There, you stood—pressed shoulder to shoulder with the others, breaths rising in sharp, white plumes against the biting afternoon chill—before the gate's jagged maw of grim lattice-splintered wood and rusted iron groaned opened and shivered under the restless force stirring beyond it. The air hung heavy, laced with the faint tang of salt and the low, guttural hum of something lurking—something impatient—its presence so poised to break free.
Today, Gobber declared this trial a test of teamwork—a word that sank over you all with a groan—like the weight of an ancestral feud, pressing hard against your clashing spirits. The group had been cleaved into teams with all the subtlety of an axe splitting timber: the girls—you, Astrid, and Ruffnut were together in one bristling trio.
While the boys were scattered into pairs, Hiccup tethered to Fishlegs in a match that sank the fragile plan you'd pieced together in your head like a ship crashing against sea rocks, leaving you clutching the water filled bucket in your hands as the only hope unraveled faster than you could knot them.
"Trust him," you told yourself.
You'd caught Hiccup's eye earlier, just as you all emerged from the mist before the first call of crying seagulls, when you'd dragged him aside before the arenas mouth—your voice low, urgent, spilling the unease that had gnawed at you since Toothless's luminous gaze had softened under your trembling hand.
"We can't hurt this dragon, Hiccup—what do we do?" you'd asked, voice spilling out in a breathless surge as your fingers tightened around his sleeve, the wool coarse and fraying under your grasp.
"It's not what they think—we've seen it now, you showed me. What if it's like Toothless—scared, trapped, just clawing for a way out?" The wind keened through the arenas cage, carrying the faint musk of the all the beast's inside, their low, trembling growl echoing your own racing pulse.
His green eyes had flickered, wide and searching, tracing your face as if mapping a path through your worry, and he'd leaned in close so no one else could listen—too close, his breath warm against your cheek—his voice a conspiratorial murmur that sent a shiver racing down your spine despite the morning's bite.
"I've got something," he'd said, his tone threaded with that reckless spark as he showed the slimy eel wrapped around his shoulder under his gilet, "just wait for it—trust me, okay?"
You had gone to question it but then, the others' footsteps crunched nearer, their voices a dull hum against the archway of the arena, he'd dipped lower, looking at you with a glint in his eye and whispered, "Stick with me." A quiet vow before Gobber's bellow split the air and shattered the moment.
Gobber's gruff decree had torn you from Hiccup's side, planting you firmly with Astrid and Ruffnut, and planting buckets in your arms. So, now, that promise felt like a fraying lifeline as you stood in the arena's clouded ring beside Ruffnut, the gate's teeth to the Zippleback's cage looming overhead wide open after the explosion, the air already thickening with the acrid sting of smoke that poured from the twin-headed dragon's unseen jaws—its presence a rumble you felt more than heard, a low tremor that vibrated through the chains above you.
"Now remember, a wet dragon head, can't light its fire," Gobber went on. "The hideous Zippleback is extra tricky. One head breathes gas, the other head lights it. Your job is to know which is which."
The air thrummed with unease, the faint clanks of their buckets and the low mutter of the others underscoring the weight of what awaited made you lift your head higher as you prepared—focused. The smoke hit you first, a choking, hideous shroud that billowed from the Zippleback's unseen jaws and swallowed you whole, its acrid bite clawing at your throat as you stumbled forward, the arena's stone floor gritty beneath your boots, every instinct screaming to hold your ground even as the haze stung your eyes and blurred the world into a gray-green, suffocating veil.
You trusted Hiccups plan through and through—but even so, you both tread on an edge different from Toothless right now. This was no fleeting moment of cove-bound wonder, no gentle dragon sniffing fish from your palm, no sweet gentle Toothless awaiting head pats no—this was Berk's brutal ring, and lives teetering on the edge of those twin heads' mercy.
So, the weight of Gobber's barked orders went rattling through your mind: find the right head, douse it with water, back off, then track down Hiccup before the beast could bite you, water wouldn't hurt it.
Now, pressed back-to-back with Astrid and Ruffnut, their shoulders a tense knot against yours, you squinted into the murk, your breath shallow and ragged, the bucket in your grip strained yet ready to splash at whatever crawled forward.
The dragon was out there, lurking, its presence sinister pulsing through the haze, and the sounds it made slithered through the smoke from two directions at once, a disorienting chorus that toyed with your senses and set your nerves alight. From your left came a low, guttural rasp, a hiss that scraped the air like a blade on stone, rising and falling as if the gas head were tasting the arena's edges, probing for weakness.
From your right, sharper and erratic, a series of staccato clicks and faint, sparking pops crackled—you listened—marking the spark head's restless prowl, its rhythm jagged and unpredictable, as though it danced with you guys, waiting to ignite the chaos.
"You hear that?" Astrid muttered at your side, her voice taut but steady, cutting through the murk as she shifted her weight, bucket haft creaking in her grip, her breath a controlled huff against the smoke's assault. You nodded, barely—a quick jerk of your chin—your eyes watering from the sting as you twisted toward the rasping hiss, then back to the sparking pops that took turns moving, the twin echoes bouncing off the arena's walls until they seemed to coil around you, a noose of sound tightening with every step the Zippleback didn't yet take.
"It's everywhere," Ruffnut grumbled behind you, her tone half-annoyed, half-thrilled, her braid brushing your shoulder as she craned her neck, "like it's laughing at us—creepy, right?" And it was, that lurking duet of menace—two heads, two threats, weaving through the smoke—leaving you clutching the bucket tighter, your pulse hammering as you waited for Hiccup's unseen signal, the dragon's unseen shapes still holding their strike.
"There!" Snotlout's shout pierced the air, sharp and sudden, yanking your head toward the sound as it ricocheted off the arena's walls, and you spun on your heel, boots skidding the smooth yet gritty stone, squinting through the haze to catch a glimpse of his stocky silhouette—only to realize, too late, that the idiot had zeroed in on the wrong target.
