After the Deadly Nadder left its mark—Your arm throbbed with a fierce sting, the flesh puffed up and tender, mottled with splotches of purple and green bruising that spread like spilled ink under your skin. The skin would knit itself back together, slow and sure, each tender stitch holding fast by the stubborn grip of Gothi's hand and her fresh poultice, its earthy bite clinging to the wound.
It was definitely going to leave behind a clean, pale scar—a sharp little mark to carry from the Nadder's bite. 'Your first Viking mark'—Gobber let out a gravelly laugh, hook-hand slapping his knee as he crowed about it being 'a proper badge from the beast's claw.' He'd went on as your thoughts of its barb would be one memory to carry.
Berk's unyielding pulse stumbled into something odd after that, or so it seemed to you. It had a quiet that felt almost gentle, and not just because half the village was gone no—It was more because Gobber went a little soft, but no one would dare breathe that word within earshot of the tough blacksmith.
The island seemed to pause a little—no practice dawn raids, no bellowed commands splitting the frost-rimed morning. It was as if the island itself had exhaled, granting a rare sliver of respite, and at the heart of it stood Gobber, his usual storm of gruff demands tempered into something you couldn't quite name.
He'd never cop to it though—his pride was as unbendable as the iron he shaped—but the evidence was there.Easyin his terms meant he etched in the extra hour to let you all sleep. A reprieve from the usual early chorus of his tuneless whistling and water buckets splashing all your dreams to Hel.
Laps around Berk's muddy sprawl were shorter, unless someone dared straggle in twenty minutes late—and after the last rain-soaked punishment, not a soul tested that line again—not even Hiccup—no more boots pounding the dirt paths with grim precision.
Meals stretched longer too while in the Great Hall or a crackling firepit outside groaning under extra helpings of stew and bread. The air was always thick with the tang of roasted mutton and the soft warmth of your own personally made sweet treats—much to Astrids pleasure—That he had asked you to make everyone if you were up to it.
Gobber would sprawl there, roast in hand, spinning dragon tales that danced between grisly truth and wild exaggeration—tales of Nadders skewering raiders, Gronckles flattening longhouses—his voice a low growl that rumbled through the smoke.
And if the mood struck him gracious, he'd even haul everyone's weapons onto a workbench, squinting at dulled edges and muttering about shoddy upkeep, his hook scraping steel with a screech that set your teeth on edge—and the hairs on your necks standing. The old smith had gone suspiciously easy on the lot of you, and you couldn't shake the hunch it was because of that barb slicing your arm, the blood-soaked sleeve you'd waved off with a grin despite the poison's slow creep.
Gobber's pride was forged in the same stubborn iron as his hook-hand—but his version of mercy crept through the cracks anyway. It was a rare lull, a breath before the next beast loomed of course but you savored it, even with the dull throb of your bandaged arm reminding you why. This was a rare Gobber only you and Stoicks family got to see. It made you smile.
Nursing that wound kept you tethered to your squat little home near the forge, the furs on your bed a tangled nest where you'd sprawl, arm propped on a pillow as Gothi's poultice worked its minty magic beneath the cloth wrap. The pain had dulled to a nagging ache, the poison's queasy grip fading thanks to that bitter vial she'd shoved into your hands and down your throat. Rest chafed at you—too still, too quiet after days of chaos.
Hiccup, though, was a constant flicker in that stillness, his lanky frame ducking through your door more times than you could count, always with something in hand—dry figs plucked from some hidden stash—Stoicks. Their sweet tang a peace offering from feeling bad about the accident in the Nadders cage. His voice, earnest and tripping over itself as he promised to stick to 'their plan' next time. You'd just let him ramble about Gobber's latest briefings while propped against the wall.
But while under the flickering light of your hearth, he'd dropped something heavier—his voice dipping low, almost a whisper, as he finally spilled it—but careful not to mention anything else: he'd found that Night Fury again. Not far from the ravine where you'd both stumbled on it all those days ago, bound and snarling, it was still there—hungry, he said, its sleek black form pacing the woods, refusing to fly off.
You'd tilted your head, the fire's warmth licking your cheeks, and tossed out a guess, "Maybe it's got a nest nearby. Don't get too close, it may be hunting."
Hiccup's brow had furrowed, a quick shake of his head brushing it off, but you saw the glint in his eyes—interest piqued, though he knew better. You didn't push, not yet, though the air between you thickened with what he wasn't saying, the secrets piling up like the weapons on a raid night.
Because behind your back, Hiccup had been slipping away to that same dragon—Toothless, though you didn't know the name yet—since the day after the Nadder fight, when the graze on your arm was still fresh and raw, and you rested. He'd trekked back to that shadowed hollow deep in the forest, a fish tucked under his arm, a battered shield held tight before him, and his hand knife glinting at his belt—a Viking's kit turned upside down by what he found.
That day, he'd braced for a fight, heart thudding as he edged toward the Night Fury's restless bulk, its green eyes slitting narrow in the dim light. But instead of fangs, the dragon had been intrigued with him just as he was with it.
The dragon had sniffed the fish, snapped it up, then—gods help him—retched half of it back up into his lap as a slimy offering to Hiccup—the boy had stared at, dumbstruck before the events that happened next would haunt his appetite for the week or two.
