He wished he could have said that the first night was the worst, but it was only the first of many. It is terrifying what can become normal through repetition, but only through taking the normal by its horrible horns and trying to make it healthy again do you realize how terrifying it can be.
And so, Stoick was terrified by his son. He was not sure that Hiccup would ever be healthy again. He wasn't even sure he would be Hiccup again. He would just be... This. Skin and bones and scars, curled up on the too-small bed sideways and twisted like he'd forgotten the concept of 'bed' entirely. The blanket was big enough to cover two of him, but he cowered beneath it, curled up like it was the size of a dish rag.
Stoick couldn't wake him. He couldn't even dream of it. It was noon, past lunch. Hiccup needed to eat - he was all bones. He needed food, especially after the long voyage from Scotland. But how do you wake the man who'd taken your boy and made him into a husk? How do you talk to a man who'd only spoken three words to you in eight years, two of which had been in a foreign tongue? How do you tell someone who'd been a slave for Odin knew how long, in hel only knew where, that he needed some fat on his bones, to eat up and sleep well? How do you even try to help mend such a man without breaking him all over again on accident?
How do you take a normal so terrible as this and make it healthy again? Was it even possible?
Gods, where were you supposed to start?
Berk seemed to understand the Chief's unspoken questions, and stayed well clear of the house that first day. Gobber came by, to see if Hiccup was awake, to see how Stoick was holding up. The chief had developed a white complexion since he'd arrived back from Scotland, and it made Gobber realize how old Stoick looked. Sure, he was getting on a bit these days, but… not like this. The smith didn't say anything, but made sure lunch was ready before he left.
The sun was nearly setting before Stoick noticed. He jumped when he saw it – how could he be so stupid? It was Hiccup's prosthetic leg. A crude thing, a long, long peg that fit right up to his thigh where his amputation had cut through his femur. Hiccup had fallen asleep the night before in Stoick's chair, and the leg had been so cumbersome, Stoick had removed it before carrying his son upstairs. But if he didn't have it now, there was no way he could get downstairs. Stoick's stomach knotted in nervousness. Should he…?
He would check. He would be quiet – it would just be a glance. He would peak in, drop off the leg, and leave. He wouldn't engage – he wouldn't have to. Hiccup was still asleep, after all. He hadn't heard a thing all day, and these walls were hardly soundproof. If Hiccup had woken up, surely he would have heard. Quietly, fingers itching and legs asking him to stop every step of the way, Stoick crept upstairs and quietly, carefully nudged the door open. Hiccup's head whirled around to look at him, and Stoick jumped.
Hiccup was sitting on his bed, blanket wrapped around him, doing absolutely nothing. He seemed devoid of emotion on the inactivity, as if he'd been doing nothing but staring into space for hours (he probably had) and thought that it was expected of him. Stoick carefully came into the room. "Um," He said, and tried not to react when Hiccup's face flinched at the sudden noise, "I, er… forgot this. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, uh… here." He laid the leg carefully next to Hiccup's bed. Hiccup looked at it, and looked up at his father. His adam's apple bobbed and he licked his lips uncertainly.
"Thank you," he rasped, and Stoick's heart froze. As he blinked back emotion, a memory flashed in his mind, of hearing his son speak his first word. He'd been a smiling infant when he'd hit that milestone, all green eyes and hope of approval. Now, twenty one years later, the same green eyes looked up at him emptily from sunken sockets, voice deep and cracking. There was also an accent there that bespoke so much more than the unused voice could, and Stoick felt like shrinking. He looked down for a moment and blinked.
"There's… there's lunch downstairs," He said, and glanced at the leg. Hiccup reached for it wordlessly.
Hiccup's movements were all so deliberate, direct. There was a feral edge to him, too. Stoick could tell he was trying to keep it under control, but it came through. It was in the quick movements before his conscious air could catch up, in the second after his eyes moved across the room. In the twitches at movement and the light in his eyes and said he was ready to fight at any moment. He scarfed down his food speedily, hunched over the bowl his lap, darting eyes subconsciously around the room, defensively. Stoick forgot to lift the spoon to his mouth as he watched his son. It was hard not to. His son. How was… this his son?