Before you could brace yourself, a frigid wave crashed over you, drenching you head to toe as Snotlout and Tuffnut, in a spectacular display of misfired teamwork, hurled their buckets' contents straight at you, Astrid, and Ruffnut, the water sluicing down your face and soaking your clothes, its icy bite snatching the breath from your lungs as you stood there, dripping, caught between shock and a flicker of grim annoyance at their sheer stupidity.
"Hey!" Ruffnut bellowed beside you, her voice a raw snarl of outrage as she shook water from her braids like a sodden dog, her fists clenched tight, "It's us, you idiots!"
Tuffnut's cackle cut through the murk, high and unhinged, his lanky frame doubling over as he jabbed a finger at the three of you, water still glistening on his knuckles.
"Your butts are getting bigger—we thought you were a dragon!" he crowed, his grin wide and wicked, and Snotlout joined in, his guffaw rumbling until it snagged on a cough, his dark eyes locking onto Astrid's with a nervous flicker.
"Not that there's anything wrong with a dragonesque figure—" he started, his voice pitching up in a clumsy backpedal, but Astrid's fist was faster, slamming square into his jaw with a crack that echoed over the Zippleback's distant hiss, sending him staggering back, clutching his face as his bravado crumpled.
Ruffnut didn't hesitate either, her own retaliation swift and messy—she snatched her still-full bucket and heaved it at Tuffnuts' face, the water arcing through the air in a glittering spray before it slammed into his head, dousing him as he yelped and flailed, laughter dying in his throat.
"Why'd you just waste your water?" you snapped at her, annoyance flaring hot in your chest as you wiped a soaked strand of hair from your eyes, the bucket in your own grip feeling heavier now, its sloshing weight a lifeline you couldn't afford to lose—but her retort was cut short, swallowed by a sudden, guttural roar as the Zippleback struck, its claws snagging Tuffnut in a blur of scales and smoke, yanking him into the clouds unseen with a startled shout that pierced the haze and jolted you upright, every nerve snapping taut.
You froze for a heartbeat, alert, scanning the shifting clouds until your eyes locked onto Hiccup's lean frame in the distance—his auburn hair a faint beacon through the murk—and you edged toward him, stepping away from Astrid and Ruffnut just in time as the dragon's tail lashed out, a whip of muscle and menace that caught them both off-guard, knocking them sprawling down with twin grunts of surprise, their figures scrambling upright as they all bolted in opposite directions, the arena erupting into a frantic tangle of shouts and running feet.
Another plume of smoke rolled over you then before you could sneak to Hiccups side, thick and blinding, severing you from the others as it coiled around your frame like a living snare, and your breath shallowed, rasping in your chest as the world shrank to a gray-green void.
The Zippleback's twin echoes—hiss and spark—circling tighter, closer, until you forced your eyes shut for a fleeting second, willing the panic to ebb, exhaling slow and deliberate as your fingers tightened around the bucket's handle, its cold metal grounding you in the chaos.
When you opened them, the smoke parted just enough, and there it was—one of the beast's heads looming before you, its scales glinting brilliant green, yellow and red in the weak light, its jaws parted to reveal the spark head, embers flickering at the edges of its maw like tiny, malevolent stars—and you didn't hesitate, hurling the water from your bucket in a desperate arc, the splash catching half its face, dousing the sparks on one side with a hiss of steam.
But the dragon recoiled, its head jerking back with a snarl, and before you could retreat, it lunged, its snout slamming into your chest with a force that ripped a yelp from your throat and sent you crashing to the ground hard, the bucket tumbling from your grip as pain flared sharp and bright across your ribs, the hard, wet stone cold and unyielding beneath you.
Gobber's voice boomed through the haze then, raw and urgent—"Get up, lass!"—his shout slicing through the din as your name rang out from several directions, and you scrambled to your feet, lungs burning, just in time to see the spark head swivel away from you, its attention snagged by Hiccup's sudden movement with its other head, the gas head now rearing into view beside it, twin threats converging as the beast's growl deepened into a rumble that shook you.
Hiccup fumbled with his own bucket, his lanky frame darting to one side as he flung the water upwards—missing poorly, the splash missed the spark head entirely, and the dragon screeched—a furious, guttural sound that rattled your skull—before lunging at him, jaws snapping shut inches from his arm as he stumbled back, barely dodging the strike.
"Hiccup!" you shouted, your voice cracking with panic, mirroring Gobber's own bellowed cry—"Hiccup, move yer scrawny arse!"—as you staggered forward, heart hammering, the smoke swirling clearer now, the Zippleback's heads weaving through the haze, poised for another strike as this trial seemed to teeter on the edge of disaster.
You and Gobber bolted toward Hiccup, your boots pounding in unison from different directions, a frantic rhythm driven by the raw edge of fear that still clung to your ribs from the Zippleback's lunge, the smoke parting in ragged wisps around you as Gobber's heavy gait thundered beside yours, his hammer-hand glinting in the dim light—until you both skidded to a halt, frozen mid-stride, breath snagging in your throat as something unfolded that defied every scrap of Viking instinct you'd ever forged in Berk's brutal crucible.
There, in the transparent swirling haze that began to lift, Hiccup rose slowly—slight, scrawny Hiccup, the boy who'd tripped over his own feet dodging—well, everything—the Gronckle, messing up with the Deadly Nadder and unable to slay the unholy offspring of lightning and death—facing down the Hideous Zippleback with a fire in his stance you'd never seen.
His hands thrust out before him like a shield, and the beast, that twin-headed terror of gas and spark, cowered—its massive heads ducking inward toward its coiled body, scales trembling as it let out a piercing screech, not of rage but of fear, a whimpering, guttural sound that shivered through the arena and turned your blood cold. This wasn't the Hiccup you knew, not the one who'd fumbled buckets and dodged tails, but something else entirely, something untamed and sure.