The next day after that, he'd returned, and the beast mirrored him—scratching crude lines in the earth with a branch twice as tall as Hiccup after he'd seen the boy doodle the earth with a stick, its head tilting like a pup puzzling out a game.
It let him close—close enough to feel the heat radiating off its scales, to stretch a trembling hand and brush its snout, smooth and warm under his palm. It was unreal, a spark of something new and fascinating that no Viking saga had ever whispered of, and it hooked him deep—kept him sneaking back through Berk's fog-choked woods, boots crunching on pine needles as the village went about its day.
He'd meant to tell you all of this that night, wanted to badly, the words itching on his tongue every time he ducked into your home, but something held them back—something personal, fragile, a thread of concern he couldn't yet share. He worried, what you'd think—his best friend, his anchor, who'd stuck by him through every scornful glare, rude talks of people and botched scheme.
This wasn't normal, not for a Viking, and sure as Hel not for Stoick's son. If the village found out, if his father did. . .the thought knotted his gut tighter than a Zippleback's coils, and so he kept it locked away, even from you. It wasn't that he really thought you'd spill his secrets to anyone; he just wanted to hold off until the time felt right.
But you weren't blind, and Hiccup wasn't half as sly as he thought. You'd known he was visiting that dragon since the Nadder fight. He even admitted it. And was caught times over with the mud on his boots, the faint whiff of his signature smell of pine and smoke clinging to his tunic, the way his excuses stretched thinner each time he slipped away.
Right now, your arm was propped on your knee as you sharpened a kitchen knife out of boredom in front of the forge, the scrape of steel a steady rhythm while your mind churned. You'd seen him in the late evening, ducking into the forge with a wave at you—Gobber elsewhere—most likely off plotting the Zippleback trial, the other trainees hunched over dragon manuals, sleeping, pranking, or swinging axes in the arena's muddy ring.
You'd paused outside, peering through the cracked frame, and found him hunched over a workbench, his hands a blur of motion as he hammered something together—metal and leather, glinting in the forge's dim glow. You'd slipped in, silent as a mouse, and settled on a stool at your own workbench, not asking a thing—just you and him, the air humming with the comfort of your shared silence as he smiled at you, the kind that'd carried you through years of shenanigans.
He'd glanced back once, making sure you were distracted by working on your own little things, content as his auburn hair flop over his brow as he worked. Then after hours he'd stopped, abrupt, muttering, "Gotta go, see you in the morning," and waved—a quick, airy thing—before bolting out into the night, leaving you with the echo of his steps and a half-formed question on your tongue.
He hadn't shown you what he'd made—a tail fin, you'd learn later, for a dragon he couldn't yet name to you—but you'd caught the spark in his eyes, the secret he cradled like a stolen ember. You didn't push, not then, though the itch to know gnawed at you, leaving you pondering how long he'd keep you in the dark.
Another day of the break you had settled gray and heavy, the clouds sagging low over Berk's jagged rooftops once again, promising rain that hadn't yet fallen. You'd shaken off the restlessness by midmorning, your arm stiff but healing quickly, and trudged to the Great Hall, where Gobber's "mercy" meant an extra meal crackling over a firepit outside.
Trainees sprawled on logs, gnawing on mutton and bread as his voice boomed through another tale, this one about a Zippleback torching a fleet of raider ships, the gas igniting in a burst that lit the night like Thor's hammer lighting the sky.
You'd half-listened, perched on a stump, tearing into a crusty loaf, its edges still crisp despite the damp air. Hiccup hadn't shown—off again—and the others noticed too, their grumbles growing. Snotlout, sprawled across a log with grease smeared on his chin and mouth, snorted loud enough to cut through Gobber's yarn.
"Where's your boyfriend now? He better not pull what he did last time," he furrowed his brows taking in a huge bite.
The twins cackled—Ruffnut miming a sloppy embrace making kiss faces at you, Tuffnut flopping dramatically into the dirt over it—and even Astrid's sharp blue eyes flicked your way, a brow arching as she chewed her mutton, silent but probing.
You'd shrugged sighing really not in the mood, voice dry as bone, "He's just at home getting ready? Preparing like the rest of us—give him a break." It was a weak dodge, and Astrid's stare lingered, unconvinced.
Gobber yawned waved it off, grunting. "That lad's fine it's not a meeting—though, some good information—hm," before diving back into his story and his whole chicken breast.
You had left them, not waiting for Hiccup this time. The lie tasted sour in your mouth, though—loyalty to Hiccup clashing with the heat of their scrutiny—and you'd excused yourself early, boots squelching through the mud back to the forge, your gut twisting with the weight of what you weren't saying. He was out there, building something to your guess—over that Night Fury, and you were stuck here, covering his tracks—again.
By noon, the forge glowed orange as usual, its heat a balm against the day's chill as you slipped inside, craving the familiar clang of steel to drown out your thoughts. Gobber was gone—likely nursing a tankard in the mead hall—and the space was all yours, the furnace's roar a steady pulse as you hefted weapons waiting to be brought back to their owners, testing their edges closely.
