A/N: Wow…this story officially has more faves and follows than any other story I've posted here, and it has the second highest number of reviews. You guys are amazing! Thank you so much! I'll do my best not to let you down.

Also, I realized this morning that I accidentally posted the unedited versions of the previous three chapters. So I've gone back and fixed them up. Nothing much was changed, except the timeline was pushed back from four months after the first film to six months. All other changes were purely grammatical. But I thought I'd let you know anyway.

One last thing, this is the chapter that has the self-harm. So if that's a trigger for anyone, be aware of it.

Chapter Four

Breaking Point

Hiccup landed Toothless and led him up to the front door of his house. "It won't take long for me to pack, bud," he whispered. "Then we just have to wait till everyone's asleep, and that shouldn't be too…uh, Dad? What's…what's going on?"

Hiccup had opened the door to find his father standing in front of the fire, accompanied by Gobber, his uncle Spitelout, and four other big, burly Vikings. None of them were smiling.

"Hiccup," Stoick said tonelessly. "There you are. Where have you been?"

"Uh…" Hiccup glanced at his dragon worriedly. "We went for a flight."

Stoick sighed. "I see. Come here."

Hiccup hesitated for just a moment before stepping toward his father, his unease written plainly on his face. "Is…is everything…ow!" Stoick grabbed him by the arm and started dragging him toward the stairs. "Dad, what's going on?! What're you doing?!"

Stoick didn't answer him. Instead he called back to the others, "Take the dragon away."

Hiccup suddenly couldn't breathe. "W-what?!" he yelped. "No! No, not Toothless!"

The other Vikings all closed in around the Night Fury, who crouched and snarled threateningly, but he was outnumbered. In no time, he was restrained and being forced from the house, roaring at the top of his lungs.

"Toothless!" Hiccup yelled. "No! Dad, you can't do this!"

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do!" Stoick snarled, pulling his son up the stairs. "The dragon is being taken to your cousin Snotlout. He's his dragon now."

"No…oh gods no!" Hiccup pulled as hard as he could but Stoick's grip on his arm was like a vice and he couldn't free himself. "Please Dad, don't take Toothless! I can't lose him! He's all I've got! Please Dad, I'm begging you! If you've ever cared for me at all, the way a father cares for his son, then please, please don't take Toothless away from me!"

Stoick gazed down at him, and for one moment Hiccup thought he would recant his decision. Then he said, "You have done nothing to earn that dragon. Snotlout is far more deserving than you are, and if you don't get your act together he will be taking your place as my heir. Think long and hard about that one, Hiccup."

And with that, he shoved Hiccup into his room, slamming the door shut behind him, hoping his son hadn't noticed the look of pain in his own eyes.

Hiccup stood motionless for several moments, staring blankly at the door, his pulse pounding in his head. The shock and horror of the situation left him paralyzed. It couldn't have happened…it wasn't possible…

Then he screamed and launched himself at the door. It wouldn't budge: Stoick had barred it from the other side. He rained his fists on the wood, pounding and yelling his dragon's name at the top of his lungs. When it became clear that he wasn't getting out that way, he turned to the hole in the roof he'd cut long ago so that Toothless could come and go as he pleased, only to find that it had been boarded over. His room was now his prison, and Toothless was gone.

"No…no…no…" Hiccup ran his hands through his hair, desperately searching for a way out and finding none. "Gods, please don't let it be true…not Toothless…not him…please… please don't take him away from me…please…please…"

The gods weren't listening to him.

He collapsed on his bed and curled up in a ball, murmuring, "No…please…please…" as sobs started to wrack his body. Tears pooled up and spilled from his eyes and he made no effort to stem their flow. A giant hand had just torn into his chest, leaving a Toothless-sized hole in its wake. With his dragon he had been able to deal with his rejection, never quite happy but able to exist. But without him…what was he supposed to do?

Hiccup's sobs continued long into the night. It was almost dawn before he finally cried himself to sleep. And when he awoke, he was changed. Stoick noticed it at once when his son came downstairs in the morning. Ever since the day of Snotlout's party, Hiccup had become more distant, retreating into himself and making eye contact as seldom as possible. But he had always seemed…well, alive. Now…now his body moved as if controlled by puppet strings. He kept his head bowed and eyes on the ground. His back was slightly hunched and his arms were folded across his chest. "Hiccup," Stoick said, "get to the forest. You're going to be…"

He trailed off as Hiccup glanced up at him. It was only for a moment, not even a full second, but when their eyes met Stoick felt a chill go down his spine. The light he'd always seen in his son's eyes had been extinguished. He was little more than a walking corpse.

