The Night Fury's eyes had flared, green and fierce, at Hiccup—making the young boys triumphant grin falter, the knife trembling in his hand before lifting it high again determined. Until you see him pause—then begin cutting the ropes.
Confused—You leaned over, frozen, "Hiccup—" you started, but the words choked off as he scrambled back, blade flashing in a desperate arc. Ropes snapped, and the beast erupted—wings thrashing, a roar splitting through the woods.
It lunged, pinning him against the boulder, jaws inches from his face, and you staggered forward, trying to get over the ravine with struggle—heart in your throat—unable to see what was happening as it roared. Then, just as fast, it bolted—black scales swallowed by the trees, leaving only the echo of its flight. Hiccup, much to your relief got up, swayed, eyes rolling back, and crumpled to the dirt.
"Hiccup!" you cried, horror clawing at you as you lunged over the ravine's edge. Roots snagged your boots, rocks skittered underneath as you half-slid, half-fell down the slope, scraping your palms raw. He lay sprawled, half-awake, a groan slipping from his lips as you dropped beside him, pulling his head into your lap.
You checked if he was hurt, nothing. Your fingers brushed his hair from his face—damp with sweat, streaked with dirt—and you held him there, breath shaky, willing him to stir. His eyes fluttered open, hazy green colliding with yours, and for a beat, you just stared.
His head a heavy lump in your lap, your pulse thumping like a war drum in your ears. It was all very heroic, very tender, until it wasn't—silence stretched into a gaping maw of awkward, and you both hacked out coughs like you'd swallowed a flock of gnats.
Hiccup flailed upright, too fast, a gangly tangle of limbs that toppled him back into your lap like a newborn yak. You shot a hand to his shoulder to keep him upright, but he face-planted into your lap again anyway mumbling embarrassed.
"Easy, dragon-slayer—let's not make a habit of making my lap a pillow. . ." You blurted out. Hiccup dug his palms into the soil, lifting his head from your lap, his face blooming blood-red like a tomato kissed by Thor's hammer. "S-sorry, sorry, uh—gods, sorry," he mumbled, a string of apologies tripping over themselves as he scrambled back, dirt smudging his tunic.
You shook your head, unbothered, a grin tugging at your lips—honestly, you'd seen him in worse states—and grabbed his shoulders, giving him a firm shake to snap him out of it. He turned, wide-eyed, still flushed from forehead to neck.
"Are you hurt anywhere?" you asked, voice steady but laced with worry, eyes scanning him for scrapes or worse. "Are you okay? That dragon had you like a snack on a skewer." His face stayed red, a messy stew of embarrassment from the Toothless fiasco and your lap-turned-pillow, and he struggled, words fumbling like fish on dry land.
"I—I'm fine," he managed, nodding gently, though his voice wobbled like a cart missing a wheel. "Really, I'm. . .yeah."
But you saw it—the disappointment shadowing his eyes, dimming that spark he'd had when he'd crowed about bringing down the beast. His shoulders slumped, gaze dropping to the torn ropes scattered like broken promises across the ground.
You tilted your head, brushing dirt from your hands, the sting of scrapes sharpening your focus.
"What happened?" you pressed, softer now, curiosity tugging at you. "Why'd you decide to let it go?" The question hung there, heavy but gentle, the air thick.
Hiccup rubbed his neck, wincing as he glanced at the trees where the dragon had bolted. "I. . .I don't know," he muttered, voice low, like he was piecing it together himself. "It looked at me, and—I couldn't do it. It wasn't. . .it didn't feel right." He huffed a shaky laugh, half-hearted, and shot you a sidelong glance, still red-cheeked. "Guess I'm not the mighty Viking I thought I'd be, huh?"
You shook your head, nudging him with your fist. "Oh, I don't know—takes guts to stare down a Night Fury and live to blush about it." Your tease was light, but the worry lingered, threading through your words like smoke. He managed a grin, faint but real.
"There are other ways, Hiccup—" you started, voice soft but firm. But he cut you off, hauling himself up with a sigh that seemed to drag his whole frame down.
