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THE LAST NIGHT

When Hiccup found a pad of paper in the drawer of his bedside table, writing a letter to his father seemed like the best possible use for the stuff. They never really figured out how to talk to each other; even their farewell was mostly just awkward silence. But Gobber could bring a letter home with him, and maybe it would be easier to get the words out on paper?

As it turns out, no. It isn't. Hiccup mutters a curse, crumples his effort into a ball and pitches it at the wastebasket.

It bounces off the rim and ends up on the floor. Yes, clearly Hiccup and his lightning hand-eye coordination are going to be the terror of the arena. He groans, and picks up his pencil again. A few words in, he gives up and starts trying to sketch the horses that drew their chariot from memory. Drawing at least feels natural, almost relaxing, and the Capitol has provided plenty of memorable models. The soaring facade of the Training Center. The faceted crystal bowl of fruit at breakfast today. Astrid in her training gear, standing proud with her shoulders thrown back, an axe in her hands and determination in her eyes.

He lingers over the last sketch, carefully shading in the curve of her cheek with soft strokes of his pencil. As he runs out of details to add, his drawing hand falters, then goes still...

The door to his room hisses open. Hiccup yelps, nearly leaping out of his chair, but it's only Gobber in the doorway. "Evenin', Hiccup," he says with a gap-toothed grin.

"Oh, please, don't bother knocking, just barge right in," Hiccup gripes, trying to get his breathing back to normal. "Shouldn't you be at Headquarters or something?"

Gobber's expression falters. He eases his weight onto Hiccup's bed, with a popping of weary joints; his mentor was all muscle when he won his Games, and he's only added bulk since then. The frame creaks dangerously, but it holds.

"Aye, well," Gobber says, scratching the back of his head. "About that. Lad, I'm right sorry, but..."

A lead weight settles into the pit of Hiccup's stomach. "You couldn't get any sponsors," he says, grimly confirming what his mentor is too kind to say outright. "Not for me, anyway."

Gobber winces. "Ye did yer best, Hiccup," he says. "In another year, ye might a' had a fine chance, but...ach, it's a promisin' crop o' tributes this year, and they're leavin' precious few scraps between 'em." He shakes his head. "Ye'll have plenty o' support from home, for what that's worth. I'll make it count, however I can. Ye'll just have to do the same."

There's nothing Hiccup can really say to that. Silence stretches between them, as they both contemplate what's coming.

Finally, Gobber heaves a great gusty sigh. He looks exhausted; there are deeply-etched lines on his face that Hiccup never really noticed before. "I should've prepared ye for this, somehow," Gobber says bleakly. "But I never thought it'd be you, lad. Your father - "

"Oh, Dad'll manage," Hiccup interrupts, trying for an airy tone - he can't talk about this, he can't. Not here, not now. "He always does."

"It breaks his heart," Gobber says, undaunted. He reaches out and rests his heavy hand on Hiccup's shoulder. His eyes under those bushy brows are dead serious, and Hiccup finds himself unable to look away. "Our lass Ruff made a fortune for quite a lot o' people, last year. That's not to yer advantage, however ye might think it would be. They always go after the tributes whose district won last. They'll be lookin' for ye both, Hiccup."

Hiccup gulps.

"Strike fast," Gobber rumbles. "Strike hard, and get out. Ye're no heavyweight, but ye're a clever boy, and fast on yer feet. If ye can keep them from getting ahold o' ye, ye'll have a chance out there."

Hiccup nods. "Strike fast, strike hard," he repeats. "Got it." It's the best advice he's likely to get. He clenches his fists; the paper under his hand rustles, and they both glance at the sketch. Astrid's penciled eyes stare fiercely up at them.

"She's got plenty o' sponsors, lad," Gobber says. "Half the Capitol's in love with her. Ye don't have to worry about our Astrid."

Hiccup takes a deep breath. "When she gets home -"

Gobber's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Hiccup, ye don't know she'll win," he tries to interrupt, but Hiccup gives him an exasperated look, and he falls silent.

"When she gets home," he insists, "tell her...I'm sorry. And congratulations, from me." She deserves to win this, and go home to her family, and be happy; and Hiccup knows it. Half the Capitol can get in line.

Gobber gives him a long, thoughtful look. "I never took ye for the giving-up type," he says, almost gently.

Hiccup manages a crooked grin. "Oh, don't count me out yet," he says; mostly because Gobber needs to hear it, needs to pass it on to his father, but still. It's true; for all his pessimism, he can't quite settle to the idea that this is hopeless. His mind is still buzzing like a fly in a jar, struggling to find a way out.

"There's a good lad," Gobber says. He tousles Hiccup's hair with one meaty hand in a way that probably shakes his brain loose, and then he's up and limping out the door.

Right. Hiccup bites his lip, thinking. If he's not giving up, then he ought to get a good night's sleep...

Ha. And then for his next trick, he'll grow wings and fly out of the arena. He snorts, and picks up his pencil again.