His hands still extended as he took a step forward, voice ringing out sharp and defiant—"Back! Back—back!"—and the Zippleback obeyed, its heads recoiling with every barked command, screeching again, high and terrified, their slit eyes squinting shut as they shuffled backward, claws scraping the stone in a reluctant retreat toward the gaping maw of their cage, tails lashing feebly against the ground.
"Now, don't you make me tell you again!" Hiccup bellowed, his voice cracking with a fierce edge that echoed off the arena's walls.
The corners of your mouth twitched upwards as the weight of his secret he'd spilled to you was working, and the beast flinched, its massive frame shrinking as he pressed on, unrelenting.
"Yeah! That's right! Back into your cage—now, think about what you've done," he said, his tone dropping to a stern finality as he strode forward, slamming the gate shut with a clang that rang out, the Zippleback vanishing into the corner of its prison, its whimpers fading into a stunned, hollow quiet that swallowed the arena whole.
The world held its breath then, an eerie stillness settling over the ring as you stood there, mouth agape, the empty bucket dangling forgotten in your slack grip, your eyes locked on Hiccup's back—his narrow shoulders squared, his auburn hair wild from the scuffle—while the others mirrored you, statues carved from shock.
Astrid's arms limp at her side, her sharp gaze wide and unblinking; Ruffnut standing wide-side-eyed, her braid askew, staring as if Thor himself had descended; Snotlout clutching his bruised jaw, his bravado drowned in disbelief; Tuffnut, still half-tangled from the dragon's snatch, gaping mutely; and Gobber, his hammer-hand frozen mid-air, his weathered face slack with something between pride and bewilderment.
Hiccup turned then, spinning on his heel to face you all, and his green eyes widened, flickering with a sudden, awkward panic as they swept over the sea of stunned faces, the weight of what he'd done crashing over him like a rogue wave, and the silence stretched taut, unbroken until hulking, trembling Fishlegs—dropped his bucket with a dull thud, the clatter slicing through the hush as water spilled around his boots, his jaw hanging loose in astonishment.
Hiccup shifted on his feet, his hands wiping his hard work on his fur gilet before flapping uselessly at his sides, caught in the spotlight of your collective stares.
"Okay, so—are we done?" he said, his voice climbing an octave as he waved his arms in a flailing arc, trying to shrug off the moment like it was just another botched training drill.
"'Cause I've got some things to do, uh—yep, I'll see you tomorrow!" And with that, he bolted, his lanky frame darting for the arena's exit.
Boots kicking up dust as he fled the weight of your eyes, leaving you all rooted there, watching his retreat until he vanished beyond the gate—only for every head to swivel back in unison, a slow, synchronized turn toward the Zippleback's cage, its iron doors glinting dully with a subdued rustle within.
The silence stretched out a beat longer, teetering on the edge of awkward, until Tuffnut's voice sliced through—half croak, half cackle, tinged with awe and pure, unfiltered bewilderment. "What in Thor's mighty sweaty armpits did I just come to witness with my own two eyeballs?" he hollered, his pitch lurching upward as if he'd accidentally swallowed a live eel.
The arena jolted back to life like a beehive kicked awake with Gobbers rambling and a chaotic hum swelling after Tuffnut's bleary outburst still dangling in the air like a half-cooked riddle. Astrid's furious muttering spilled out in a garbled snarl, something between a war cry and a tongue-twisted curse, while Snotlout pawed at his jaw, scowling as if the Zippleback had personally insulted his lineage.
The cage rattled faintly in the corner, its twin heads whimpering—a pitiful, squeaky duet that almost made you feel sorry for the beast, if your own pulse weren't hammering too loud to care. The Nadder scar on your arm pulsed under its soggy bandage, a dull ache gnawing through the damp chill as your soaked clothes slapped against your thighs, heavy with the weight of the water spilled onto you.
Gobber's voice thundered across the ring, the blacksmith's bellow that could wake a coma-drunk yak, his heavy steps thudding closer like a storm rolling in.
"Oi, lass! Now where are ye scamperin' off to so fast?" he roared, his tone a rough-hewn mix of indignation and that gruff, forge-hardened bluster that demanded you stay put—likely for a round of discipline ramblings and sharp jabs at Hiccup's latest stunt—the man had questions.
His stump clacked quickly against the arena ground, punctuating his march as he zeroed in on you edging toward the gate, your muddy fur boots slipping just enough to make your escape less than graceful.
You didn't slow, tossing back a brisk, "Need some air, Gobber—catch you later!"—your voice steady, a grin plastered on to cloak the frantic tug in your chest, the kind that screamed find him, now. You ducked through the gate, weaving past a splintered post as his gruff retort chased you—"Bah, ye're as bad as the lad, slippin' off like a greased eel!"—his words fading into the smoky haze, swallowed by the noises of the arena and the squelch.
Your heart thumps a fierce tempo, out pacing even Gobber's bellowing boasts, fueled by an urgent need to find Hiccup—his wild, maddening genius still flickering in your thoughts, a puzzle you couldn't grasp. You'd hauled yourself toward his house, where he lingered.
The squat silhouette of your own home rises into view as if trying to tempt you inside and to your bed. Yet the urge to unraveling Hiccup's latest feat—overrides it, wet clothes or not. You'd agreed last night to meet him, and now your boots pivot, scraping the earth as you angle toward his place.
Approaching his door, the crisp afternoon air bites at your lungs, your breath puffing out in quick bursts. Then Hiccup strikes—darting from the side of his weathered house with the agility of a coiled spring. Auburn hair flops across his forehead as his boots skid on the hard-packed dirt, kicking up a faint haze of dust.
His hands clamp around your wrists, firm yet surprisingly gentle and warm, cutting through the chill that had settled into your skin. You stagger back a half-step, a sharp bark of laughter slipping out before you can rein it in.