He got a few more bites down before he noticed something else. He'd seen it the day before, but he'd been so distracted by everything else that he hadn't actually looked. It was on his right temple, in a puckered pink ring that wouldn't let his hair grow back. A nasty, blue-tinged 'S'.
It was out of his mouth before he could think better to bite his tongue: "What happened?"
Hiccup paused at first, confused. Stoick had stopped and seemed to be choking on his own words. Hiccup saw his eyes and raised a spindled hand up to his temple, fingertips brushing over the marred flesh in memory. He forgot it was there, more often than not. It had been so long. But now… back here, back on Berk, by the smell of the sea, the pine-wooded village with its tar and soot and dragon scale… his fingers brushed the scar again, and it stung like it had at the point of the knife that'd put it there. He did not look at Stoick.
"The first week," he said in that unusual accent. "Mmm… said it was a mistake." He took a hesitant bite and drew his bowl back into his lap. He stared into the broth and saw the sea of eight years ago. "…i' was't," he mumbled.
It'd been a mistake.
It'll all be a big, fat, stupid mistake.
It'd been a mistake for Hiccup to go out with Toothless on that day at that time. It'd been a mistake when he dozed off in Toothless' lap and forgotten the time. It'd been a mistake when he watched the sunset from the beach for the fun of it, and it'd been a mistake when he didn't listen to what the waves brought to shore. It'd been a mistake that they let the boy see them. It'd been a mistake when he started running toward the village to raise the alarm. It'd been a mistake that he'd had a dragon with him. It'd been a mistake when the dragon wouldn't let them be. It'd been a mistake on everyone's part, but it was a mistake with a high price; an eight-year sentence.
They hadn't killed the night fury – it was hard to kill something with iron scales when you only had a few crossbows for defense – but they'd knocked it out with a solid blow to the head, and the boy had screamed so loud, they'd knocked him out too, for fear of him alerting the village past the woods. But they couldn't just leave him there. If he lived, he'd blab. If he died, his body would be found. Maybe they should drown him offshore, some said, leave him for the fish. Maybe they should bury him, let the worms do it. But then one of the more curious among them went through his clothes and found the chief's seal. The captain was livid.
Terrifed might have been a better description. He may have been captain, but back home, he was only a boy prince, out on his first raid proving that he was worth his birthright. He and his small crew were supposed to take their low, slooping vessels over the mainland and through the fjords, to the Wilderwest where the Barbarians lived. They were not to steal, or kill, or plunder. It was forbidden. He wasn't allowed that honor yet. But he had to prove to his father that he had come this far, that he was capable.
He had, and he'd gotten himself into trouble by killing a chief's son. No, not killing. But what could he do? He could not let him live, and he could not leave him dead. How do you not kill someone you need dead?
"What do you want us to do, master?" the oldest of the crewmembers practically spat at him. He was an advisor to his father the Jarl, here to make sure the young heir fulfilled his Journey's purpose, and did so honestly. The boy who wished he was a man glowered. He sweat nervously and tried to pretend it didn't tickle his brow more as his overseer's eyes bore into him. After a long moment and many unspoken curses, the boy glared at the unconscious Viking on the shore, and spat into the water.
"Take him," he said. The weight of amateur mistakes can, at times, outweigh all the luck of the deserving.
The boy-captain got the lecture of the century when they returned. They'd still had some sea to cover before they could turn back, and he'd treated Hiccup so poorly that by the time they arrived home, he was halfway starved and delirious with dehydration. They'd only treated him such because he was such a pain, the boy would insist. He tried to escape, he nearly did escape. They'd taken that fake leg of his and he still tried to escape. He yelled and kicked and bit and called to dragons in an odd tongue – some good that did in the middle of the ocean – and he generally made himself one massive pain in the royal arse.
