys seemed to be allowed in the high city.

Hiccup found himself crossing the river to the island with the many temples. He heard that enormous bell again, but this time he did not follow its tolling. Instead, he walked to the docks, craving the familiar sound of the sea. Maybe it was going to help him think more clearly.

How did they find him? And why did they capture him? Mainlanders have no feud with the dragons. And besides, do these people not fear them?

These southerners had obviously put a lot of effort in capturing Toothless, considering the bloody scene Hiccup had found in the forest. Was it greed that had pushed them? Then why were they keeping it a secret? There had to be some other reason. What had he gotten Toothless into?

Hiccup turned around, and was met once again with an upwards view of the castle, perched atop its cliff.

Was Toothless truly there? Hiccup could always give himself up and find out, but doing so was ultimately going to doom both of them. Maybe they were going to kill him for being a dragon rider. There had to be a proper way to save his friend. He just had to keep looking.

Starved of both ideas and actual food, Hiccup looked for an alehouse, or, more likely here, a tavern. He could not be hungry if he wanted to have any hope of thinking straight.

If they didn't kill Toothless in the forest, then they must be planning to keep him alive. Time is not the issue.

Thinking it cheaper, Hiccup moved eastwards, crossing the second branch of the river and thus leaving the island, towards the slums of the city, where he had already spotted a few tarverns the day before.

The tavern he chose faced a large muddy street, which probably meant he was going to fit in better with the crowd. Hiccup still caught distrustful glances from a few kids, but nobody barred his way as he entered the building.

Inside, the place was definitely not lavish. It was dim and cold, but also wide, with lots of wooden tables and benches. Two fireplaces crackled lightly at the sides of the large room, the ceiling of which was sustained by four stone columns. There were a few doors leading towards other chambers, and one set of wooden stairs led to the upper floors. At this time of morning, the patrons were few, and they sat far from one another, in total silence. They were all older men.

Hiccup, not knowing which door led to the kitchens, took a seat and waited, close enough to one of the fireplaces, but still a table away from a grey-coated man, sipping his soup.

Soon enough, an aproned girl spotted him. Dark bangs covered most of her face. Hiccup found her timid bearing to be reassuring enough, and, in the only language he knew, he asked for water and for something to eat.

Without raising her eyes at him, the girl nodded and left.

Does she speak my language? Hiccup wondered.

Perhaps it should not have been so surprising. This was probably the only kind of place Vikings could afford, when they sailed here in the warmer seasons, as some of them apparently did. Maybe Fjalar and Alvin, the two boys Hiccup had met in Nendur's tavern, had already been to this place. Maybe even trader Johann. The world felt suddenly smaller at the thought.

Along a tin pitcher for water, Hiccup was given a piece of dark bread and a bowl of vegetable soup, which could have still used some boiling time. Hiccup did not have the will to care or complain, and attacked the food. Had he not been so preoccupied with Toothless' whereabouts, he would have realized how much he had missed the taste of boiled carrots. His mind, however, was elsewhere.

Before leaving the place, Hiccup gave the girl one of his three silver pieces. She looked troubled at the likely too valuable coin, but took it. Then, speaking not a word (was she a mute?), she returned with twelve pieces of copper. Hiccup had expected a bit more change for a whole silver piece, but he did not want to make a scene.

His hunger somewhat calmed, he resumed roaming the streets between the slums and the docks, unwilling to go back to the high city without a plan, and hoping the movement would keep him warm.

So, how do I get Toothless back?

He had always been good at devising contrived solutions. Gobber had often called him smart. Had it been a lie?

As he walked, Hiccup bumped against a cluster of boys, all shorter than him. His mind adrift with worry, he had not seen them approach. They had probably been walking in the opposite direction, taking up the whole narrow alley.

Ready to apologize, Hiccup looked up, recognizing one of the kids who had stared at him when he had entered the tavern. The boy looked away with nonchalance, whilst some others feigned bafflement at colliding with him. After seeing their faces, Hiccup could not help suspecting that they had done it on purpose. But why? He did not stop to ask, and made to walk past them.