"Let's head back," he said, emotionless, his voice flat as the still water of Berk's harbor after a raid. It wasn't odd to catch this grim edge in his voice, a rare Hiccup-only-you-got-to-see. He brushed dirt from his tunic, avoiding your gaze, the faint grin snuffed out like a candle pinched too soon.
You opened your mouth to protest, then shut it, swallowing the words as you stood too, the ache in your heels flaring from the morning's trek. He started up the ravine's slope, steps heavy, and you followed, the silence between you thicker than the mist rolling off the cliffs.
The woods spat you both out hours ago, Berk's smoky skyline swallowing you back into its bustle. Hiccup had turned to you at the village edge, still pale, and pulled you into a quick, clumsy hug.
"Well! I guess that brings me back to this meridian of misery!" He jokes sarcastically unamused.
"Hey, thanks," he'd mumbled, voice rough, "for, y'know. . .coming with me and everything. Sorry I brought you along for nothing. I'm gonna crash—nap time." He'd flashed a tired grin, then shuffled off toward his house, leaving you with a nod and the echo of his flat.
Now, late afternoon draped the Great Hall in a warm haze, the clamor of Vikings clinking tankards and gnawing on bones a dull roar around you. You sat alone at a weathered table, head plunked on your folded arms, staring past a plate of food that might've tempted Thor himself—crusty bread, still steaming, its golden edge begging to be torn; a hunk of roasted chicken, juicy and flecked with herbs; and a smear of mashed turnips, glistening with butter, flanked by pickled herring that gleamed like silver coins.
Your stomach growled, but you ignored it, too sunk in thought to care. Hiccup's face—red, then ashen, then hollow—looped in your mind, his disappointment a weight you couldn't shake. That dragon had let him go, and he'd let it go, and now he was. . .what? Lost? You flexed your scraped palms, wincing, and sighed.
Marta's voice still jabbed at you, too—hours earlier, she'd cornered you the second you'd stumbled back into the kitchen, flour-dusted and late. "Gallivantin' off with that twig of a boy while I'm drownin' in breakfast orders!" she'd bellowed, ladle waving like a war axe.
"Lunch is a mess, and you're off chasin' dreams—ye'll be knead'n dough 'til midnight for this!" She hadn't been wrong—you'd paid in sweat, hauling sacks, shaping loaves, and dodging her wrath 'til your arms screamed louder than your heels had in the woods. Now, slumped here, exhaustion clung like wet wool, and worry for Hiccup gnawed deeper than hunger.
A shadow loomed over your table, sharp and deliberate, and you lifted your head to find Astrid standing there, axe slung over her shoulder, blonde braid swinging like a battle banner. Her gaze—fierce enough to scatter a flock of Terrible Terrors—softened a flicker as it landed on your untouched plate.
"You gonna eat that or just stare it into Valhalla?" she asked, voice dry but edged with something warmer, a ghost of the days she'd sneak small cakes you would save at her request from your oven and mutter thanks under her breath. You shrugged, too tired to muster a grin.
Before you could answer, a raucous laugh split the air—Snotlout, swaggering up with Ruffnut and Tuffnut trailing like a pair of gleeful tornadoes. "Oh, look, it's Hiccup's personal bread-maid!" he crowed, slamming a meaty hand on your table, rattling the chicken.
"Where's your twiggy hero now? Nappin' off another disaster? Heard he took down a tower and a dragon last night—too bad it flew off before he could trip over it!" Ruffnut snickered at Snotlouts' remarks, elbowing Tuffnut, where she pretends to shoot him down and he mimed a dramatic faint, sprawling across a bench with a wheeze.
"Probably tripped over his own trap and took out half the woods instead." Tuffnut added, cackling as he flopped upright, nearly knocking Fishlegs off the bench—who'd shuffled in behind them, clutching a tattered dragon manual in one hand, an entire chicken-on-a-stick in the other. Fishlegs squeaked, adjusting his grip.
"A-actually, if it was a Night Fury, statistically, it's got a wingspan of—uh—forty-eight feet, give or take, so. . .maybe just a tree or two?" His ramble faltered muttering about flight velocity. While everyone inwardly questioned what exactly he meant.