The Jarl was not impressed. He was absolutely, red-faced, vein-bulgingly enraged. Son or no, Journey completed or no, the so-called heir got the lashing of his life. With words, with looks, with public humiliation, and finally with a resounding slap from the back of his father's ringed hand.
Hiccup had been dancing in and out of consciousness while son and father fought, hands bound behind him and kneeling at the end of the Jarl's hall. His head bobbed around his shoulders as if to indicate the precarious balancing act that faced the Jarl. Kill him, return him, war, silence, gambles, lies. What to do? Hiccup's head lolled to the left? What to do? It lolled to the right.
The Jarl was still arguing with his son when Hiccup's consciousness finally kicked in to stay. He frowned a moment, focusing. It was hard to understand these people… they looked somewhat like Vikings. They had the helmets, the fur, even the language. But there were odd tones in their accents, odd smells on their clothes. They were too clean, their houses too big and too nice, the air to soft, no salt on their complexions. They were different. He had to focus to decipher their dialect.
"And what would you have me do?" The Jarl was yelling at his son from a raised dias, where a massive wooden throne loomed. "What would you suggest, oh my son?" He hissed, "Oh my heir? Tell me? Tell me what you would do!"
"Kill him!" The son burst in fear. "Just… do away with him!"
"No!" The Jarl barked back, disgust on his face. "Stupid boy! If I kill him here on my land, I will have to bury his bones in my fields, wash his blood on my shores. His father and his tribe will come looking for him – and while I lie through my teeth with red hands, his body will scream your crimes from my ground! The Barbarians are ruthless – war with them is suicide, and it is exactly what you have brought me as tribute!" The heir –soon to be former heir- looked helpless. "You have infringed upon the conditions of your Journey. You have taken a prisoner and a hostage to me unrequested, you have invited the most ruthless tribes to declare war on us, and given me your father and your Jarl no ground with which to stop them. You have disgraced me, endangered all of us, and now, your suggestions make it even worse. I cannot kill him," the Jarl hissed, frowning hard. "And I cannot kill you, my own son, though it would do me better than if I were to kill him," he gestured to Hiccup, eyes not leaving his son, who was crying now, tears silently tracking down his face as he stared hard at the ground. No one in the hall said a word. The Jarl sighed. "Now get out of my sight before my sword hand overcomes your father's compassion."
As the former heir scurried away with his tail tucked between his legs, the advisor stepped up to the Jarl's side.
"Sir," He said quietly, "I believe I may have a solution," He glanced up at Hiccup. The look jolted Hiccup through his delirium and reminded him rather vividly that this was all about him. If he were any smarter, he would have felt afraid. He didn't. He wouldn't learn intelligence of fear for a while yet. The Jarl turned to his advisor, and the man said something that Hiccup did not understand. Well, true enough, he understood the words, but he did not know what they actually meant.
"Mark him." The look that the Jarl sent him would haunt Hiccup's memories in months to come, though in the moment he didn't think twice about it. After not even two breaths of consideration, the Jarl nodded.
"Do it," he said, as if washing his hands of some foul stench, "And then get him off my lands, off my hands, off my people's worries."
"Do you have any buyers in town, milord, or should I send him in a convoy to-"
"I don't care," The Jarl snapped, his frayed nerves sparking dangerously. He reeled for a moment, fighting for control over his anger and sudden stress. "But I never want to see or hear of him again. He was never here. My son never touched him. I never saw him. And as far as we're concerned, the Hooligans and their isle of Berk don't exist at all."
The advisor nodded in an administrative way. "Of course, my lord." He turned sharp, hawkish eyes on Hiccup, who saw him sideways as his head continued to loll without his asking. The man glanced at the guard posted behind Hiccup. "Bring me ink," He said. The guard nodded and left. Then, to Hiccup's rather delayed alarm, the man brought out a dagger. He stepped right up to Hiccup and seized a fistful of his hair. He grabbed a fistful just at his right temple, and sawed off a huge swatch without even a blink of hesitation. Just a few moments later, the guard returned with a bottle of blue ink. The advisor gestured with his dagger to Hiccup. "Hold him down," He said business-like, and knelt down and rolled up his sleeves as the guard grabbed Hiccup's shoulder and guided him to the ground so his left ear pressed against the wood floor.