That's when he felt a hand underneath his fur pelt, near his belt-knife. Hiccup seized the pommel immediately, and unsheathed the weapon, presenting the blade to the other boys, his heart racing.

He tried to take my knife!

Looking at them again, Hiccup counted seven boys, all dirty and unkempt, and all younger than himself, somewhere between the ages of nine and twelve. They all backed away from him with practiced reflexes. The littlest one, an impish-looking, brown-haired boy, cursed under his breath, though he was hiding a smirk. He was the one who had tried to take the knife.

The oldest said something, smiling. Were they going to attack him?

Both hands on the hilt, trembling with fear and anger, Hiccup raised his small weapon to the taller boy, who, fortunately, lifted his arms in defeat and backed away, his falsely apologetic grin never leaving his face. The other kids followed after him.

Hiccup leaned on the closest wall, gasping for air.

They were trying to rob me! In the middle of the day! And with other people walking by!

Such a thing was unheard of, or at least it would have been on Berk.

Hiccup put his knife back into its sheath, and hurried away, legs shaking, but ever more vigilant.

Before too long, however, he stopped in his tracks. His breath caught. Closing his eyes, hoping with all his heart that he was wrong, he touched the side of his belt opposite his knife.

His coin-pouch was gone. It had been snatched by the more experienced hands of another of the little thieves. Cold panic washed anew in Hiccup's chest like a hard chill. He turned around, preparing for a chase, but the gang of boys was long gone. Besides, what could he do if he caught up with them? He couldn't fight all seven, even with Gobber's knife. He might have been taller, but he had no actual fighting skill.

That was the moment when true desperation began to set in. With a huge effort of will, he had managed to keep it at bay, but now the horrible feeling returned to confront him. Hiccup sucked in air with deep, quivering gasps.

Everything will be fine. This is not the end. I just need to calm down.

Despite his inner chant, panic welled up within him, paralyzing him, making him sweat despite the cold. He could only wait, hoping it would soon subside.

But what if it didn't? Could people truly get used to utter, constant despair? How? How did people live when they found themselves so lost? How was he going to live without Toothless?

Hiccup felt himself begin to break. He could feel the gradual process, like a poison taking effect. He could almost measure the void within him, the terrible loneliness spreading under his ribs. It was unlike anything he had ever felt, even after becoming an outcast, even after his mother's death.

Was this the feeling that drove some people to jump off a cliff? He understood it now. He understood it enough to hate it, enough to fear it. Hiccup clung to that fear like a lifeline.

He felt small, like a little child, ready to weep for himself. Had he not grown up at all? In a year, he was going to be fifteen. Boys would sometimes marry at that age, and make children of their own. Would those boys have known how to deal with all of this? Would Snotlout, or Tuffnut, or Fishlegs? Was he not supposed to know himself, as a nearly grown man?

Hiccup started walking again, both hands clutching his pelt close to his chest. He roamed the streets near the docks, trying to salvage his sanity, praying for a way to find Toothless without getting himself killed or captured. The people walking past him looked at him without interest, without pity, without even the recognition Hiccup had been accustomed to on Berk, even in his most dejected of days.

The afternoon wore on. Before sundown, Hiccup caught a muffled sound of music: a distant, mellow plucking of strings, coming from behind the back-alley window of a large building. He walked towards it, rose on his toes, and peered through one yellowish glass tile. The place was a richly decorated tavern, of the kind that, had his coin-pouch not been stolen, he would have still been unable to afford.

Inside, two players seemed to be rehearsing their tunes. Unlike that performer in Nendur's shabby tavern, these men knew how to use the strange instrument. It was a rounded, hollow wooden box, with a flat side, and strings stretching across it from one end, to the edge of a flat, wooden shaft.

Each with their own set, the two men wove sounds together with a talent Hiccup had never beheld, producing a sweet, lonesome melody. It seemed like the two players were talking to each other, using mere notes, simple ones, but somehow rich with meaning. For some reason, Hiccup found those notes to be perfectly tailored to his current emotions, as if the gods had planned for him to be there at that very instant, making him feel as if his life was nothing but a myth, a tale bards would only sing in low wistful tones after the feast, when all were too tired or too drunk to pay attention.

