A/N: It's been a very long time since I've updated this. Sorry guys!

It was Gobber's idea to start Hiccup back at the forge. It would give him something to do, he insisted, give him something to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied. Stoick protested at first, saying that he hadn't enough strength for it, but Gobber shut him up by reminding him that Hiccup wouldn't get any strength back unless he worked for it. Better than staring out into nothing, or spending his time hiding food like he would starve. In the back of his mind, Gobber hoped that it would help Hiccup remember Berk and his earlier life here. He knew as well as anyone with half a brain that Hiccup would never be that boy again, but part of him hoped that he would at least remember, that it would be some small comfort.

"Right, and you pull this here to heat the flame," Gobber yanked on the long bellows, and the embers glowed. For all his jumpiness around people, fire did not seem to faze Hiccup. He nodded subtly, so Gobber moved on. "And this is where all the tools are – hammers, prongs, tongs, files, the lot. Try to keep them in their places when you're done with them. This anvil will be yours for the usin'. Mine's that fine one over there. You can start off on these fire hooks. They're damn near impossible to mess up, so don't worry too much about the shape. They just need to tend a fire without breaking or burning anyone, mind. Do you need me to show you how?" Gobber looked at Hiccup. Hiccup, looking at the lump of iron on the anvil rather than at Gobber, shook his head. "Right," the smith said, trying to hide how Hiccup's cold sholder hurt him, "Hop to it, then. No rush."

Hiccup hammered at the iron with rusty skill. It was obvious to anyone that he had done this before, but it took him a level of concentration that Gobber hadn't had to bother with in years. Hiccup looked almost sleepy in the way he moved about the smithy, finding tools and metal bits as he needed them. Amid the sluggishness, his eyes weren't sleepy. His eyes' stare on the anvil was like the hand of a drowning man thrust through the water to hold onto a raft. The sensory of his work, the smell, the look, the sounds, it was holding him in place. He couldn't remember his former life consciously, but deep, deep down in the lost memories of his childhood, his subconscious told him that this was a place where he could relax.

It was the first time he'd tried to relax in a long time. His shoulders remained tense.

They had a customer appear at the window. Gobber saw her first. "Ah, hullo Astrid. What can I do for you today?"

"I think you have Snotlout's sword ready from yesterday?"

"Ah yes, it's just here."

"Great. While I'm here, would you mind taking a look at the-"

Hiccup had turned around to set another fire poker in the pile of those he'd finished. He saw Astrid, and felt his eyes involuntarily widen, just slightly. Astrid's widened considerably.

"Ahh," Gobber said awkwardly, gesturing toward Hiccup. "Astrid, you remember Hiccup," he said slowly, weirdly. Remember didn't feel right here on Berk, considering they'd all thought he was dead for eight years.

Hiccup stood there waiting to be told to do something, and Astrid gaped.

"Um," She said, her expression going very sad until she realized that Hiccup did not look bothered by it. "Um. Yes." She said, not knowing how else to react. How could she react, with him staring at her like that?

Gobber was about to say something, but a man appeared at the second window of the forge. "D-ah, Hiccup, could you...?" He waved at Astrid. "The sword she wants is just there," He pointed at a rack of many swords and went to see to his customer.

Hiccup looked over at the swords and picked through them, trying to deduce which one she would want.

"It's the one with the green leather," she offered awkwardly, and he nodded, picking out the right one. He felt mildly impressed by the quality of the blade. He went over to her and handed the sword across the window. She took it while staring at him, at his tattoo, his scars, his hair. Her face twitched like she wanted to say many different things and didn't know which thing ought to go first. Hiccup clenched his jaw awkwardly, trying to find words himself. She interpreted it as an emotional hurdle. In reality, he was trying to remember which language he ought to use. He remembered Astrid, vaguely. He remembered that he had liked her a great deal. But now, he could not seem to muster more than an internal sadness.

"Do you need anything else?" He asked. The thick accent he used made her frown.

She needed her axe sharpened. "No, that's it."

He nodded and turned back to his fire pokers. She watched him for too long before leaving. Gobber saw her go, and looked back to where Hiccup heated iron on the coals. He sighed, unable to help himself when he thought of all the things that could have been.