"Hiccup, you'll be the death of me with these ambushes," you quip. His eyes flare with mischief, a swift, crooked smile tugging at his lips.
"Come on, let's go see him—he's waiting," he says, voice low but humming with excitement. His grip eases, fingers lingering for a fleeting second before dropping away, already motioning you forward.
You freeze mid-step, eyes locked on Hiccup's retreating figure as he rounds the weathered corner of his house, his lanky frame moving with that effortless, slightly reckless stride. You blink a few times with a sigh knowing well he was avoiding the topic, and now this—two worn sacks slumped against the wall come into view, their contents hinted at by the faint bulge of fish in one and the jumble of clothes and gear in the other. The sight jolts you, a mix of disbelief and exasperation bubbling up as you plant your hands on your hips, staring after him.
"Are you just going to ignore the giant dragon in the room?" you call out in a nod to the absurdity. Your voice teeters between irritation and a reluctant chuckle, the words hanging in the crisp afternoon air like a challenge. You shift your weight, boots crunching faintly on the gravel-strewn path, waiting for him to turn.
Hiccup pauses, one hand resting on the fish sack, and glances back over his shoulder. That grin—wide, unapologetic, and brimming with a smug pride—spreads across his face, catching the sunlight in a way that makes his freckles stand out like scattered embers. It's infuriatingly contagious. Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches upward, a slow bloom of amusement breaking through the annoyance you'd tried to hold onto as your brow arched at him.
He straightens, brushing a speck of dirt off his tunic with exaggerated nonchalance, and quirks an eyebrow of his own with a tilt of his shoulder. "What dragon?" he teases, voice lilting with mock innocence as he hoists the fish sack over his shoulder, the burlap rustling softly.
The gleam in his green eyes dares you to press the point, but there's a warmth there too, a quiet thrill that pulls you in despite the chaos he drags behind him all the time. You shake your head, a huff of laughter escaping as you step forward to grab the second sack, the rough patches scratching against your palms.
It's lighter than expected—due to the soft bulk of spare clothes and a jumble of small tools clinking faintly inside. The weight of it settles into your arms, grounding you even as your mind races with the unspoken question—how does he do it?
How does he weave madness and brilliance into something that feels so inevitable? Hiccup's already moving again, boots scuffing the dirt as he heads toward the open wood, and you follow, the faint tang of fish and leather mingling in the breeze, your smile lingering despite waiting.
"First the Night Fury, now the Zippleback—Hiccup, it's unreal what you're pulling off," you went on again.
He ducks his head, a flush creeping up his neck. He slings to adjust his own sack over his shoulder for better comfort, the sour whiff of fresh cod and salmon wafting as he nods toward the woods. You fall into step beside him, the path to Toothless' cove unrolling ahead an hour journey with the fresh pine-scented air cutting through the day's lingering dampness welcoming you again.
The village fades behind you—torchlight swallowed by the trees—and you can't hold the question back any longer. "That Zippleback in the arena," you say, glancing at him sidelong, "it was charging, heads snapping, and then it just—froze. What did you do? It was that fish?"
Hiccup's stride falters for a half-step, then steadies, his mouth twitching into a faint, knowing smirk. "Yep, that eel," he says, voice quiet but carrying that undercurrent of pride he tries to bury. "Slipped it out of my gilet near them when it backed fully in the cage." He adjusts the sack again, eyes fixed ahead, but you catch the glint of satisfaction in them.
You blink, boots scuffing the dirt as the words sink in. "An eel?" you repeat, incredulous. "You stopped a two-headed dragon with a fish?" The memory flares—the Zippleback's twin necks thrashing, gas hissing from one maw to the other, until Hiccup darted in.
"Not just any fish," he corrects, shooting you a quick look, sharp and earnest. "Dragons hate eels—panic at the sight of them. I figured it out with Toothless." He pauses, kicking a pebble that skitters down the path.
"First time I brought one near him, he reared up, wings flailing, and nearly took off out the cove—if he could. Took me a minute to coax him down." His tone dips, heavy with the weight of trial and error. "Turns out—I was correct, it's not just him. That Zippleback proved it—instinct kicks in, and they're terrified."
You let out a low whistle, the damp chill of the woods turning forest seeping through your tunic as you process it. "So, you've been testing this—watching Toothless, piecing it together—and then you walk into the arena with an eel up your sleeve—knowing it could go wrong?" Your voice rises, caught between admiration and disbelief. "Hiccup, that's either brilliant or mad—maybe both."
He shrugs, but the flush deepens, creeping to his ears. "Had to try it sometime," he mutters, then adds, quieter, "Figured if it worked on Toothless, it'd work there. Didn't expect everyone to stare like I'd grown a second head."
The path dips, roots jutting underfoot, and you steady yourself, the weight of his words settling in—how he's been unraveling the dragons' mysteries, one quiet discovery at a time, while Berk still sees him as the oddity. You couldn't be prouder of him.
Following the hour-and-a-half trek to reach the Night Fury. Toothless lay sleeping atop the smooth, weathered stone in the cove, his obsidian scales catching the rays of sun like shards of polished glass. The instant your boots scuff against the gravel, his coiled sleepy form stirs with a yawn and stretch. Claws clack lightly against the rock as he sways to get down, a fidgety dance of wings and tail, his bright emerald eyes darting with barely contained anticipation.
Then Hiccup lets the sack fall—a soft thud—and Toothless pounces, a low, rumbling chirr vibrating from his throat. The burlap splits under his eager swipes, fish tumbling in a glistening cascade across the stone, his snout nudging through the pile with an almost comical zeal. The quiet of the cove shatters, replaced by the lively chaos of his delight.
A grin tugs at your lips as you watch him, his graceful—stumpy tail wagging like a pup's, little hops punctuating each snuffle through the scattered catch. The air fills with the briny tang of fish and the faint rustle of his wings as he flops onto his back, clutching a fat cod between his paws.