You rolled your eyes, shoving the plate an inch away. "He's fine, Snotlout—unlike your aim, which couldn't hit a sleeping sheep." The twins hooted, and Astrid's lips twitched, almost a smirk, but your heart wasn't in it. Hiccup's hollow look clung to you, and this lot's noise—Ruffnut's snort, Tuffnut's wheeze, Fishleg'sstammering stats—only sharpened the headache.
Frustration boiled over, a hot coal in your chest, and you shoved up from the table, the bench scraping loud enough to cut through their cackling. "Take it," you snapped, gesturing at the untouched plate—steaming bread, juicy chicken, buttery turnips, and all. "Stuff your faces." Snotlout whooped, lunging for the chicken as the twins dove in, squabbling over the bread like seagulls on a fish haul.
Astrid's gaze followed you, sharp and steady, a flicker of confusion crinkling her brow as you stormed past. She didn't call out—didn't worry too much, either—just leaned forward, snagging a piece of herring on her own plate and popping it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as the others tore into your leftovers with gleeful chaos. You didn't look back, boots thudding against the Hall's stone floor, the din fading as you pushed through the heavy doors into the late afternoon chill.
The village sprawled before you, smoke curling from chimneys, the tang of salt and soot sharp in your nose. Your home wasn't far—a squat, sturdy thing tucked near the forge—but your legs felt like lead, each step dragging the weight of the day: Hiccup's situation, Marta's crazy rant, the endless knead-and-haul that'd left you flour-streaked and bone-tired. You just wanted a bed to collapse in, to shake off the worry gnawing at you like a persistent yak, when a familiar bellow stopped you cold.
"Oi, lass!" Gobber waved you over from the forge's open maw, his hook-hand glinting in the fading light. You sighed, veering toward him, too weary to dodge. He grinned as you trudged up, peg leg tapping a rhythm on the dirt.
"Well, look at ye!—Held up against Marta's wrath, did we?" He chuckled, a booming sound that rattled your skull, then squinted, taking in your state. "Gods, ye're a walkin' bakery! Flour head to toe, bits o' dough in yer hair—did she dunk ye in the stew pot for good measure?"
You huffed, brushing at your tunic—useless, the white dust clung like a second skin, and a stray smear of turnip mash streaked your sleeve. "Felt like it," you muttered, managing a tired smile.
"She's still cursing me for breakfast. And lunch. I'll be kneading 'til I'm old as Mildew." Gobber laughed again, clapping you on the shoulder—hard enough to jolt you—and you winced, though his gruff warmth thawed the edges of your frustration.
"Ye're a tough one, lass—always have been," he said, leaning on the anvil, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Runnin' after Hiccup, facin' Marta's ladle—ye've got more spine than half this village."
You snorted, kicking a pebble, and he rambled on, waxing about the time you'd rigged a bellows to spew flour instead of air, nearly choking him in a white cloud. The memory tugged a real grin out of you, fleeting but there, until he straightened, tone shifting.
"Ah! Yes. By the way," he said, scratching his beard with his hook-hand, "while Stoick and the rest go off to find that dragon's nest, I've decided it's finally time to prepare ye to become a Viking. I'm signin' ye up for trainin'."
You blinked, bewildered, the words slamming into you like a rogue barrel down a hill.
"Training?" Your voice cracked, confusion piling onto the day's mess—Hiccup's dragon, Marta's wrath, and now this?
"Wait—Gobber, I can't! I've got Marta's kitchen, your forge—I'm too busy hauling sacks and trays all day for lectures to swing an axe!"
He waved you off your excuseswith his chicken wing, like they were flies, grinning wider.
"Already squared it with Marta—told her to go easy on ye, by Stoick's orders no less. Future o' the village, future o' the clan—ye're not just a baker, lass, ye're one of us." He clapped your shoulder again, softer this time, but the weight of it sank deep.
"Ye' start tomorrow. No backin' out. Stoicks even havin' the same talk with Hiccup."
You stared, mouth half-open, flour-dusted and dumbfounded, as he turned back to the forge, whistling his happy song "Viking thru' n' thru'" like he hadn't just upended your world. The day's chaos spun in your head—Hiccup, dragons, training—and you trudged toward home, legs heavier than ever, wondering how you'd stumbled into all this mess.