After Astrid, Gobber had thought things would go swimmingly for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, in the early afternoon, Hiccup hit a coal and set his shirt on fire. This was hardly uncommon in the forge, but when patting at it didn't help, Gobber took his always-on-hand fire bucket and doused him. It put out the fire, but Hiccup was soaked. Gobber gave an apologetic laugh.

"Sorry, lad," He said, and felt his heart soar when Hiccup's face gave a twitch that could almost hint at a smile, "I've some more shirts back here, one ought to fit you well enough." He led Hiccup into the back room, unsure if he would recognize it from its days as his own work station. It looked a good deal different than it once had. If Hiccup remembered the room at all, it was little more than a flicker in his memory. Gobber dug through a bin of linens, towels, and clothing to find a clean tunic. "Ah, here we are," He yanked out a blue piece with his hook. "Get changed and carry on. No harm done." He gave Hiccup a smile and left.

He came back a short moment later to ask what the boy wanted for lunch. He forgot about lunch as soon as he saw him.

Hiccup was standing with his back to Gobber, using a towel to dry himself off before putting on his dry clothes. His skin was bare. All over his back, there were scars. Welts. Jagged lumps where broken ribs hadn't healed back properly. Some of them were stretched and puckered from age – some were pink. Some were still swollen and bright red. They were mostly on his back, but some showed just corners, edges peaking from beneath his trousers, on the backs of his arms. When Hiccup reached up to dry his hair, Gobber even spotted a scar that disappeared into Hiccup's hairline.

Pure, righteous anger overtook him. I didn't give him time to check his words before he spoke.

"What in the name of Thor?" Hiccup jumped, having not heard the other man come in. He turned to look at Gobber, and there were scars on his front, too, but nothing compared to his back. "What happened?" Gobber demanded. He was angry – not at Hiccup, but Hiccup had lost the ability to differentiate many years ago.

"I was drying off," he muttered defensively. Gobber shook his head in a 'not that' sort of way that Hiccup couldn't read, and stepped toward the boy. He was so angry for Hiccup, so enraged by the sight of the scars that he did not notice when Hiccup flinched.

"What happened?" He asked again, pointing at the scars with his hook, grabbing Hiccup's arm with his hand. Hiccup had gone wide-eyed and stiff, silent as he stared at the floor. Gobber was busy looking at his back. He turned Hiccup by the shoulder to see better. "Hiccup, who did this to you?" He asked angrily. Hiccup remained frozen, so Gobber turned him back around to see his face.

"Who did this? Freya to Thor, boy, you're covered in-" he'd raised his hook hand to gesture to all of Hiccup, but when he did Hiccup's body flinched and his arms shot up defensively, covering his head. Gobber froze in confusion. He looked at his sharp, gleaming hook, and then at Hiccup's scars, and then at Hiccup. He was shaking. Understanding hit Gobber like a boulder to his chest.

Hiccup thought that he would hit him.

Feeling sick to his stomach, Gobber stepped quickly away and lowered his arm. He tried to find something, anything to do next. "Hiccup, I'm sorry, I didn't…" Hiccup was still frozen in place, hands trying to lower from his face but unable to make it very far. It was pure instinct. He was shaking. He was trying to stop, but it was no use. "I… I think you ought to go home for now. You've helped me a lot today, you… you ought to get some rest." Gobber hid his hook from view as Hiccup shoved on his tunic and darted from the room.

Hiccup walked to the Haddock house by himself, but Gobber watched protectively from the forge window. After sunset, Stoick came by to ask how it'd gone. Gobber didn't know what to say.

It was probably better for everyone that they hadn't been at the house, because Hiccup was having loud and horrible nightmares about how he'd gotten those scars, and neither his father nor Gobber would have been able to help wake him from the fear.

After Alvar sold him to the nameless travellers, Hiccup started seeing a great deal more dragons than he was used to in the continent. All of them were in cages. Most of them were either small breeds or juveniles, small enough to manhandle and subdue with no actual training. They were all scared. Some of them, the newly captured ones, were furious. One or two, like the monstrous nightmare that Hiccup had met first, had their fire ducts cut. Most of the others were tightly muzzled, left powerless except to stew smoke out of their nostrils.