That's when Hiccup stumbled in, disheveled, his tunic clinging to his skinny frame like he'd been caught in a squall. His hair was a wild tangle, auburn strands hanging loosely across his eyes, which darted your way, bright with something reckless as he clutched that worn leather book to his side.
"Hey," Hiccup said, his voice a soft huff as he flashed that familiar, sheepish grin. You paused, the sword you were admiring stilled mid-twirl in hand, and arched a brow as he edged closer, boots scuffing the forge's dirt floor.
"Missed you at the fire—Gobber tell you about the Zippleback?" You nodded, easing the blade onto the workbench with a faint clink, its edge catching the forge's amber glow.
He launched into it then, words tumbling out—something about their twin heads, the gas-and-spark trick, his tone bright with that eager lilt you'd always found endearing.
". . .The fact that one head breathes gas, the other lights it—wild, right?" he went on, hands gesturing in quick, choppy arcs.
But the story felt thin, a threadbare veil over something heavier. You saw it in the details he couldn't hide: the caked mud clinging to his boots, the faint scorch mark streaking his sleeve, the way his green eyes slid away when you asked, voice steady but pointed, "Where've you been?" You tried.
He froze mid-gesture, a deer caught in torchlight, then waved a hand dismissively.
"Just. . .wandering, you know, clearing my head," he said, but the words cracked like brittle ice underfoot, too fragile to bear scrutiny. You stepped closer, the forge's heat licking at your back, and fixed him with a look—teasing at the edges, but sharp enough to cut.
"Wandering, huh? Or digging into that Night Fury again?"
His laugh burst out, high and jagged, and he clutched his sketchbook tighter to his chest, its leather creaking under his grip. "What? No, I—just—uh, hey! More figs! I'll grab you some tomorrow!" he stammered, voice pitching up as he spun on his heel and bolted—a blur of gangly limbs and half-formed excuses—leaving you alone with the furnace's low, guttural hum.
The warmth still pressed against your skin as you stood there, Hiccup's retreating footsteps fading into the gray hush of late afternoon, the world beyond the walls sinking into a muted twilight. You'd let him slip away—again—his "figs tomorrow" promise fluttering out like a tattered banner, too flimsy to hold against the suspicion coiling tight in your chest. The air grew stale, heavy with the scent of charred wood and iron, as the sun dipped lower, its light bleeding into a dull bruise along the horizon.
You lingered by the anvil, the new sword glinting faintly in the waning firelight, its honed edges a quiet testament to your own resolve. But the silence bit deeper than the dull ache in your healing arm, a restless itch you couldn't shake.
Drifting to a cluttered workbench in the corner, you plucked a bent nail from a heap of Gobber's discarded scraps and slumped onto a stool, resting your head on your good arm. Your fingers worked the metal, rolling it back and forth, its cool, unyielding surface resisting your grip as your mind churned—searching for something to fill the hollow where Hiccup's absence sat heavy.
The forge creaked around you, its timber beams groaning under the wind's insistent push, while the distant bleat of sheep drifted in from the village—a faint pulse of noise that only sharpened your frustration. You'd lied to Gobber for him, spun tales to shield his secrets, and you'd do it again without hesitation.
But that loyalty, tangled with the exasperation you felt for the little turd, gnawed at you most of all. It wasn't just loyalty of a friend—it was something deeper, a pull you couldn't control—that was your feelings toward him, and it left you twisting the nail harder, the metal's faint squeak echoing your restless resolve to stand by him—it made you groan.
A faint, ragged sigh escaped your lips as you eased into the stool, the rough-hewn edge digging into your thighs. You rested your cheek against the workbench, its surface warm from the forge's glow, and twisted the nail between your fingers until it stilled—a mindless fidget against the ache in your chest.
"When are you going to tell me the truth?" you murmured to no one but the empty air—a quiet, desperate thread cast toward the friend who'd always tell you everything. Your shoulders sagged under a weight like damp wool, cold and clinging, oblivious to the faint scuff of boots beyond the wall, the sharp hitch of breath muffled by weathered planks.
Hiccup hadn't strayed far. He'd slipped out of the forge's wide entrance moments ago, his sketchbook pressed tight against his chest, pages rustling faintly as he leaned against the outer wall, just beyond your reach.
The wind, sharp with the briny tang of wetness from the cove where he'd tumbled earlier with Toothless—his accidental first flight—whipped at his damp tunic, tugging at the fabric still heavy with water. The cool, earthy gust carried your whispered words to him, slicing through the quiet. Their raw sadness struck him like a blow, his broad green eyes narrowing to pained slits, freckled face twisting into a grimace that mirrored the knot twisting in his gut.
He'd weathered your teasing before—caught the knowing edge in your quips about his "doodling," sensed your patient wait for him to spill it all—but this was different. This was a fracture in the steady warmth you'd always offered, dimmed now by his silence, and it gnawed at him.
He slid down the wall an inch, the rough wood scraping his back through his tunic, and pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling a shaky exhale that threatened to betray his presence. Regret burned hot—anger at himself for letting it drag on, for not confessing over figs at your hearth or mid-ramble about the Zippleback.