The night had swallowed you whole after you'd staggered home, exhaustion dragging you under like a riptide. You'd collapsed into bed—limbs a sprawled tangle over the edges, one arm dangling, the other pinned beneath you, face buried into your wool pillow as you drooled unknowingly—your hair a wild snarl with strands stuck in your mouth. Feet and toes exposed as the blanket had risen up.
Sleep hit hard, a dreamless void, and you didn't stir as the clan's ships sailed out at dawn, Stoick at the helm, chasing the dragon's nest with the village's might. The world spun on without you, and you stayed blissfully dead to it—until the sun clawed its way up, slicing golden beams through your shutter slats right into your eyes as you finally turned.
You winced, nose wrinkling in annoyance, a groan rumbling up as the light stabbed at your lids. Then came the knocks—sharp, insistent thuds rattling your door.
"Go away," you mumbled, words a gibberish mush as you yanked the bearskin cover higher, burrowing into its musty warmth like a stubborn Gronckle in a cave. The knocking stopped, and you smirked sleepily, victorious—until the door slammed open with a bang that could've woken Thor himself.
"Rise and shine, lass!" Gobber's voice boomed, and before you could yelp, he ripped the bearskin off in one brutal yank, leaving you flailing in the chill. A bucket of water followed—icy, straight from the wells of Hel—and splashed over you like a tidal wave.
You shot up with a shout, arms wrapping tight around yourself, toes wiggling near freezing as you danced in place, teeth clattering like a sack of loose bolts. Water dripped from your hair, plastered to your face, and you blinked wildly, spinning to find Gobber grinning like a madman, empty bucket swinging in his hook-hand.
"You!" you sputtered, glaring as your breath puffed in the cold air, finally locking eyes with him. "What in Odin's name—"
"Ye're late!" he cut in, undeterred, peg leg tapping an impatient beat. "Let's get goin' afore the rest o' the trainees beat me there—and ye'd best not make me look the fool!" He tossed the bucket aside with a clatter, already half-turned to the door, like he hadn't just drowned you awake.
You shivered, still clutching yourself, the shock warring with a flicker of amusement—Gobber's wake-ups were the stuff of nightmares and sagas. "Late?" you croaked, voice hoarse from sleep and the dousing.
"I—I didn't even—" Your brain lagged, piecing together yesterday: Gobber's training bomb.
The clan was gone, and now this. You groaned again, louder, but he was already waving you out, bellowing about "no dawdlin' get ye' boots" as you stumbled for dry clothes, teeth still chattering.
You stood there, dripping and shivering, as Gobber's peg leg tapped out the door, his whistle fading into the morning clamor of Berk. "No dawdlin', lass!" echoed back shutting the door behind him, a taunt wrapped in a command, and you snapped into motion, teeth still rattling like a smith's loose gears.
Dry clothes—where were they? You lunged for a crumpled tunic on the bench, nearly tripping over your own sodden legs, and yanked it on, the fabric snagging on your wet arms. Trousers next, a frantic wrestle as you hopped, one leg in, the other flailing, your hair still plastered to your face like a drowned rat's nest.
"Gods, Gobber," you muttered, spitting strands from your mouth, "next time, just set me on fire—warmer way to wake up."
Boots—there, by the door, caked with yesterday's mud. You snatched them up, bolting outside barefoot, the icy ground biting your soles as you hopped after him, one boot halfway on, the other clutched to your chest.
"Wait—Gobber!" you yelped, teetering on one foot while jamming the other into leather, laces flapping like a dragon's loose scales.
He didn't slow, his lopsided gait eating up the path to the training arena, and you cursed under your breath, hopping faster—left, right, stumble—until both boots clung to your feet, sloppy but secure. Your lungs burned, your scraped palms stung as you waved them for balance, and Gobber's chuckle floated back, rich and maddening.
"Ye'll wake the village with that racket, lass—move it!"
The arena loomed ahead under the gloomy morning, a rough-hewn ring of stone, chains and timber. Its gates and chains wet from last night's cast still dripping here and there—no sign of Snotlout's swagger or the twins' chaos. More surprising—No sign of Astrid quite yet. You caught up, breathless, as Gobber swung the gate wide, his hook-hand glinting in the light.