He spent about two days speaking to no one but dragons, but even they were hardly good conversation. Hiccup only understood some of the words they used, and mostly they were too angry or terrified to tell him anything useful. The people around him did not speak norse, it seemed, and he did even know how to begin learning their language.

On the third day of their journey, they brought a skinny man over to where Hiccup shuffled along in the procession. Whereas his captors were all dark-haired and tan skinned, this man had freckles and dusty brown hair that reminded Hiccup of home.

"You are norseman?" The man asked in the clumsy accent of an interpreter who is only quasi-fluent, but desperate to stay on his employers' good sides.

"Yes," Hiccup replied.

"I am Hakon," said the man. "My mother was northerner. I am translator for these men,"

Hiccup nodded. The men around the two were watching their interaction intently, eager to learn about their new slave. Hiccup swallowed and asked. "Who are they?"

Hakon looked uncomfortable. "Traders. Of a kind." He glanced at a dragon cage that rumbled in a cart alongside them as they walked.

"They trade dragons?" Hiccup asked.

"They trade nothing. They profit from dragons' blood." Hiccup frowned, not understanding. Hakon explained, "they travel roads to cities, find bad places, dig pits, arenas. Dragons are hungry, forced to fight each other. People put money bets which dragon will win. Men keep portion money. Move to next city."

Hiccup understood, but that didn't mean he comprehended why. His jaw had fallen open. "That's barbaric," he said. Hakon let out a short and humorless laugh.

"You are the barbarian here, norseman," he reminded the captive. "They have bought you to help control dragons. They lose many men trying to control them."

"And why should I help them?"

"Because. You do not, they starve you and make you to fight dragons," Hakon told him calmly. "In past there was other man, speaks better Norse than I know. He lost much money in bad speaking. Bets placed on his fight earned double normal earnings." He let this sink in and added, "Do not let them make money with your blood. Do as told."

Hakon had a short exchange with a man who seemed to be in some position of leadership. The dark-haired southerner nodded. He gave Hiccup an appraising look, and then spoke quickly at Hakon, before nodding at Hiccup. Hakon cleared his throat and told Hiccup,

"He tells you to talk to his dragons," he relayed, "He want big dragon to be calm before match tomorrow night. Easy to handle. Cooperative."

Hiccup could not believe what they were asking of him. "I refuse," He said adamantly. The southerner could not understand the words, but the tone was familiar. He glared and stepped forward.

"Oska, do not," warned Hakon, but the southern man had already raised his fist. It smacked across Hiccup's jaw hard enough to make his nose bleed and ears ring. He fell to the ground and had to dig himself up by a muddy cart wheel before his chains started dragging him on the ground.

"He ask again you to calm dragon," Hakon said form above him, a warning tone in his voice. The southern man was glaring. He had drawn his knife. Hiccup wiped blood from his mouth.

"Fine," he said, in a smaller tone. He planned on disregarding the order, but the southerner could not tell that. Hakon heard the tone and looked worried. He translated, and the leader nodded, before prodding Hiccup toward the cage of a restless nadder.

I will kill you, it hissed through its muzzle, I will kill you all.

Hakon came up behind Hiccup and warned him, "Do not do what you plan, Oska," he whispered despite being the only other one around who understood norse. "One way or other, you will die."

Hiccup stared at the bloody, furious dragon in front of him, and the chains on his neck and wrists and ankle. Would that be so bad?

Hiccup had no way of knowing it at the time, but the chains that bound him would not leave his skin for nearly two years. He would wear them in the sun, in the water, to bed and to the bathroom, he would learn how to dress and undress around them, learn how to pick off fleas and lice from underneath them where they liked to hide. He would learn to ignore the sores they rubbed into his skin.

But the chains were periphery. First and foremost, there were the dragons, and the angry men who tortured them. He never learned any of the men's names. He asked for the dragon's names at first, but he learned quickly not to grow attached. None of them lasted very long.

The dragon fights were primal, bloody, and to the death. They starved the dragons for days up to each fight, not long enough for them to grow weak, but long enough that they would eat anything – anything in sight once they got into the ring. Once all bets were in and the bell rang, two big dragons or several small ones were released into metal arenas built in underground stadiums. The winner would not leave until it had had its fill of the loser. This was convenient in two was: first because everyone loved a good show, and secondly, there was no need to buy dragon feed.