He gnaws at it with a contented gurgle, those wide, gummy jaws working in a way that's equal parts absurd and endearing, a flicker of warmth blooming in your chest at the sight. The moment settles into a gentle rhythm for you three, the cove's jagged outlines softening as Toothless's playful energy threads a spark of delight through the warm afternoon glow.
And his fish-fueled delight had settled into a lazy sprawl across the cove's sand, his obsidian scales glinting like wet ink as he gnawed the last cod's tail, a contented gurgle rumbling from his throat while the briny tang of his feast hung thick in the air, mingling with the damp moss and faint freshwater bite drifting up from the pond below.
You leaned back against the boulder, legs stretched out, the day's damp chill seeping through your tunic as your boots scuffed the gravel, a grin still tugging at your lips from watching him flop and hop through the scattered pile—his tail still swaying happily as his gummy jaws made short work of Hiccup's offering.
Hiccup sat cross-legged beside you, the empty fish sack crumpled close to his feet, his green eyes bright with that quiet thrill he always carried after pulling off something mad—and he rummaged through the second sack, the one you'd hauled, pulling out a charred stick-pencil then twirling it between his fingers, a smirk curling his mouth as he glanced at the flat rock slab you lounged on.
"Watch this," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, like he was about to unveil another dragon-whispering trick, and he scooted forward, the stick scratching against the stone as he began to doodle—a quick, jagged outline of Toothless, all wings and tail fin and that big, goofy grin, the lines wobbly but unmistakable.
You leaned in, elbow brushing his, a laugh bubbling up as he added a flourish to the tail, muttering, "Perfect likeness, right?"—but Toothless stirred then invading between you both, his emerald eyes narrowing as he sniffed the air, craning his neck to peer at the sketch, and with a huff that puffed dust across the rock, he swiped his claws over it, smudging the whole thing into a streaky blur before flopping back with a smug little chirr, like an art critic dismissing a novice's work.
"He hates your art!" you crowed, doubling over as the laughter spilled out, raw and bright, the sound bouncing off the cove's jagged walls while Hiccup gaped, mock-offended, his free hand clutching his chest as if wounded.
"Hates it? That's a masterpiece—he's just jealous he can't draw," he shot back, his grin widening, and he nudged the stick toward you, daring, "Go on, you try—bet you can't do better.
You snatched the stick from his hand, your fingers brushing his warm knuckles for a fleeting second that sent a flicker of heat up your arm, and you knelt beside the rock, the damp stone cool against your knees as you scratched out a lopsided Hiccup—big, wide eyes, a mop of messy hair, arms flapping like they had in the arena, all gangly and chaotic.
"There—that's you, mid-panic," you said, sitting back with a smirk.
And Hiccup leaned over, his shoulder pressing against yours as he squinted at it, a snort escaping him before he grabbed the stick back, his voice teasing,"Ohhh—that's how it is?" Hiccup said, his tone pitching up with mock indignation, his shoulders moving wildly with each word and his free hand clutching his chest as if struck.
You grinned wider, holding both your hands up in surrender. "That's how it is," you shot back, the words lilting with amusement, and Hiccup gaped, his smirk twitching as he shook his head, muttering, "That's rich—let me fix this," before snatching the stick tighter and leaning back in.
He scratched in a hasty version of you beside it—bucket in hand, hair wild from the trial, a little too many teeth in your grin—and you yelped, "That's not me, that's a troll!" lunging for the stick as he yanked it away, laughing, his eyes glinting with that infuriating, oblivious spark that always unraveled you.
Toothless perked up then, his ears twitching at the scuffle, and bounded over, his claws skidding on the rock as he nosed between you, his muddy paw slamming down right on the sketch, smearing your troll-self and Hiccup's flapping arms into a single, glorious mess of streaks and dirt.
"Hey—no fair!" you laughed, shoving softly at Toothless's snout as he crooned, delighted, his tail flicking mud across your tunic while Hiccup cackled, dropping the stick to clutch his sides, his laughter ringing high and wild through the cove.
You lunged for it again, tackling Hiccup in a tangle of limbs and dirt-streaked grins, your hands grappling for the charred prize as he squirmed beneath you, still giggling, "You're worse than he is!"—and Toothless dove in, his gummy jaws nipping playfully at the stick, yanking it free and sending you both sprawling backward into a heap against the boulder, breathless and tangled, the dragon flopping across your legs with a triumphant chirr.
Mud smeared your cheek, Hiccup's tunic was a wreck, and Toothless's paw pinned the stick between you, his big green eyes gleaming with mischief as he smiled, tongue lolling. You caught Hiccup's gaze then, his face inches from yours, flushed and grinning, that spark flickering in his eyes—unaware, as always, of how it lit something deep in your chest—and you let the laughter fade into a quiet, shared breath, the moment settling warm and messy and perfect, Toothless's weight a steady anchor between you.
The cove's soft laughter and fishy soaked mess lingered in your mind long after you and Hiccup hauled yourselves back to Berk that evening, Toothless's smug chirr echoing in your ears as the golden dusk faded to a star-pricked night, and you couldn't help yourselves after that—couldn't shake the pull of it, the wild, reckless joy that had sparked between you three.
The next day, you snuck off again, slipping through Berk's sleepy morning sprawl as the sun rose, the village's torches flickering like distant embers while you darted past the Great Hall's smoky hum and the bleating sheep on the hills, your boots crunching pine needles as you met Hiccup at the forest's edge, his grin flashing in the sun, a silent pact sealed with a nod toward the cove.
And then the next day, and the next, and the next—each trek a little bolder—until it wasn't just you covering for Hiccup's odd absences anymore, no, you were both covering for each other, weaving excuses like a pair of conspirators drunk on the thrill of it.
"She's just fetching flour. Pftt—"
"He's tinkering with something useless—"
The lies rolling off your tongues as easy as breathing, fooling Gobber's gruff squints and Astrid's sharp glances. It was madness, pure and intoxicating, that drove you both deeper into its claws—when nightfall covered Berk and the wind howled soft through the cliffs as everyone snored, you'd creep to Hiccup's house, tapping the door gently until his tousled head popped out.