"Good—beat the rest o' the rabble," he said, nodding approvingly. "Help me set this mess up afore they stumble in." He jerked his head toward a pile of gear—axes duller than a sheep's stare, shields dented like they'd lost a fight with a Monstrous Nightmare, and a tangle of ropes that smelled faintly of singed wool. You groaned, but hauled an axe anyway, its weight tugging at your sore arms, and shot him a look.
"Training, huh?" you panted, dragging a shield into place. "Thought I was busy enough dodging Marta's ladle and your lectures—now I've got to swing this?" You hefted the axe, nearly clipping your own shin, and Gobber snorted, tossing a rope coil your way.
"Aye, and ye'll thank me when ye're not dragon bait," he quipped, limping to the center to wrestle a wooden dummy upright. "If yer all gonna be future o' the clan, I'm not lettin' ye flail like a fish on a hook."
He grinned waving his own hooked-hand, and you rolled your eyes, but a flicker of pride sparked beneath the exhaustion—Gobber believed in you, flour-dust and all. The arena hummed with morning chill, the quiet before the storm of trainees, and you set to work.
The arena stood ready, a gritty testament to your morning's toil with Gobber—axes among other weapons lined up like a row of sullen teeth along the rack, their edges blunted by years of clumsy swings, glinting faintly in the pale sun that clawed its way over the arena walls.
Shields piled in a haphazard stack, their wooden faces pocked with gouges and scorch marks, some still bearing the faint stink of dragon spit; and ropes slung across the dirt, coiled like sleeping adders, their fibers frayed and dusted with ash from past fires.
You'd wrestled every piece into place, sweat streaking through the flour still caked on your skin from yesterday's kitchen penance, your arms quivering under the strain as you'd shoved a final target upright—a warped plank painted with a snarling dragon, its red jaws chipped to a sneer.
Your hand brushed a rack of weapons—axes too heavy, spears too clumsy—and settled on a knife, slim and balanced, its grip worn smooth like the one you wielded in the kitchen. It felt right, an extension of your slicing skill, and you twirled it once, testing its weight as you waited.
Now you lingered at the arena's edge, boots scuffing the wet stone, breath fogging in the crisp air as you leaned against a splintered post, waiting. The silence buzzed with anticipation, heavy with the tang of rust and salt, and your scraped palms throbbed as you flexed them, Hiccup's tired grin from last night flickering in your mind like a stubborn ember.
It didn't last long. A roar of voices and stomping feet shattered the quiet, rolling in like a wave crashing on Berk's shores, and Gobber burst through the gate, his peg leg pounding the ground, hook-hand thrust high like a battle standard.
"Welcome! To dragon trainin'!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap that bounced off the stone walls, his beard bristling with a grin that promised chaos.
The trainees spilled in behind him—Astrid first, her stride a blade's edge, axe slung—ready beside her, her braid swinging like a pendulum of gold; she caught your eye, offering a brisk nod you returned before she marched on, her boots kicking up the wet puddles that glittered in what little sunlight.
Snotlout swaggered next, chest puffed out like a barrel ready to burst, his smirk a greasy smear of confidence, trailed by Ruffnut and Tuffnut, who barreled through the gate in a tangle of shoving elbows and wild hair, their laughter a grating duet.
Hiccup slipped in last, a lanky shadow at the rear, his green eyes darting nervously under tousled auburn bangs—he was here to your relief. You waved, a reassuring smile breaking through your fatigue, and he waved back, mirroring it with a flicker of warmth that steadied you both.
The twins wasted no time, their voices clashing like hammers on anvils.
"I hope I get some serious burns."
"I'm hoping for some mauling, like on my shoulder or lower back."
"Oh, I'm gettin' a scar today for sure—right across the gut, deep and gnarly!" Tuffnut declared, clawing the air with his fingers, while Ruffnut shoved him aside, getting them both crowing.
"Nah, mine's gonna be epic—eye patch material, full face shred!" Snotlout got involved.