During the matches, the cavernous chambers echoed with the raucous cheers and foul language of gamblers and lowlifes aching for a good time. The sordid air filled with smoke and sweat. Every hallway and cell smelled of alcohol, vomit, sulfer, and stale urine. It seemed as though each city on the easternmost borders of the Roman Empire had a hidden world manufactured just for this purpose, and they found each and every one of them as they travelled further south. When he still had his mind about him, Hiccup wondered if they had bartered with Hel herself for the real estate.

After several months on the road, they made it to a new country, some place Hakon called 'Bulgaria'. There, after smuggling themselves past the border, they arrived at the largest of all the underground arenas Hiccup had ever seen. There were at least ten fighting arenas here, and dozens upon dozens of cellblocks to keep dragons locked away before their fight. He had expected to move on from this place as they had with all the others, but to Hiccup's surprise, this is where they stayed. The men found cheap housing above ground and enough women to keep them occupied. As for Hiccup, the dragon whisperer would not see sunlight for well over a year.

In this hidden hell, Hiccup's job evolved as his captors' needs changed. He calmed dragons, he wrestled dragons to the ground, he 'tamed' dragons and prodded them from outside their cages, riling them up for the fight. Sometimes he tried to refuse. They'd beat him. First it was just fists and feet, but then it was metal-tipped whips and hot irons. He gave in. He healed. Then he'd try again. Each time he refused to do their bidding, he grew weaker. Somewhere along the way, they'd broken him. Now he was just like their emaciated dragons, doing everything he said he'd never do just to survive. He lived in the dirt, underground like the dragons. He didn't get to wash, or shave. He was an animal – a maimed, witless animal. His hair grew out. His beard, which was hardly anything to brag on at his young age, was flea-bitten and haggard. He did everything he could to not feel anything.

They even made him fight, sometimes. They laughed at him, because he did not understand their language and moved like a rabid dog, darting eyes and cringing away if a boot got too close. They'd lock him in his own cell and starve him for a few days, and on the days when they made him fight, the audience would be twice as large as normal. He was too valuable to kill, so they kept his opponents on chains in case worse came to worse, but they were long chains, and the men who held the other ends knew to wait until the last possible moment. If he lost, he would live, but he would not eat. Hiccup learned not to lose.

When he did lose he would cry over his wounds. They would drag his bloodied, weak carcass into his cell and dump him there. Hakon was sent to tend to him. Hakon was the only one who had any scrap of care for Hiccup, and even that was only because he was paid to.

When Hiccup's wounds were especially bad, Hakon would talk to Hiccup in Norse as he treated his injuries, to keep him awake and talking. He started teaching Hiccup Latin words (which apparently was his native language) by saying a Norse word followed closely by its Latin translation. Oddly, incapacitated and hurting as he was, it was in these rare moments of human language that Hiccup found an internal escape, a reminder that he was a human. He cried because he was hurt, but he also cried because he was human. If he weren't human, it would have been easier to let go. Hakon never asked why Hiccup asked time and time again what the Latin word for 'toothless' was. Endentulus. He repeated it over and over again as he fell asleep.

Unfortunately, after about six months in his captor's care, Hiccup's lack of hygiene, pubescent growth, chronic injuries, and the festering sore at the end of his stump came together in a perfect storm.

"Gods above," He moaned to no one, because no one was listening. "Gods, kill me, kill me it hurts," He was only half-awake. It was the middle of the night and he didn't know what he was saying. Someone snapped at him to shut up, but he couldn't hear them. He moaned in agony. "Make it stop, make it stop, Toothless, just kill me, please, please kill me," He cried in feverish pain.

They brought Hakon to see him. By torchlight, the man examined Hiccup with rudimentary medical knowledge and relayed what Hiccup was saying. It was fever talk. He was delirious. But why? They uncovered his stump leg and saw for themselves: an infected, gangrenous lump, eating up through his veins. They all grumbled at that. For a while, they considered killing him. He'd earned them more money than they'd had in ages, but he was done in. It would be simpler to just skewer him, maybe let him 'fight' in the ring one last time and let the dragon win for good.