Hiccup meant to tell you then—why hadn't he? You weren't just anyone; you were his confidante, his anchor, and now he'd left you adrift, your voice breaking in a way that echoed in his skull like a reprimand.
So, he couldn't dodge it any longer. With a resolve that straightened his spine, he pushed off the wall, boots scuffing the dirt as he stepped back into the forge's amber light, his shadow stretching long across the packed earth floor.
You didn't notice at first, lost in the nail's dull gleam as it caught the fire's flicker, bending it into a pointless curve between your fingers. The air shifted—a cool draft snaking through the wide-open areas, a floorboard creaking under his weight—and your head tilted, sensing him before your eyes lifted.
Hiccup stood framed in the forge's entrance, his lean frame slouched as if bearing Berk's weight, auburn hair a wild tangle plastered across his forehead from the day's damp chaos. His hands twitched restlessly, the sketchbook dangling at his side, and his green eyes met yours—wide, guarded, yet burning with a truth he couldn't suppress.
"Hey," he said, voice low and rough, scraping the silence like flint on steel.
You straightened, the nail dropping to the workbench with a soft clink, and held his gaze, your own sharpening as the sadness crystallized into weary expectation. "Back so soon?" you asked, tone quiet but edged with a fraying patience, the forge's heat pulsing around both of you.
He stepped forward, mud-caked boots leaving faint prints on the dirt floor, and settled onto the stool across from you, the workbench a thin divide between you.
"I heard you," he confessed, voice hushed, fingers tightening around the sketchbook's worn edges. "Outside, just now. And you're right—I've been keeping something from you. Everything, really, since the Gronckle fight. I can't hide it anymore."
Your breath caught, the air growing dense with the gravity of his admission, and you leaned forward, elbows pressing into the wood, every nerve taut as you braced for the revelation you'd sensed simmering beneath his evasions. He exhaled—a long, unsteady breath—and set the sketchbook down, its pages fanning open to reveal Toothless: wings swept back, eyes piercing, the tail fin he'd crafted in secret sketched in meticulous charcoal lines.
"It started after the Gronckle," he began, voice steadying as he traced the drawing with a trembling finger. "Well, after I hit him—the Night Fury—and we found him in the ravine. I went back to that spot that day, after we ate lunch. When the Gronckle came at me, I kept wondering—why didn't the Night Fury? I couldn't shake it. Found him again this you already knew—but he was trapped in some cove like place, one tail fin torn off from my trap. He couldn't fly." He paused, staring at the table, lost in the memory.
"When I came back a second time he was still there—hungry, grounded—that time I brought with me a fish." A faint, nervous laugh slipped out, and he glanced at you, testing your reaction.
Your expression remained steady, unflinching, the forge's rhythmic hum your only reply as he pressed on.
"He didn't attack. He ate it, then—gods, it's strange—he regurgitated half, like an offering. I'll spare you the rest; my stomach's still turning from it." He grimaced, a fist brushing his mouth, skin paling briefly, as he sort of gagged—you arch a brow.
"But I couldn't stop." He admitted. "There's nothing in the sagas about Night Furies—I had to know more. So, I kept going back." His voice softened, wonder threading through the fear, and he rubbed his neck, smudging charcoal across his skin.
"He's sharp—smarter than anything we've imagined." He slid the sketchbook toward you, revealing diagrams of the tail fin he'd built, "Made this for him. He can't fly without it—not since my trap wrecked him. That's what I was working on last night. I've been flying with him, learning from him—"
Your eyes widened at that as you leaned closer to him, eyes tracing the sketches—gears, leather straps, the fin's sleek arc—his words sinking in like hammer strikes shaping steel.
"You've been flying a dragon?" you said, voice low and stunned, cutting through the forge's drone. "Since the Gronckle—and you didn't tell me? Me, Hiccup?" Your fingers dug into the workbench, splinters pricking your palms, the hurt sharpening your tone. "I've covered for you, taken lectures for you—did you really think I'd run to your father, to the village?"
His face fell, guilt clouding his eyes, and he spread his hands over the sketchbook as if to steady himself. "I trust you," he said, voice quiet but resolute. "More than anyone. That's why I'm here now—I couldn't keep it from you, not after hearing you out there." He nodded toward the wall, his frown deepening, and you recalled your whispered plea, the crack that had pierced his silence.
A cool gust slipped through the forge's entrance, brushing your skin with a shiver, and you eased back, the sting of hurt softening into relief, the unshakable bond pulling you back to him. He watched you, breath held, awaiting your judgment, the truth a heavy anchor between you—he'd rewritten everything, and you'd stand by him through it.
"I'm not upset about the dragon, Hiccup," you said, voice gentler now, steadying. "Though I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried for you."
He met your gaze, a small, hesitant smile breaking through, his shoulders loosening. "I'm glad I finally told you. Took me long enough," he said, a faint laugh escaping as you gave his arm a light, playful nudge, drawing a chuckle from him in return.
"You don't think it's odd? Un-Viking-like?" he asked, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
You shook your head, a wry smile tugging your lips. "No—it's exactly like you, Hiccup. Always has been."