Eyes glinting with that restless spark as he hissed, "It's ready?"
You'd both sneak into the forge to make the gear, your footsteps muffled on the muddy paths, the cold air biting your face as you slipped through the shadowed doorway, the familiar clang of tools and the faint reek of charred wood. It was freezing and the wind wrapped around you both like a cloak—but despite the shivers—the hearth of the fire you had prepared warmed you both to spring into action.
The glow painting his freckled face in sharp relief—his jaw set, his grin half-hidden as he muttered, "This is it; this'll work."
And you'd nod, heart thudding with something fiercer than fear, something that thrilled you to your core. He'd had this idea brewing since the cove—a saddle for Toothless, a real one, leather and steel to bind him to the sky—and you dove in beside him, the forge's heat prickling your skin as you hauled strips of cured hide from Gobber's stash to hurry and get this done.
Your fingers tracing the rough grain—shaping it—while Hiccup hammered rivets, his strikes ringing out sharp and steady, the rhythm syncing with your pulse as you cut, molded, and stitched layers, threading sinew through punched holes with a needle that pricked your thumb more than once, a hiss escaping you each time.
He'd glance over, teasing, "You're bleeding for the cause now."
The saddle took shape under both your hands, a patchwork of necessity and genius as you took turns helping—Hiccup sketching quick adjustments on a scrap of parchment, then you holding the leather taut as he pounded it flat, the two of you shoulder to shoulder over the anvil, sweat beading on your brow as the fire roared, casting long shadows that danced across the forge's cluttered walls.
You'd pass him tools without a word—tongs, hammer, awl—your movements fluid, instinctive, like you'd been forging together since the day you were born, and he'd mutter thanks under his breath, his voice soft but alive with that relentless drive, "Needs a strap here—see? For balance," while you'd nod, tugging a length of leather from a coil, testing its give first, your fingers brushing his again as you handed it over.
The contact brief but electric, stoking that ember in your chest you couldn't name—but it kept on growing. One night, as the hearth flickered low, he held up the half-finished frame—crude steel rings in the straps curved perfect to fit Toothless's back, leather pads stitched rough but firm and soft for the night fury—and you both grinned, wide and wild, the exhaustion forgotten in the glow of it. You both had finished it in just two nights together.
Hiccup's laugh spilling out as he said, "Imagine Gobber's face if he saw this," and you shot back, "He'd think we've lost it—two lunatics building dragon gear," the shared madness binding you tighter than the sinew in your hands.
When the time came to test it, he hauled the saddle to the cove, the leather creaking in his arms with you lugging some fish, both of you breathless with anticipation as Toothless perked up from his perch, his emerald eyes glinting curious in the dark. The giant baby didn't reject it—not a snarl or a flinch—only made Hiccup chase him around.
He'd finally settled down—tilting his head, sniffing the contraption as Hiccup adjusted it, his hands steady but gentle, cooing, "Easy, bud—let's see how this feels," while you held the straps aloft, your fingers brushing Toothless's scales as you buckled them tight, the dragon's warmth seeping into your palms.
"How cute. . ." you murmured, voice a soft hush as your fingers glided over the smooth, warm scales crowning Toothless's head to his nose, their faint stippling sparking a memory of Hiccup's freckles—those familiar, sun-dusted flecks that scattered across Hiccups face.
The dragon leaned into your touch, a low, contented rumble thrumming beneath your palm, his warmth seeping through craving the quiet bond you offered as he put his head on your lap purring in his way.
"It looks like he's got freckles like you, Hiccup—right here on his nose. How cute," you repeated, a smile tugging at your lips as you glanced up, the words slipping out before you could catch them.
Hiccup's head tilted, a playful smirk curling his mouth. "You think my freckles are cute?" he teased, his green eyes glinting with mischief, the light catching the scatter of dots across his nose and cheeks in that same moment.
Heat flooded your cheeks, a fierce blush blooming as you ducked your head, pressing your face against Toothless's warm, leathery neck to shield your fluster—making the dragon look at you with beady knowing eyes.
"You know what I mean," you mumbled, voice muffled against the dragon's scales, your heart tripping over itself in the quiet.
Hiccup, oblivious to the flush you hid, let out a light laugh, the sound bright and unguarded. "I'm just messing with you," he said, waving a hand dismissively, his grin lingering as he turned to adjust a strap on Toothless's saddle. The moment slipped past him, but the air still thrummed with the echo of your unspoken flicker he hadn't yet caught, and something hovering just beyond his reach.
When Hiccup was done, Toothless shifted, playful—waiting, then bounding back with a chirr, wings flapping once as he tested the weight, and Hiccup laughed, "He's showing off now!"
And sure enough, Toothless pranced, a goofy hop-step that sent mud flying, his tail smacking your leg as he spun, nosing Hiccup's chest like a kid demanding praise. You stepped back, grinning, "He loves it—look at him strut."
Hiccup shot you that lopsided smile, mud-streaked and glowing, "Told you it'd work," his voice soft but sure, and you nodded. The cove's mist curling around you three as Toothless flopped beside you.
That whole day after that unfurled in the cove like a jumping fish in the water, the sun climbing high as you stood rooted on the gravelly shore, your boots sinking into the damp earth, watching—and panicking—while Hiccup threw himself into the sky atop Toothless over and over, the saddle's leather creaking under his weight, the straps you'd knotted tight holding perfectly.
The first flight started with a whoop—Hiccup's voice ringing out sharp and wild, "Here we go, bud!"
As Toothless launched, wings snapping wide, the rush of wind tugging at your hair while you shielded your eyes against the sun's glare, heart lurching into your throat as they soared upward, a black streak against the endless blue. But the climb faltered fast—Toothless wobbled, Hiccup's hands fumbling at the tail straps, and they plummeted, a graceless spiral that ended with a splash in the cove's pond, water erupting in a glittering arc.