"Yeah, it's only fun if you get a scar out if it. Why not," Astrid planted the bottom of her axe in the stone with a solid thunk, rolling her eyes as she cut in, voice dry as bone.
Hiccup, lingering near a shield pile, piped up, his monotone dripping sarcasm like sap from a split pine: "Yeah, no kidding, right? Pain. Love it."
He leaned back behind them, arms dangling like he despised being there, and you caught the glint of mock-defiance in his gaze—same old Hiccup, dodging barbs with a quip.
"Oh, great. Who let him in?" Tuffnut remarked.
But Gobber's bulk loomed over, his hammer-hand nudging your shoulder with a jolt that nearly sent the knife spinning.
"Enough chatter, ye lot—Let's get started!" he roared, stomping to the arena's heart, his voice slicing through the air like a cleaver through meat.
"Listen up! Learn quick, be sharp, and be ready—'cause whoever wins this trainin' program, lasts 'til the bitter end, gets the honor o' killin' a dragon in front o' the whole village! Full witness, full glory—so quit yer yammerin' and prepare!"
Snotlout pounced like a cat on a crippled bird to take the opportunity, his laugh a harsh bark that scraped your nerves. "Hiccup already killed a Night Fury, so does that disqualify him or . . .?" He pointed to Hiccup.
"Thought you'd be hiding under your bed, Hiccup—didn't the dragon tuck you in last night?" The twins hooted, Ruffnut miming a cradling motion—"Wittle Hiccup and his dragon nanny!"—while Tuffnut flopped backward, wheezing.
"Bet he cried when it flew off!"
Hiccup's jaw clenched, a tight line of frustration, and you flicked your boots toe out—quick, subtle, a baker's reflex honed from dodging Marta's ladle—catching Tuffnut's ankle mid-step. He didn't see it coming, flailing forward with a yelp, arms windmilling as he hit the wet ground in a graceless sprawl, his helmet skittering away like a startled crab.
"Can I transfer to the class with cool Vikings?" he whined, hauling himself up, brushing off clumps of wet pebbles and ash as he stomped deeper into the arena, rejoining Ruffnut with a theatrical huff that made her snort. You shot Hiccup a sidelong glance, catching the faintest twitch of his lips—gratitude, maybe, or just shared exasperation.
Gobber's voice boomed over the chaos, his peg leg thumping as he hobbled closer, eyeing Hiccup with a mix of pity and gruff cheer.
"Don't worry, lad—ye're small and weak! That'll make ye less of a target. They'll see ye as sick or insane and go after the more Viking-like teens instead!" He clapped his good hand against his shoulder, chuckling like he'd just handed out sage wisdom.
"That's not helping, Gobber," you snapped, voice cutting sharper than your blade, laced with a protective edge that surprised even you.
The old smith blinked, eyes widening a fraction, then shrugged, muttering something about "tough love" as he returned back to the task at hand. Hiccup glanced at you as you shrugged, his clenched jaw softening, a flicker of something—thanks, maybe—passing through his green eyes before the beast's roar yanked you both back to attention.
Gobber stomped to some other arena iron gates, their rust-streaked doors looming like the jagged teeth of some ancient beast, and thrust his hook-hand high, his voice rolling out like a storm over the cliffs.
"Behind these doors are just a few o' the many species ye'll learn to fight!" he declared, his eyes glinting with a mix of pride and menace as he turned to the trainees, pacing before the shuddering gates. The wood and metal rattled faintly, a low growl seeping through the cracks, and he launched into his litany, naming the dragons with the relish of a bard spinning a saga.
"The Deadly Nadder!" he barked, gesturing at a gate that twitched as if something sharp and quick lurked behind it.
"The Hideous Zippleback!"—a twin sound of hisses slithered out, two-toned and eerie, curling the air.
"The Monstrous Nightmare!"—a blast of heat pulsed through the cracks, creating a furnace like heat radiating from it.
"The Terrible Terror!"—a scrabble of claws, small but frantic, echoed like a swarm of furious rats.
Fishlegs, hovering at the group's edge, muttered under his breath, his chubby fingers clutching his dragon manual like a lifeline, eyes wide behind a mop of sweat-damp hair.