Then again, who would sing of a 'hiccup'? Nobody sang about outcasts or turncoats…

…or beggars. Is that what I am now?

Hiccup fell back on his heels. He left the place, the tender music still playing.

Sundown was finally upon the city of Tinas. Maybe he could try to sneak into the castle during the night, but he could not begin to fathom how. Maybe it was true; there was nothing to be done.

Drifting to the easternmost side of the city, hoping to find a safe place where to rest and think without encountering more gangs of thieving kids, Hiccup entered a dark windowless back-alley, barely wide enough for two people. Looking for a hiding spot, he touched a strangely tepid wall; perhaps there was a hearth at the other side, warming the stone. He slumped with his back against it, and sank to the muddy ground. There was no one there to see him, only stacks of abandoned crates. Hiccup tightened the pelt around his shoulders. His stomach growled.

Above him, the sky had turned a deep red, like that of hot coals. It looked as if the whole city was on fire, though it was merely the sunset, filtered through the smoke of hundreds, maybe thousands of hearths, belching greyly into the air. Hiccup stared up at the crimson sliver between the towering buildings. Soon enough, exhausted, he leaned against a crate, and closed his eyes.


Mornings and evenings blurred as they passed. How many days had it been since he had lost Toothless? Six? Seven? Maybe more. He could not remember. He no longer slept at daily intervals, only when exhaustion took him, which was often. He would doze off in that same alley, thanking the gods no other beggar had discovered its perks; the place had so far shielded him by most eyes and wind, and its tepid wall, along with his heavy pelt, were probably the only reasons the cold had not yet claimed his life.

Hiccup had occasionally found food in the city; garbage, really, but it had kept him alive. He was beginning to learn which taverns threw away the most edible remains, though he did not always have the courage to join the other hungry scavengers, who regularly appeared in those back-alleys. He was not the only young street urchin in Tinas, and he was afraid of crossing paths with that gang of kids who had stolen his coin pouch. He had managed to avoid them so far.

Hiccup had also discovered two wells for drinking water, but only after stupidly trying the river-water, hoping it would taste less sour than that of the horse-troughs spread throughout the city. Alas, not only did the river-water not taste better, but it had made him evacuate explosively from both ends for a day and a night. The pain and discomfort had made him temporarily forget how humiliating it was to make his waste in the open, no matter how dark or deserted the back-alleys, which he still had to visit for that natural purpose, trying his best not to be seen. He would regularly fret about it afterwards, shame burning his face, praying to all the gods nobody had caught sight of him, and that nobody ever would.

That particularly bad day for his bowels came and passed, before Hiccup noticed what people threw into the river's stream. It seemed obvious now, considering the population, but Hiccup was a Viking, and Vikings did not dare soil the small and precious rivers of their islands with their waste. That's what the sea was for.

Fortunately, the wells Hiccup had found were not affected by the filth, though their water did have a mild taste of seaweed. That was probably why the high city was served by an aqueduct, which brought fresh water from afar.

Still, even with his meager sources of sustenance, every time Hiccup woke up, it was almost a surprise. I'm still alive, he would think whenever he opened his eyes, wondering: How long can a person live with so little food? More than he had previously thought, apparently. Hiccup had never been one to eat a lot, but he had never been truly hungry before either.

During all those days, Hiccup had regularly failed at rescuing his friend. He had twice risked getting captured himself, trying to climb the castle's walls, before accepting the truth: the mighty structure was impenetrable.

Still, every time he got close to the place, sneaking past the patrolling guards, he would always feel something. He could never be certain, but, somehow, he could feel Toothless close by. His inner hearing seemed to vibrate whenever he found himself in the high city. Yet, he could hear nothing; likely, it was a mere impression, spurred by the fear of being spotted and chased by the city watch, as he already had a few times. Street urchins were not welcome in the high city.