Hiccup's heart was beating a frantic beat against his ribs, his lungs trying to keep up. He wasn't sure what they'd meant when they spoke of him, and he didn't know what was happening. But he did know for absolute certain that nothing good came of it when you were pinned down with your neck out and the man above you held a sharp knife. But they weren't going to kill him, were they? They'd brought ink. But for what? You didn't slit throats with ink, Hiccup reasoned. Whatever they planned to do, he wouldn't die, would he?
He wouldn't die, not then. But at times, when it really wants to be, reality can deal a crueler hand than death.
The advisor's clammy hands on his face made Hiccup's lip curl, but he had mere seconds to leave it that way before the knife was at his temple, and he screamed. The face was a sensitive piece of work, and his was being torn apart. Hiccup thrashed and twisted helplessly against the unexpected pain, screaming against the solid arms of the guard and the hand of the unaffected knifeman who was carving into his flesh. He opened his eyes and one point and was blinded by his own blood dripping into his eye from his new wound. The blood tickled his nose as it dripped further down. With his left eye, he watched in sideways, tear-filled horror as the man uncorked the ink bottle and dipped a finger into it. The hand reached back for his face.
Oh, he'd though it'd been fire the first time. Now, he knew what poison felt like when set ablaze. It was hel, and Thor himself couldn't have kept him from screaming. He thrashed, helpless, wondering what on earth they were trying to do to him. He was still dehydrated, and as the blood and ink flowed mingled down his face, he grew still.
He would wake up many hours later, in shackles, in a wooden cell, with a plate of moldy bread and bowl of water. He'd peer into the water and see his own reflection. A massive bald gap glared at him from where the men had cut off his hair, and just beneath it was their devilish artwork. Carved in angry, inflamed red lines and filled with an unnatural inky blue, was a crude circle filled with an unmistakable 'S'.
Hiccup felt his heart sink to the bottom of the deepest ocean. He'd seen it before, on the faces of others, the pitied stock of lesser tribes.
It was called the Slavemark, and it mean that his life was forfeit, forever.
He hadn't started breathing again when the ground beneath him lurched forward, and he heard the clopping of hooves outside his cell. Except it wasn't a cell; it was a cart. He was being moved. He looked around frantically, down at his stumped leg, his shackled wrists. He saw a fleck of light by his arm and knelt, peering out between the planks of wood around him and watched the prosperous village of the mainland Jarl, whoever he was, fade into the distance.
"Mark him," they'd said. They'd marked him, all right. They'd chained him. They'd maimed him all over again and now they were shipping him off to Odin knew where. They had ruined his life – to a degree that no one could yet imagine.
Hiccup would never learn their names, nor where they lived. He would carry their 'solution' to their mistake to his deathbed. He realized the permanence of it that first day as his fingertips brushed sore flesh for the first time. He did not realize that in due time, he would forget the pain of the Slavemark in favor of pains far worse. It stung against the dirt on his fingers.
A moment passed and Hiccup blinked into the broth of his stew. He hadn't realized he'd been staring at it for so long. Something tickled his nose, and when he reached for it he half expected it to be ink-mixed blood. It was a tear. He pretended not to have touched it. "It's old," he muttered, knowing Stoick was staring at him and not wanting to look back up at him, "Just… a mistake," he said, and continued eating like a hunchback.
Stoick stared, and imagined, filling in the blanks. Would he ever hear all of it? Even some of it? He didn't know. He didn't want to ask.
A mistake, Hiccup had said. All of it, a mistake. Did he really believe that?
Stoick wondered what he should do next, how he should respond. He wondered, in the dark of his mind, if he should believe Hiccup's lie, too, if it was easier that way. Not knowing what else there was to do, he spooned more stew into his mouth.