"Nadder—speed eight, armor six-teen. . .Zippleback—gas plus spark, plus eleven stealth times two. . ." His stats tumbled out in a nervous stream, a quiet chant that buzzed like a gnat in Gobber's ear.
The old smith's patience snapped, his peg leg grinding to a halt as he whirled, hook-hand jabbing the air. "Can ye stop that!" he shouted, voice a cannon shot that made Fishleg's flinch, the manual nearly slipping from his grip.
Gobber huffed, shaking his head, then pressed on, undeterred. ". . .And the Gronckle," he finished, slapping the lever beside the nearest gate with a clang that shivered through the stone, the promise of chaos glinting in his grin.
Fishlegs leaned toward you and Hiccup, his whisper a conspiratorial hiss, wide side-eyes darting like he'd just spilled a village secret.
"Jaw strength eight," he breathed, voice trembling with awe and dread, his breath puffing warm against your cheek.
You raised an eyebrow, knife still twirling idly in your hand, while Hiccup shifted beside you, his own weapon under his grip. Snotlout, pale beneath his bravado, jolted forward, axe wobbling in his meaty fists.
"Whoa! Whoa! Aren't ye gonna teach us first?!" he yelped, his voice cracking high enough to wake a hibernating bear, sweat beading on his brow as the Gronckle's growl rumbled louder behind the gate.
Gobber turned, slow and deliberate, his grin stretching wider, a gleam of mischief dancing in both his eyes. Oh no. . .
"I believe in learnin' on the job," he said, calm as if he'd just suggested a stroll to the mead hall, and yanked the lever down with a screech and clang of metal, his hook-hand flashing in the gleam.
The gate shuddered and burst open with a resounding crash, unleashing a guttural snarl that reverberated through the air, raw and primal. From the shadowed depths, the Gronckle's squat, formidable bulk surged into view, its rugged scales glinting ominously like wet stone under the flickering light. Its snarl rolled forth, deep and menacing, a promise of pain and chaos of the mayhem to start.
The sun hung low, a molten smear bleeding gold and amber across Berk's cliffs and cloud break, casting long shadows that stretched like claws over the jagged rocks where you and Hiccup slumped over a thin piece of wood separating you both from the wet grass—heaving from the day's ordeal.
Training had been a relentless beast—hours of dodging the Gronckle's snapping jaws, its molten spit sizzling inches from your boots, its roars rattling your skull until your ears rang with the echo. Axes had flown wild, shields had splintered, and you'd lost count of how many times you'd yanked Hiccup from the path of those boulder-like paws, your kitchen knife flashing uselessly against scales tougher than forge iron.
Now, sprawled on the cliff's edge, the sea crashing far below in a restless churn of white and gray, your limbs felt like sodden dough—heavy, bruised, and protesting every twitch. Sweat streaked through the flour still dusted on your tunic from yesterday, your hair a tangled snarl plastered to your neck, and your scraped palms throbbed as you flexed them, the salt air stinging the raw skin.
Hiccup sat beside you, just as wrecked—his tunic torn at the sleeve where the Gronckle's tooth had grazed him, his auburn hair a sweaty mess plastered to his forehead every direction, his breaths puffing shallow and ragged.
You'd skipped breakfast and lunch, the training swallowing the day whole, so you'd pulled out his favorite—cheese-egg meat muffins again—wrapped in a cloth you'd stashed in your satchel. The bread was crusty, golden, but cold from your pre-dawn baking binge; the egg froze in an oozy rich, yolky tang, flecked with herbs; the meat, smoky and still tender, melded with sharp cheese that melted into every bite. You both could care less if it was cold.
You handed him one, your fingers brushing his, and he took it with a tired grin, exhaustedly sinking his teeth in with a groan that was half-starvation, half-bliss.
"Gods, you're a miracle," he mumbled through a mouthful, eyes closed, crumbs tumbling onto his lap as he leaned back on one elbow, the cliff's wet mossy edge soft under his sprawl—He didn't care.
You sighed tiredly, biting into your own, the flavors bursting against your tongue—a small victory after nearly becoming dragon fodder. The wind whipped past, sharp with brine and sea breeze, tugging at your clothes as you chewed in companionable quietness, the distant bleat of sheep and the rhythmic crash of waves filling the space between you.