But the commotion drew the attention of their leader. A jaded, greedy man, he argued with his subordinates for over an hour, grilling them on what they could and could not do, threatening that one of them would take Hiccup's place as his moneymaker and dragon wrangler, should the boy die. From among them, one with more medical knowledge than most proposed a plan. The leader waved a hand and ordered it to be so.

Hiccup was still feverish when they pinned him down on the poorly-lit table and stuck a fold of leather between his teeth. In the repressed archives of his memory, it was all somehow alarmingly familiar.

He smelled the strong, pure alcohol. He felt the tight pressure of the tourniquet around his thigh, how it pinched his skin and made his leg throb from the pressure. He felt the dozen hands shift on his legs and arms, preparing for him to thrash. Later, when he tried to remember, his memories would cut off about as soon as the saw came out. He would never fully remember the amputation itself. He'd been unconscious when they'd had to chop off his foot, but this time he was wide awake and screaming, six men holding him down while the sloppy deed was done. For most of his life, Hiccup would forget every bloody detail of how he'd lost his left knee and half of his thigh. Some things, as any battlefield doctor could tell you, were just too much for the human mind to process.

Then again, the memories didn't leave, not completely. They were still there, deep, deep down, waiting to resurface in just the right nightmare. When the time came, it would all come back. Every detail, every nerve, every jerk when saw stuck in bone, every hand on his body, ever injury that had led up to this, every drop of blood he'd shed, every dragon he'd killed, every time he'd hurled in the arena because the stench was too much, every smear of blood he'd left on the ground when they drug him back to his cell and wrapped his leg in half-clean gause. Every cockroach, every rat, every tick that came to visit what would have been his deathbed. Should have been.

Hiccup woke up screaming. He was covered in sweat and tangled in the bedsheets of home. He looked around himself, saw the sunlight in the windows, his pegleg resting on the floor. He realized he'd been dreaming, and braced for his father to come and check on him. Stoick never appeared, and Hiccup realized he must be alone in the house. He drug himself to a wastebucket and wretched into it, only to turn away so the smell wouldn't bring back memories. He drug himself awkwardly across the floor and heaved open a window. The sweat and tears on his face made the breeze feel even cooler than it was. He savored it. He jumped when a gronkle's rumble sounded from outside. Amid the darkened sky, he could make out the shape of a round brown dragon. It grumbled at him curiously from the roof next door. Hiccup whispered to it.

"Sorry."

"What for?" it was so polite. He hoped they wouldn't make him fight it. No, no, he told himself, that had been a nightmare. A memory. This was different. It was so hard for him to tell the difference.

"I don't know."

"You were scared."

"It was a nightmare."

"Nightmares are nothing to be afraid of."

"It was a memory."

"Oh. I am sorry."

"Hey, Meatlug! C'mere, girl, I got some great new rocks to try out! Gobber says he thinks they might burn hotter than coal, and wants to see if they'll, uh…. Uhh…. Help." Fishlegs had trailed off because he'd seen Hiccup. Hiccup spotted him and ducked behind the window frame. Meatlug leaped down from her perch and gobbled up the rocks that her master offered before spitting them out in a sulfurous heap (Fishlegs took notes on the flames). Hiccup almost heaved again at the smell. He pulled the shutters closed with shaking hands, blocking his nose and trying not to remember the fighting. The fights had gotten so much more bloody, so much more painful after the leg. They hadn't let him fully heal before he went back in the ring, didn't give him a prosthetic. A true cripple drew larger crowds.

Unbidden, his nightmare reawakened in his head, and Hiccup's hand shot up to the pendant around his neck, rubbing the dark, worn dragon scale he kept tucked under his shirt. Stoick found him there that evening when he brought him his dinner. This time he only sighed and left Hiccup alone, not wanting to make it worse than it already was.

Later, Fishlegs would go to Gobber to report his findings, and ask absently what had happened with Hiccup at the forge. Gobber wouldn't say.

Back at the house, Hiccup was fiddling with paper and pencil again, and scratched absently at the scars that still itched his back.