Fighting for wakefulness, Hiccup would sometimes try to come up with other ways to save his friend. He also tried to stretch his inner ear, struggling to connect his mind to the dragon's, ignoring the distance, and hoping to penetrate the walls that likely separated them, although he had never managed it by himself before, even face to face. He nonetheless reached out, harder and harder, forcing his brain in ways he was not sure had any effect, but which did grant him a few nosebleeds.

After the first few days passed, however, the void in his stomach became too painful, clouding his mind, pushing back his less immediate worries. Ultimately, the hunger took over.

Mildly aware of the shame he felt for shifting priorities, Hiccup considered a few ways to fight starvation. At first, he had let a strange instinct do the work or him. Or, rather, it was an animal reflex, which the hunger had woken, to keep him alive, to make him scavenge for food amongst the garbage. Hiccup had allowed it to take over him a few times, though pride would invariably fight it back. He could not rely on scraps and leftovers for long anyway.

The first solution Hiccup had considered to solve this problem was that of selling his knife, but it was the only weapon he had, the only way to fend off further thefts, and he knew it was not going to be a permanent solution.

His second plan was that of hunting in the forest west of the city, but he no longer had his bow, and, without the Night Fury's help, it was not going to be an easy task. He could try making rabbit snares, but scouts might still be searching the area. Besides, how was he going to cook his catch? He had never learnt how to light a fire without flint and steel, or, even better, a dragon.

The last solution Hiccup had considered was that of asking for help, either to the small Viking temple, or to Dàlaras, the old bookbinder, who had even offered him an apprenticeship in his shop.

Both ideas, however, did not appeal to him. In fact, they frightened him.

His repulsion was not exactly rational. There was just something about accepting the help of other people, of other humans, that, after all he had done, after everything humans had done to him and his friend, seemed intolerable.

Perhaps it was his pride again. In his current condition, its lingering presence was a constant source of wonder, but Hiccup seemed to hold on to it, like a man clutching a festering limb.

Yet there was something beyond pride, some other reason, a much more horrible one: asking others for help would have been an acknowledgment that Toothless could never be rescued, or worse, that he was dead. While there was probably a flaw in this way of thinking, the question lingered: what if going to other people for help with his own condition, for his own hunger, would somehow entail the ultimate abandonment of his one and only friend?

Hiccup could already imagine himself (in fact, one night, he had even dreamed of himself) years into the future, working as apprentice to the bookbinder, without ever taking to the skies again, without ever resting in Toothless' warm, scaly embrace, yet eating hot food among the books, sleeping in a dry bed, washing every week.

The image had given him a guilty sense of comfort, and he had reveled in it a few times, hoping it would ease the pain in his belly, knowing it was still a possibility. He could always go to the bookbinder's shop, and ask. Any day was good.

No.

'We are both going to live, or die together,' Hiccup had vowed as a captive in Berk's prison, nearly nine months before, and now, in one of his more lucid moments, he renewed that vow.

Maybe it was time. People died, after all; it was normal. He was going to die too one day. Maybe that day was tomorrow. Maybe it was this very evening. Why fret over it? At least he had lived. At least he had tried. He had gotten up that night in the forest. The gods would understand. He had never aimed for Valhalla anyway.

Besides, what if Toothless was already dead? Hiccup revisited the thought. Shouldn't his own death feel trivial before that notion? The answer seemed obvious. But then, why did the prospect of dying himself feel so unappealing? Without Toothless, what else was there? Why did he still cling to life?

There was still something, something other than Toothless, that was keeping him from accepting his own demise. It came almost as a shock. He tried to look for the reason within himself. If he wanted a death without other regrets, he had to let go of it; nothing else could matter before Toothless.

Hiccup thought back on his life, searching his memories. What had he left behind? Where was this unease coming from? Was it the bookbinder? The sailors on Nendur? His hut in the Archipelago perhaps? No, he had left nothing there; it had been destroyed, his dragon-friends were dead.

His mind drifted north, flying over blue seas, white clouds, green islands, faster than a Night Fury, remembering each of the places he had left behind, those without a name, and those inhabited by Vikings, dismissing each of them.

Finally, he was back on Berk, and, there, he found it.