"That Gronckle's a monster," you said finally, wiping your mouth with your sleeve, the memory of its jaws snapping an inch from your arm flashing hot in your mind.
"Thought it'd have me for lunch when Snotlout tripped into me—thanks for the shield shove, by the way." Hiccup chuckled, a low, dry sound, swallowing another bite.
"Yeah, well, I owed you one—couldn't let it chomp my muffin supplier." His grin flickered, playful but frayed, and you nudged him with your elbow, the ache in your side flaring at the motion.
"Gobber's 'learning on the job' nearly made us the job," he added, mimicking Gobber's gruff burr, and you snorted, the absurdity of it loosening the knot in your chest. He fell quiet, picking at the muffin's crust, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the sea met the sky in a hazy blur.
"That Night Fury," he said suddenly, voice dropping low, almost swallowed by the wind. "I've been thinking about it—him—all day. I'm going back out there. Tomorrow, maybe."
His fingers tightened around the bread, crumbs scattering to the rocks, and his green eyes flicked to you, bright with that restless spark you knew too well—half-thrill, half-dread, the same look he'd worn in the ravine.
You froze, muffin halfway to your mouth, the cheese's tang souring on your tongue as his words sank in. The sun dipped ever lower, its golden smear thinning into a fiery thread along the horizon, painting the cliff's edge in a warm glow that danced across Hiccup's freckled face.
You leaned up, facing him fully, your shadow stretching long over the mossy rocks as your words hung in the salty air—"Are you sure about that? What if this time he doesn't let you go? He might not even be around anymore."
The questions hung there, heavy as the sea air, your breath catching as you pictured that black-scaled beast pinning him again—or worse, not letting him walk away next time. The muffin sat forgotten in your hand, the wind tugging at your hair, and Hiccup stared back, his face a tangle of determination and doubt sparked a silent shift between you.
Hiccup shifted, propping himself higher on his elbow, crumbs tumbling from his lap as he met your gaze, his green eyes flickering with that restless spark—half-thrill, half-doubt.
"I don't know," he said, voice soft but steady, like he was testing the words aloud. "He—I mean, it—didn't feel. . .dangerous. Not like the Gronckle today, anyway." He huffed a small laugh, rubbing his neck where a bruise bloomed from training, his fingers smudging dirt into the mark.
"Maybe he's still out there, waiting to finish the job—or maybe I just got lucky." He glanced at the horizon, the sea's gray expanse swallowing the last of the light, and you frowned, shifting closer, the moss cool under your knees.
"Lucky's one thing," you said, voice edged with a mix of exasperation and care, "but going back out there alone? That's asking for a dragon to make you, its supper. You barely dodged those jaws today and yesterday—don't push it."
Your knife-calloused fingers flexed around the muffin, crumbling its edge, and you shot him a look, half-pleading, half-scolding, the ache for him to see reason warring with the ache that'd lived in you since you were kids. He tilted his head, studying you, and something softened in his face—a flicker of that secret he hadn't unraveled himself.
"Maybe I won't go alone," he mused, his grin creeping back, lopsided and teasing as he leaned a fraction closer, his voice dipping low. "Could use someone brave enough to stare down a Night Fury and bake me back to life after—y'know, my own personal hero."
His tone mocking what the others always say about you two. Eyes glinting a spark of flirt in the way they lingered on you, and heat rushed to your cheeks, blooming red beneath the flour and grime. You blinked, caught off guard, a flustered laugh bubbling up as you ducked your head the opposite way from him, shoving his muffin at him to hide the blush.
"Shut up," you muttered, shoving his shoulder—light, playful, but enough to jostle him—your smile sneaking out despite yourself.
"Eat your muffin, dragon-slayer, before I feed it to the gulls." He laughed, a real one this time, bright and unguarded, and took the muffin, his fingers brushing yours again, warm and deliberate. The wind carried the sound away, leaving a quiet sweetness between you, the cliff's edge glowing soft as the day faded, your worries tucked aside for just a moment in the dusk's gentle hold.