He didn't say anything. He didn't even acknowledge that his father had spoken. He merely walked to the door and stepped out into the cloudy, overcast day. Stoick stared after him for a long time, wondering if perhaps he had taken things too far after all…

Hiccup didn't say a word throughout the entire day. He picked up his axe when he joined the other men in the forest and began chopping as best he could. He was still clumsy and his accuracy was deplorable, but no one made any snide comments today. Perhaps they saw the same lifelessness in him that Stoick had.

He came out of his stupor only once. Around midday the telltale screech of a Night Fury tore the air, and he looked up sharply, turning his head toward town. He'd recognize that sound anywhere: Toothless was angry. Angry, and calling for his human. The sound faded away after a moment, but Hiccup continued to stare in the direction of the village, his eyes shiny and threatening tears. He returned to his work before anyone could tell him he was being lazy, and everyone present was downright alarmed by how violently Hiccup attacked the tree before him, felling it faster than any he'd chopped before. It was this uncharacteristic show of aggression that persuaded the boss to let him off early. Hiccup didn't speak when he was released, not to thank his superior or to inquire the reason behind his dismissal. He merely swung his axe into the nearest available stump and walked away.

He didn't pause on his walk home until he reached the base of the hill his house sat on. He'd been forced to climb it alone for a month now, but it hadn't gotten easier. If anything, his exhaustion from weeks of hard labor made each day's return harder than the last. About a third of the way up, his prosthetic snagged a tangle of grass and he went down hard. He made no move to pull himself up immediately, choosing instead to simply lie there, taking deep ragged breaths that could have been mistaken for sobs.

He was alone. And he couldn't stand it.

"I can't," he gasped aloud. He didn't know who he was speaking to. Maybe it was to the gods that seemed to have abandoned him. "I can't do it…I'm so tired…no more…no more…"

With tremendous effort he forced himself to his feet and finished the climb, panting heavily by the time he opened the door. Stoick was seated at the fire, talking to Gobber. They both looked up in surprise at his entrance. "Hiccup," Gobber said, standing. "Didn't expect you back so soon. Done early?"

Hiccup didn't answer. He didn't even look at the man he had once trusted, the man he had once seen as a kind of uncle. He merely turned to the stairs and began to climb to his room.

"Supper will be ready soon!" Stoick called up after him. The only answer he got was the sound of a door slamming shut.

Once out of sight of the two Vikings, Hiccup allowed his façade to crumble. He fell heavily onto his bed and started to cry into his hands, his shoulders shaking, loud sobs escaping from between his fingers. He tried to muffle the noise, but the sounds carried down to the men below, and they looked sadly at each other.

"Don't look at me like that," Stoick said after a moment. "You know I had to."

Gobber shook his head but didn't reply.

Hiccup's tears slowed after a few minutes, his vision clearing enough for him to grab his sketchbook from his bedside table. Opening to a blank page, he gripped a charcoal pencil in his left hand and started to scribble.

Hiccup the Useless, he wrote in big letters across the top of the page. Then underneath that he listed off, Worthless. Mistake. Unwanted. Unloved. Weak. Wimp. Screw-up. Worst Viking in the history of Vikings.

He paused, gazing blankly down at the paper. He wasn't sure why he was doing this. Release? He tore the page out and started on the next:

They all hate me.

Dad – not the perfect son. Not a perfect Viking. I'm a disappointment.

Astrid – too weak. Not a hero. Deserves someone better than me.

Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruffnut, Tuffnut – not strong enough, not smart enough, don't fit in. Never have, never will. I don't belong.

Gobber – worst blacksmith Berk's ever known.

Toothless

He stopped, his hand shaking and eyes threatening to spill again. He took a deep breath and continued writing.

Toothless – taken from me for my incompetence. For my failure. For being useless.

There was that word again. Seeing it in print made fury boil up within him. He tore this page out and scrawled in big letters on a third page: I'm hated because I'm ME!

He'd been wrong to try finding release with this. He certainly didn't feel any better. With a wordless cry of mingled pain and rage he snapped the sketchbook shut and hurled it across the room. It landed on his worktable, knocking something long, thin, and shiny to the floor.

His dagger.

He stared at it for a moment, his expression suddenly blank, almost thoughtful. He stood up and walked over to it, bending down to take the blade into his hand. Straightening, he stared at the little weapon. Small, like him. Tiny, easy to overlook, yet still capable of great harm.

He returned to his bed and sat down on it, his eyes never leaving the knife. The blade was sharp, he knew that. He was always careful to keep his tools in prime condition.