Hiccup's eyes glistened, a rare sheen he wouldn't deny, and with a sudden burst of energy, he darted around the workbench, boots scuffing the dirt floor. He wrapped you in a hug—fiercer than any he'd given before, the kind that lifted you off the ground. His arms pulling you close, the damp wool of his tunic pressing against your chest.
He held on, a solid minute ticking by in the forge's warm hum, his breath unsteady against your shoulder. Your cheeks warmed, a deep flush creeping up neck to head as his grip lingered, and when he finally pulled back, his face lit up with a joy you hadn't seen in months—bright, unguarded, pure Hiccup.
"Gods, I'm—so relieved," he said, voice catching with a laugh, hands gesturing wildly as he paced a tight circle. "You have no idea how much I've wanted to tell you. I know—I should've done it sooner, I know! But now that you're in on it—gods, I've got to take you to him. You have to see him for yourself."
His words tumbled out, fast and eager, his lanky frame practically bouncing with that giddy, restless energy only he could muster, green eyes wide and sparkling under the forge's amber glow.
You couldn't help it—his joy sparked a laugh from you, warm and genuine, rippling through the air like the clang of a hammer on steel. It melted the last threads of doubt that had knotted in your chest, washing away the wait's quiet sting. His happiness was infectious, a fire catching dry tinder, and as he grinned—freckles dancing across his flushed face.
You felt the weight of his secret lift, replaced by a thrill that hummed in your bones. The forge's heat pulsed at your back mixed with the cold breeze that send shivers down your spine, and you knew: whatever came next, you'd follow him to that cove, to Toothless, because this—this moment—was worth it.
It was the last day of the break Gobber had so sweetly carved out for you all, a fleeting pause that went by too fast for you all and that still draped Berk in an uneasy quiet, and the forge's smoky haze from Hiccup's confession last night lingered in your mind like a half-remembered dream—his voice spilling secrets about Toothless over the workbench long after he had told you, your hurt hardening into resolve.
The Hideous Zippleback trial loomed on the horizon now, set for tomorrow, its twin heads and sparking jaws lingering in the back of your thoughts, though neither you nor Hiccup had pieced a plan together yet, too tangled in the moment to count the days.
The morning had dawned sluggish but sunny for once, its light seeping through the warped planks of your small home, casting faint stripes across the furs where you'd sat on the floor, poking at the hearth's embers with a stick, your bandaged arm propped awkwardly on your knee.
His knock rattled the door then, soft but persistent, a rhythm etched into the back of your mind from years of him dragging you into mischief, and when you swung it open, there he was—his auburn hair a windswept mess, his green eyes alight with a reckless determination that made your stomach lurch.
"I'm taking you to see him," he said in as whisper looking behind to see that no one was lurking, voice firm but threaded with an eagerness, his hand reaching for yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You froze, heels digging into the hard oak floor, the wood groaning under your boots as he tugged, a gentle pull that snagged when he turned and caught the unease flickering in your eyes—wide, shadowed, searching his face for a reason to trust this leap.
The air grew heavy, laced with the sharp scent of pine from the woods drifting in and the faint char of the fire behind you, and for a heartbeat, you stood locked there, your hand trembling in his, the weight of his dragon sinking claws into the quiet life you'd known.
He didn't pull harder—didn't force you past that threshold—but his grip stayed steady, his thumb brushing your knuckles as he met your gaze, reading the worry etched into the lines of your face like a map he'd memorized long ago.
"I know you're scared," he said, voice dipping low, soft as the rustle of leaves beyond the walls, but carrying that quiet conviction that'd always bent you to his will, from the days you'd schemed with Gobber over forge flames or raced across Berk's cliffs, laughing into the wind.
"You're thinking about what he could do—what this means for us. But he's not what they say, not what Berk believes. He's. . .he's like me, in a way—different, but good. I've been with him every day since I cut him free, and he trusts me. He'll trust you too—I'm sure of it."
His lopsided grin flickered, tentative but warm, a lifeline thrown across the gap, and he tilted his head, eyes crinkling with a tease he couldn't resist. "C'mon, you've stared down Marta's wrath—Gobbers, my dad's! And a Nadder's tail—you think a dragon's going to scare off the heart of Berk?"
The nickname hit soft, a tender jab that stirred the ache you'd nursed for years that only he and Gobber called you, the hope in his eyes that he'd see you follow him—because he knew calling you that would work.
You exhaled, a sharp, shaky breath that broke the dam of your resistance, and your shoulders slumped, the fight draining out as you muttered, "Fine, but if he eats me, I'm cursing you from Valhalla."
His laugh burst free, bright and relieved, cutting through the morning's chill, and he tugged you out the door with a grin, the cold slapping your cheeks as you snatched two burlap sacks from a peg—stuffed with fish, their slimy tang already seeping through—before trailing him into the fog-shrouded wilds beyond the village's edge.
The journey to the cove stretched an hour and a half, shorter than that first desperate hunt after the Night Fury's crash, when you'd stumbled through the woods beside him, hearts hammering and voices hushed, chasing a shadow that'd upended everything. Now, the path felt alive—every crunch of twigs under your boots, every sigh of wind through the pine's overhead, sharpened by the pulse of what waited ahead.