How long had it been since he had willingly thought of home? He could not recall. He had let those memories gather dust in some dark corner of his mind, but he had never truly thrown them out. He had to do it now.

As if with a hot knife, Hiccup reached within himself, ready to cut that part of his life away. A necessary amputation.

Will he grieve for me?

The question surged into his mind, unwelcome.

Will father mourn when he finds out I died here, like this? Will he cry when he learns that he won't find me in Valhalla?

Part of him already knew the answer, but Hiccup could not afford to acknowledge it. It would only sharpen his regret, the very thing he was trying to dispel.

It was too late, though. He thought of his father, and of Gobber too. They had both taken care of him, in their own way. They would have never wanted this for him. What a source of disappointment he had been, and still was to those two men, and to the whole of Berk, even from so far away.

Hiccup curled into a ball against the tepid wall of the alley, and wept for them. He did not want to let go, neither of Toothless, nor of his memories. He did not want to die of cold and hunger. He did not want to disappoint anyone more than he already had.

He wiped tears on the sleeves of his outermost tunic, then stared at the stains. He looked at his clothes underneath the heavy pelt, the clothes his father had given him; so much larger they had seemed then, rotten now, ready to fall apart, just like he was.

Hiccup clutched those dirty rags to himself, feeling his journal still tucked underneath, touching his empty belly. He clung to them with white-knuckled fervor, groaning to keep the tears in. He remembered his old room, the familiar smell of it, his house, its crackling hearth, his father's heavy, wooden armchair.

Stoick had often been absent, but a word was always shared during the day, and, at night, there was the snoring, carrying from downstairs. Hiccup had never liked the noise, but, after his mother's death, it had begun to make his sleep easier. It meant his father had not yet been killed in a raid. It meant he still had a family.

Compared to now, things were quite alright back then, Hiccup thought. Without the constant suspicion that Toothless was alive, he might have prayed the gods to take him back there, back in time. He would be fine as the village-hiccup again. With easy food, and a hearth, and work as a blacksmith, he would even smile at the occasional jabs and sneers from the other kids, and gladly deal with his father's disappointed frowns. Such things seemed all so trivial now.

No…

"He's still alive," Hiccup whispered to himself, finding a new soreness in his throat, but disregarding the threat of illness. What did his health matter?

He got to his feet, startling a raven which had perched itself upon a nearby crate. The bird was perfectly black, its plumage pristine and glistening. It glared at him, and cawed.

Hiccup had not seen any ravens since crossing to the mainland, only a few smaller crows, but mostly pigeons. He reached out to caress its black feathers.

Promptly, the raven bit his finger, and Hiccup withdrew the hand, sucking his teeth in both pain and surprise.

He had never been bitten by a raven before; the black birds had always seemed to like him in the past. Maybe that held no longer true after all this time, after what he'd done, after who he had become.

"I guess I deserved that," he said hoarsely.

The raven made a clucking noise in response. It sounded like disapproval.

"Oh... I don't know. I wasn't always like this, was I?"

The raven cocked its head, taking a cautious step forward, perhaps hoping for some food.

"Yeah…" Hiccup agreed, swallowing hard against the soreness in his throat. "This has gone on for long enough." He took a deep breath, coughed, and straightened his shoulders, mustering what little strength he had left.

The raven cawed loudly and took off, its wings blowing air in Hiccup's face.

Hiccup watched it soar between the high rooftops, into the winter's morning sky, back to Asgard; back to Odin. It was going to rain soon.

Please, tell him… tell him that at least I won't die a coward.

Heart drumming unsteadily in his chest, Hiccup left the dark alley, and trudged towards the high city for one last time, his eyes firm with a new, final purpose.

If I am to die soon, let it be today.

If I am to die today, let it be as a Viking.


AN: This chapter is, in part, an homage to one of my favorite arcs of one of my favorite fantasy books. I'll let you guess which book it is.

By the way, if it's any consolation, just like in that book, things do brighten up from here. A protagonist, however, can never truly become a hero, unless he's seen rock-bottom first. According to classical tradition, they should literally visit hell, but the slums of Tinas Low will have to do. (For now...)