You yelped, "Hiccup!"—only for his head to bob up, drenched and grinning, waving off your worry with a sodden, "I'm fine—fine!" while Toothless paddled beside him, crooning annoyed with a roll of his eyes.
He didn't stop—climbed right back on, soaked, water dripping, and tried again, the saddle slick with pond muck as Toothless shook himself dry, spraying you both with a flick of his wings before leaping skyward once more, Hiccup's laugh trailing behind like a comet's tail.
The second fall came quicker—mid-turn, the fin snagged, and down they went, another splash swallowing them as you paced the shore, hands clenched, muttering, "Gods, he's going to drown himself."
While the third had you shouting, "Slow down!" as they veered too sharp, clipping a pine before crashing into the shallows, Hiccup's lanky frame tumbling free with a grunt, Toothless flopping beside him, tail thrashing waves that soaked your boots as you waded in, hauling him up by the arm, his grin unshakeable even as you snapped, "You're pushing it!"
He just laughed, breathless, "Almost had it that time—did you see?"—and you shoved him with a sigh and a hand rubbing down your face, exasperation warring with the warmth his reckless spark always stirred in you, his wet hair plastered to his forehead making him look wilder, impossibly alive.
The fourth fall was a mess—Toothless overshot, wings flaring too late, and they both belly-flopped hard—Hiccup sinking face first, unmoving from the pain—while water exploded around them as you winced from the sound of the slap.
The fifth following fast when Hiccup leaned too far, the saddle tilting, sending him skidding across the pond's surface like a skipped stone before sinking with a gurgle, Toothless's head popping up first, then Hiccup's, coughing but still grinning like a fool as he slogged to shore, the dragon paddling behind with a playful chirr.
And there you stood, a statue carved from the moment—face blank, eyes shut, spine rigid, one arm hanging loose at your side—the other hand pinching the bridge of your nose as you let out a slow, heavy sigh that seemed to drift into the stillness.
Five times—five heart-stopping plunges into the water, thankfully soft enough to spare them no broken bones—and you'd had enough, the sun dipping low now, casting long shadows across the cove as you stomped over, grabbing his soggy sleeve, your voice firm but cracking with the panic you'd swallowed all day.
"Alright buddy—stop trying your luck, Hiccup, you're done," you said, hands on his shoulders, holding him still as water dripped from his nose, his green eyes wide and bright, caught between defiance and that sheepish flicker he got when he knew he'd gone too far.
Toothless flopped onto the shore beside you, shaking out his wings with a spray that doused you both again, and Hiccup laughed—soft, winded—muttering, "Okay, okay—guess we'll call it a day," before slumping against the boulder, breathless, his smile lingering as he caught your gaze, oblivious to how your heart still raced, not just from fear but from the way he glowed, soaked and stubborn and yours in a way he'd never see. The way no one got to see this Hiccup but you.
When the village slept, you'd steal away to Hiccup's room too, the pair of you hunched over his creaky table, shoulders brushing as you pored over sprawled blueprints—his charcoal-smudged fingers tracing lines for stirrups, harnesses, gear to tweak the saddle's fit, your own hands adding hasty scrawls for padding or straps, the parchment crinkling under your elbows as you argued in whispers, voices low to dodge any possible passerby outside.
"Needs more give here," you'd say, tapping a finger on parchment, and Hiccup would squint, nodding slow, "Yeah—don't want it pinching him," before scratching in a curve.
His knee knocking yours under the table, a casual touch that lingered in your skin long after he pulled away, oblivious as ever to the way it unraveled you. The plans grew wild—strings for his tail fin for easy adjustment, a latch for quick release—each idea a spark between you, fueled by the hours and nights in the forge and his home.
And you'd catch his grin in the candlelight, that flicker of brilliance he hid from Berk, and feel it settle deep, a quiet ache blooming beside your pride as you murmured, "This'll change everything," and he'd nod, eyes locked on the page, "Yeah—it will," not seeing how you meant him for him, too.
The trials didn't relent even after the Zippleback's chaos subsided. Despite yours and Hiccups retreat to the seclusion of the hidden cove, the training never ceased—honed not for slaying dragons, but for something sharper, quieter. In those stolen hours, you forged more daggers, the ring of hammer on metal echoing faintly against the stone walls.
Each throw of your dagger toward the target on the tree grew surer, the blades slicing through the air with a satisfying thunk into makeshift targets, your aim tightening with every flick of your wrist. All the while, you kept up appearances—sweating over the forge under Gobber's watchful eye, proving your diligence, ensuring he'd see nothing but a dedicated apprentice and suspect nothing of the truth simmering beneath.
Berk's brutal rhythm marched on, unrelenting, and the next beast hauled into the arena was the Gronckle, its squat, boulder-like bulk rumbling the earth as it rolled out from the gate's teeth, its stubby wings buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps, jaws snapping with a lazy menace that belied the chaos it could unleash.
Gobber had switched the game this time—duo trials, he'd barked, pairing everyone off to face the dragon together, a test of grit and trust you'd all grumbled through as the wind whipped sharp across the ring, some of the village crowding the stands with their usual mix of cheers and jeers for Astrid—and this time to see Hiccups' improvement.
But you'd pulled the short stick, literally, your fingers closing around the splintered stub in the draw while the others smirked or shrugged, leaving you to stand alone, no partner, just your wits and a battered shield Gobber tossed your way with a gruff, "Ye'll manage, lass—always do."
The first day out of two for the duo trials was only team Ruffnut and Snotlout, then Astrid and Fishlegs so the beast wouldn't be too tired for you all in one day. That given—it kicked off with Ruffnut and Snotlout as they stumbled in, a mess of bravado and bickering—Snotlout swinging wild, Ruffnut cackling as she dodged a tail swipe, the Gronckle belching fire that nearly took Snotlout's pants before they got help in shoving the beast down.