The sacks thudded against your backs, the fishy stink mingling with the damp, loamy scent of the woods now turned forest floor, and Hiccup forged on, his steps sure despite the uneven terrain, his skinny frame threading through the trees like he'd worn this trail into his soul.
He talked as you went—nervous chatter, you figured, spilling scraps of his little time with Toothless stories to fill the quiet: how he'd puzzled out the tail fin's curve, how the dragon's eyes caught the sun like shards of sea glass. You nodded, half-listening, your gaze flicking to the shadows, braced for a roar or a rustle that never came.
The forests thickened, branches clawing at your cloak, then parted abruptly, revealing the cove—a rugged hollow of stone and moss cradled by cliffs, its depths cloaked in mist that drifted like a living veil. You halted, boots skidding on the rocky rim, and stared down, your heart slamming so fierce it felt like it might burst free and tumble into the abyss below.
Toothless was down there, somewhere—hidden in the murk, a black wraith against the green—and the reality crashed over you: not a tale, not a sketch, but a living dragon, scales and teeth and all, waiting in the gloom. Hiccup stopped beside you, his breath puffing white in the crisp air, and you felt his gaze settle on you, steady and searching, as your pulse roared louder than the sea beyond Berk's cliffs.
"Hiccup," you said, voice quaking despite the steel you tried to forge into it, "it likes you. What if it doesn't see me the same? You were the one who let him go—I wasn't there for that part."
You stepped back, retreating into the shadow of a twisted pine, its gnarled branches draping you in darkness as if they could swallow the fear clawing up your spine. The cove's edge glowed ahead, mist swirling in the weak light, but Toothless stayed unseen, tucked into the rocky folds below—a phantom you couldn't face, not yet.
Your hands clenched the sack, the burlap rough against your palms, and you shook your head, a quick, sharp jerk that sent a shiver racing through you. "What if he—" you began, but Hiccup's hand darted out, gentle yet firm, catching your arm before you could shrink fully behind him.
His touch grounded you, warm against the morning's bite, and he stepped in close, his lanky frame a barrier to your retreat, his presence as familiar as the forge's hum.
"Hey," he said, his voice softening, a laugh bubbling up—light, not cruel, the kind that'd always ease you since you were smaller kids. "He's not eating you. I'd never let that happen—personal hero, right?" He squeezed your arm, his grin tilting wider, and you scowled, heat flushing your neck at the tease, though it steadied your racing heart.
"He's smart, not some mindless beast. He'll see you're with me—and trust me, his bark's worse than his bite. Well, no bark, really—just a lot of staring and flapping." His eyes sparkled, green and bright, and he nodded toward the cove, the mist thinning just enough to tease a flicker of movement—a tail's twitch, a wing's shadow.
"C'mon," he urged, his hand sliding down to lace his fingers with yours, a quiet vow in the grip. "You've got me—and a sack of fish. He'll love you for that alone."
The fear lingered, a stubborn knot, but his certainty—his trust—tugged you forward, and you followed, heart still thudding, into the cove where Toothless waited, the Zippleback trial a distant worry you'd only unravel later, back in Berk's glow.
The mist clung to the cove's edge like a shroud, its tendrils curling around your boots as Hiccup's fingers tightened around yours, his grip a steady anchor pulling you past the brink of your fear.
"Ready?" he murmured, his voice low but buzzing with that reckless spark, and before you could muster a reply, he stepped forward, leading you down the steep, rocky incline into the hollow below.
His hand stayed laced with yours, warm and sure, guiding you as he took the lead, his lanky frame moving with a grace you hadn't noticed before—sure-footed despite the uneven stone, like he'd climbed this path a hundred times in the dark. The air grew cooler as you descended, damp with the scent of moss and earth, the faint tang of freshwater drifting up from some hidden spring deep in the cove's heart.
Your boots slipped on a slick patch, kicking loose a scatter of pebbles that clattered down ahead, and Hiccup glanced back, his green eyes catching yours with a quick, reassuring grin—half-tease, half-promise—before tugging you onward. The sacks swayed against you both, the fishy reek sharper now, mingling with the musty stillness as the cliffs rose higher around you, their jagged faces swallowing the weak morning light.
Your heart thudded, a wild rhythm against your ribs, and you clung to his hand tighter, the warmth of it a lifeline as the world narrowed to the shadowed basin around—where Toothless waited, a mystery you'd only glimpsed once and in sketches and Hiccup's breathless tales.
The ground leveled out, gravel crunching underfoot, and he stopped, turning to face the emptiness with a soft call: "Toothless! Hey, bud, it's me—come on out!" His voice echoed off the stone, bright and coaxing, and you held your breath, the mist swirling thicker as something stirred in the gloom ahead.
A shape emerged—slow at first, a ripple in the shadows—then all at once, Toothless stepped into view, his sleek black form cutting through the mist like a blade through cloth. The Night Fury was stunning, more than any sketch could capture: scales glinting like polished obsidian in the dim light, wings folded loosely against his sides, and those eyes—huge, green, luminous as tide pools—locking onto Hiccup with a spark of recognition.