Why not?

Who would miss him? Certainly not his father, or Astrid, or his friends, or Gobber, or anyone else in the village. Heck, they'd probably all throw a huge party once he was out of their way for good. The only one who would grieve was Toothless, but he had a new master now.

Without consciously making a decision to do so, he took the knife in his left hand and pressed it to his right wrist, creasing the skin. One slash, that's all it would take. It would be easy. One quick slash and he'd feel no more pain. No more being looked upon as a disappointment, a nuisance…

He gasped and drew the knife back, his hands shaking. No, this was stupid, he shouldn't even be considering it. It was the ultimate act of cowardice to take one's own life, he knew that.

Coward. Just one more word to add to the list, a nasty voice in his head whispered. Really, what's one more name? How could they possibly think any less of you than they already do? Besides, you won't have to deal with their criticisms about your cowardice. You'll be in a better place.

You'll be with Mom.

He inhaled sharply at that thought and slowly pressed the blade against his skin once more. His heart hammered in his chest and his lungs seemed incapable of drawing a complete breath. He could do it. It would be easy. No more pain, no more heartbreak, no more…no more being a hiccup. He'd be able to see his mother again, the one person he was sure would have loved him no matter what.

He hesitated for just a second longer.

Then he grunted and drew the blade swiftly across his wrist.

The knife fell to the floor with a clatter as blood spurted upward from the gash he'd made. Almost at once he started to feel dizzy, though maybe that was a result of seeing so much blood rather than its actual loss. He reached up with his left hand and doused his fingers, gazing down at the crimson fluid in almost detached fascination. This was his lifesource, his essence, a part of who he was.

I am Hiccup… he thought, and without thinking he wrote the name HICCUP in his own blood on the bedsheets beside him.

I am Hiccup the Useless…

Under his name he wrote USELESS, having to press his fingers to his wound again for enough blood to finish the word. His vision was starting to blur, and his heart gave a bound. He only had a few minutes left now.

I am Hiccup the Useless, and I'm sorry…

He wrote SORRY on the sheets.

…I'm sorry I couldn't be the Viking you all wanted me to be…

The Y of SORRY came out lopsided as he fell back onto his bed. He felt heavy and dull, lethargic, without the strength to hold himself up any longer. He couldn't see much anymore: just a vague distorted mass that must have been the rafters of his house. They were the last things he'd ever see and for some reason this knowledge didn't bother him.

What do you know? he thought dimly as the world around him faded to black. I finally managed to do something right.

And then the darkness claimed him.

…

"I'm going to tell him," Stoick said aloud as he climbed the stairs to Hiccup's room. "He's hurting too much now. I have to tell him."

He knocked on his son's bedroom door. "Hiccup? Dinner's ready."

There was no answer from within. Stoick knocked again. "Hiccup? Son, come out here. You need to eat. And…we need to talk."

Still nothing. Frowning, Stoick pushed the door open and peered inside.

Hiccup was lying back on his bed, his skin alarmingly pale. Blood was pooled around him, dripping steadily onto the floor. Eyes widening, Stoick saw that its source was a mangled gash on Hiccup's right wrist.

There was a beat. Then Stoick bellowed, "HICCUP!" and charged over to the bed, bending down and cradling his son in his arms. Hiccup's body was limp and unresponsive. His face was blank, his eyes closed peacefully. He could have been sleeping. Could have been…

"Oh gods…oh gods no…" Stoick moaned. He pressed an ear to Hiccup's chest. There was a faint, sluggish tha-thump, tha-thump, and he exhaled in momentary relief. He was alive…for now…

"GOBBER!" Stoick screamed, and the blacksmith came charging up the stairs.

"Holy Mother of Thor!" he exclaimed on seeing Hiccup. And all the blood.

"Get Gothi!" Stoick ordered in a tone that allowed for no argument. Not that Gobber would have argued anyway. "He's still alive, but barely. Tell her that he's…" His voice broke. "…he's slashed his wrist. Get her over here now! GO!"

Gobber took off without another word. Stoick heard him yelling for the healer the moment he was outside and knew that the whole village would soon know about all this. But at that moment he didn't care.

"Oh Hiccup," he moaned, holding his son's limp form close, clamping a hand down on his injured wrist in an attempt to stem the blood flow. "Stay with me, son. Please, please don't leave me. You're going to be all right. Everything's going to be all right." Tears started to spill into his great beard but he made no move to wipe them away.

Then his eyes fell on the three words written on the sheets in his son's blood. His heart stuttered.

"Oh gods…what have I done?"