His beauty struck you dumb, a raw, wild elegance that stole the air from your lungs, the kind of grace you'd never seen in Berk's chaos or the forge's iron glow. But fear followed fast, a cold fist squeezing your chest, and you froze, boots rooted to the gravel as the sheer size of him sank in—claws curling into the earth, a tail that flicked like a whip, a presence that filled the cove with quiet menace.
Hiccup dropped his sack without a second thought, the burlap thudding to the ground as fish spilled out in a slimy heap, and he darted forward, his hand slipping from yours as he closed the gap.
"Hey, bud!" he laughed, voice bright with a joy you rarely heard, and he reached out, petting Toothless's snout with a casual ease that made your jaw drop. The dragon rumbled, a deep, throaty sound—not quite a growl, more a purr—his ears twitching up as he pressed into Hiccup's touch, his massive head dipping low in a gesture so puppy-like it clashed with the terror still spiking through you.
Your sack slipped from your grip, landing with a soft thump, and you stood there, hands empty, caught between awe and the instinct to bolt, the cove's walls pressing in as Toothless's gaze flicked past Hiccup—and landed on you.
Those luminous eyes narrowed to slits in an instant, the green sharpening to something feral, and Toothless's body shifted—hunching low, shoulders tensing like a cat's before a pounce, his tail stiffening behind him. A growl rolled out, low and guttural, vibrating through the gravel under your feet, and your breath snagged, fear surging hot and fast as you locked eyes with the dragon.
He didn't know you—not like he knew Hiccup, the one who'd cut him free, fed him, flown him—and the weight of that hit harder than the Nadder's barb ever had. Hiccup froze mid-pet, his hand still on Toothless's snout, and whipped his head around, catching the shift in the dragon's stance.
"Whoa, whoa, easy, bud," he said, voice dropping to a soothing hum, though a flicker of panic edged his words as he stepped sideways, half-shielding you with his frame. "She's with me—she's good, I promise. You smell the fish, right? She brought you some!"
He gestured toward your sack, his grin wobbling as he tried to coax Toothless down, but the dragon's growl didn't falter, his slit eyes boring into you with a wariness that prickled your skin. You couldn't move—couldn't breathe—the beauty that'd stunned you now twisting into something primal, something that saw you as a stranger, maybe a threat.
Your hand twitched toward the dagger in your boot, an old habit from training, but you stopped, fingers curling into a fist instead; this wasn't a fight, not yet, though the cove felt smaller, the air thicker, as Toothless hunched lower, his growl a quiet storm brewing between you.
Hiccup shot you a look—wide-eyed, pleading—and you saw it then: his trust in Toothless warring with his fear of losing you to this moment, the bond he'd built with the dragon teetering on the edge of your presence, and you wondered, heart hammering, if you'd ever find a place in it.
Toothless's growl rumbled through the cove, a low, thrumming threat that pinned you in place, your boots rooted to the gravel as his slit eyes bore into you, sharp and unyielding. The mist seemed to almost choke you, and the air crackled with the standoff—his hunched form, Hiccup's half-shielding stance, your own breath caught tight in your chest.
Then Hiccup's head snapped toward you, his green eyes widening as they darted down to your boots, catching the faint glint of steel where your black stone daggers peeked out, tucked snug against the leather.
"Wait—" he said, voice pitching up, a mix of realization and urgency as he stepped fully between you and Toothless, his hands flailing in that awkward, earnest way of his.
"Toss your daggers to the pool—over there, by the water. He knows you have them—that's why he's like this!"
You stared at him, jaw dropping, your gaze flicking from his flushed face to the dragon's coiled menace, and for a heartbeat, you wondered if he'd sprouted two heads bigger than the Zippleback itself—asking you to ditch your weapons, your lifeline, in a cove with a growling Night Fury.
The absurdity of it burned, but his eyes held yours, steady and pleading, and he pressed on, voice softening but firm. "No, really—it's okay. He's smart, he senses them, and he doesn't trust you with 'em. I promise, just toss them—he'll calm down."
The dragon's growl spiked, a warning ripple, and Hiccup's hand hovered near your arm, not grabbing, just waiting, his trust in Toothless a quiet wall against your doubt. Your fingers twitched, instinct screaming to keep the blades, but his certainty—his faith in this beast or your faith in him—gnawed at you, and with a scowl, you relented, the weight of his words tipping the scale.
You crouched slow, eyes never leaving Toothless, and yanked the daggers free—one, then the other—their black stone edges catching the dim light as you gripped them tight, hesitating one last time. Hiccup nodded, a quick, encouraging jerk of his head, and you sighed, sharp and exasperated, before hurling the first dagger toward the small pond at the cove's edge.
It arced through the mist, splashing into the water with a soft plunk, ripples spreading wide, and Toothless's head whipped toward it, ears flicking up, his growl faltering as he tracked the motion. The second followed, landing with a louder splash, and you watched, breath held, as the dragon's slit eyes followed it too, his hunched frame easing—shoulders dropping, tail uncurling—like a switch had flipped in his mind.
He sank onto his haunches, sitting upright like a man, his massive head tilting with wide, curious eyes now fixed on you, the menace draining away into something almost. . .playful. The growl died completely, leaving only the cove's quiet hum—the drip of water, the rustle of wind through the cliffs—and you exhaled, relief flooding hot and fast as your shoulders slumped, the tension unraveling like a cut rope.
Hiccup let out a shaky laugh beside you, scrubbing a hand through his hair, smudging dirt across his freckled cheek.
"See? Told you—smart, not savage," he said, his grin wide and lopsided, and you shot him a look—half-glare, half-relief—your heart still thudding but lighter now, the dragon's shift a strange balm to the fear that'd gripped you moments before.
Toothless blinked, his pupils dilating round and bright, and you couldn't help but marvel, the cove's gloom framing him like some wild, living myth, beautiful and bewildering all at once.
Hiccup didn't waste the moment—he ducked down, snagging a fish from the spilled sack at his feet, its silvery scales glinting as he straightened and turned to you, holding it out with that same reckless spark in his eyes.
"Here," he said, thrusting it toward you, and you stared at him, protest flaring fresh as your brows shot up, the absurdity hitting you again—he wanted you to feed this thing, this Night Fury that'd just growled you into a statue?
"You're mad," you muttered, voice dry as ash, but he laughed—bright, unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the stone walls—and gave you a gentle push, his hand warm on your shoulder as he nudged you closer to Toothless.
"C'mon, he's fine now—look at him, he's curious! He won't bite—well, not you, anyway," he teased, and you glared, heat creeping up your neck, though his grin softened it, tugging at that old tether between you.
Toothless tilted his head, those wide eyes locking onto you with a glint of interest, no trace of the earlier threat, and you swallowed, the fish slick and cold in your hands as you stepped forward, boots crunching gravel, the cove's damp air clinging to your skin. You held it out—arm stiff, heart pounding—and Toothless leaned in, slow and deliberate, his snout brushing the air near your fingers.
He took it gently, no teeth flashing, just a smooth snap as he swallowed it whole, the motion so quick you barely blinked. Then he sniffed your hand, warm breath puffing over your knuckles, and a smile broke through your nerves, small but real, the dragon's curiosity melting the last of your fear into something softer—something like wonder.
Hiccup watched from a step back, his own smile widening, a fondness softening his green eyes as he leaned against a boulder, arms crossed, taking in every tentative move you made with Toothless, like he was seeing you anew in the cove's shadowed light.
You wouldn't realize until you trudged home that evening—legs aching from the cove's steep climb, boots caked with mud that squelched with every step, the damp of the misty hollow still clinging to your cloak like a second skin—that the break Gobber had grudgingly granted was nearly spent, that tomorrow's dawn would crack open the Hideous Zippleback trial he'd growled about days ago, its twin heads a specter neither you nor Hiccup had fully faced in the rush of Toothless's world.
The trek back had been quieter—yet happier than the journey before, the forest swallowing your footsteps as the adrenaline of the cove ebbed into a bone-deep weariness, though a spark of something brighter—something alive—still buzzed beneath it, warming your chest despite the chill seeping through your damp clothes.
The sacks hung lighter now, emptied of fish and bread, but their burlap reeked of secrets—of scales and trust—and swung against your thighs as you and Hiccup stumbled into Berk's outskirts, the village's familiar sprawl emerging from the fog like a dream half-remembered.
The sky had bruised purple overhead, streaked with the last gasps of daylight, and the air carried the sharp bite of smoke from chimneys, the faint bleat of sheep rolling down from the hills. You paused by your door, the rough-hewn wood solid under your hand as you leaned against it, catching your breath, and turned to Hiccup—his auburn hair a wild mess, his green eyes glinting with the same thrill that tugged your lips into a wide, unstoppable grin.
His own smile mirrored yours, broad and unguarded, a rare thing that lit his freckled face and crinkled the corners of his eyes, and for a moment, you both stood there, panting and grinning like kids who'd outrun a storm, the cove's magic still humming between you.
"Hiccup," you said, voice rough from the day but steady as you sank onto the stoop beside your door, the cold stone biting through your trousers, "you know this changes things, right?"
The words slipped out, half-question, half-marvel, as you propped your elbows on your knees, your cloak pooling around you like a shadow. The unbelievable thrill of it all—the Night Fury's curious eyes, his gentle nudge against your hand, the way he'd shifted from growl to calm—still pulsed through you, a happiness so sharp it almost ached, pulling you both from the day's wild events into this quiet, shared space.
Hiccup plopped down beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, warm and solid, and he nodded, slow and deliberate, his grin softening into something thoughtful as he stared out at the village's flickering torches.
"Yeah, it does," he said, voice low but thick with the weight of it, like he was turning the truth over in his mind, testing its edges. The wind tugged at his hair, rustling it across his brow, and he tilted his head back onto the door, exhaling a puff of white into the dusk as if letting go of the last shred of doubt he'd carried down there.
"It's not just me and him anymore—it's us now. You and me and Toothless." His eyes flicked to yours, green and bright, holding a fondness that made your chest tighten, and you saw it then: the shift wasn't just the dragon, but you—your place in his world stretching wider, deeper, than it'd ever been before. The thought sent a shiver through you, not from the cold, but from the sheer size of it—him, Toothless, Berk, all colliding in a way you hadn't braced for.