Next and in a blur of shouted facts and axe swings you barely tracked from the sidelines—Fishlegs yelping dragon stats as Astrid's blade nicked the Gronckle's hide, the beast snorting lava that singed the dirt before they wrestled it back into its cage, sweat-soaked and triumphant, their part over quick as the crowd roared. Their turn fading into the day's haze as you waited, shield heavy in your grip, the Nadder scar itching under its bandage.
The second day broke with a sharper chill, the arena cloaked in a haze of smoke that stung your nose as it thickened around the ring. From your perch at the edge, you watched Hiccup and Tuffnut stride forward—an odd duo that tugged a smirk to your lips despite your best efforts to hide it.
Hiccup's wiry frame darted with purpose, while Tuffnut swaggered beside him, all lanky bravado and long-wild hair. Then the Gronckle emerged, its guttural growl rumbling through the dirt and buzzing up into your boots. Chaos erupted fast. Tuffnut, roaring some garbled war cry about "GLORY TO ODIN!," and barreled headlong at the beast—only to meet its beefy head with a meaty thwack.
The blow launched him backward, limbs flailing, until he hit the ground in a crumpled heap, out cold. The crowd sucked in a collective breath, then dissolved into muffled laughter—Ruffnut being the loudest.
Gobber's exasperated groan cutting through, "Odin's beard, not again."
Hiccup didn't falter. While the dust still swirled, he slid a hand into his tunic with the calm of someone who'd planned every heartbeat of this mess. Out came that sprig of dragon nip—its faint, earthy scent a secret you'd glimpsed him tucking away earlier.
His gaze flicked to yours, a fleeting spark of conspiratorial light passing between you, unnoticed by the roaring throng. The Gronckle's charged head on until its snout twitched, nostrils flaring as it caught the whiff—then, with a bewildered snort, it flopped onto its belly, rolling to it's side like an overgrown hound, belly exposed and snuffling contentedly.
The arena exploded with what cheers were given by the dozen people who had witnessed it. Their cheers bouncing off the wooden beams as Hiccup hooked his arms under Tuffnut's limp shoulders, dragging him clear with a quick heave. He brushed off his hands, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips as he straightened.
You alone clocked the sleight of hand, the quiet brilliance threading through his every move. The village, oblivious, swallowed it whole—their shouts coalescing into a rhythmic roar, "Hiccup the Viking!Hiccup the Viking!"
It was a title sparked by the Zippleback's defeat and now forged anew in this smoky pit, their pride thundering for him in the stands. He gave an awkward wave, his face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and something brighter, the weight of their adoration settling onto his narrow shoulders like ash dusting a smith's apron.
Then it was your turn, last of the lot, the crowd's buzz dimming as you stepped into the ring alone, the Gronckle snorting awake from its nip-induced doze, its beady eyes locking onto you as the gate slammed shut behind, triggering the giant as it huffed—the air heavy with the sour reek of its breath.
You gripped the shield tight, heart hammering as it lumbered forward, slow but relentless, its stubby legs and wings churning while you dodged—a quick sidestep as its jaws snapped, a duck when its tail swung wide, the tail splintering against your shield with a crack that jolted the same recovering arm.
The beast huffed, lava bubbling in its maw, and you rolled, the heat singeing your sleeve as you sprang up, weaving through its charges—left, right, back—your boots skidding on slick stone, breath burning in your chest as you kept moving, kept breathing, the Gronckle's growls turning sluggish, its swings wilder but weaker.
It lunged once more, a tired bellow rattling out, and you darted aside, cracked-shield raised, letting it crash snout-first into the wall, a dull thud echoing as it slumped, panting, its fight drained—tired out, not beaten, but enough for Gobber's whistle to pierce the air, signaling your win as you staggered back, sweat-streaked and shaky, the crowd's half-hearted claps fading fast.
You'd done it—solo, steady, no tricks—just raw grit and quick thinking—use it's own energy against itself—but when you turned, wiping dirt from your face grinning from ear-to-ear, the stands were thinning, Hiccup's name still on their lips as they trickled out, his triumph overshadowing yours. . .and he was gone too, the ring emptying slowly besides a few, leaving you almost alone in the smoke, shield dangling, searching for his familiar mop of hair and finding only shadows.
They'd wandered off, you found out later, meandering across the ancient bridge that stretched over Berk's jagged ravine—a creaking spine of worn planks that dipped and swayed beneath their steps. It wasn't until after, amid the echo of their fading voices, that Hiccup jolted, the realization hitting him like a gust off the cliffs: it had been your turn to face the dragon. He'd let the moment—the swell of cheers, the rush of his own triumph—sweep him away, leaving your fight to unfold without him.
He'd excused it quick, brushing past Astrid with a muttered, "Left my axe behind."
Before doubling back—not for the axe, but for you—and being overwhelmed, his steps crunching the path as he jogged to the arena's edge, finding you slumped against a post, catching your breath.
"Hey—I'm still here—I," Hiccup murmured, his voice airy yet scattered, that fresh moniker—" Hiccup the Viking"—still echoing in the villagers' chants rolling through the distance.
He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, his gaze drifting sideways to the bridge where the others' laughter spilled into the air, sharp and carefree. Then his eyes slid back to the arena, now hollowed out save for you and Gobber, the dirt still scuffed from the day's mayhem.
"I missed it already?" he asked, a quiet sadness threading through his tone, his brows pinching as he glanced at you.
You summoned a grin, though it felt like hauling up a weight from the sea floor, your chest constricting with a sting he'd never see—his absence during your own trial cutting deeper than you'd let on. But you brushed past it, smoothing over the ache with something brighter, something new.
Pride flared for him, fierce and real, yet tangled with a silent jab of something else—loss, maybe, or the first faint unraveling of a bond you'd thought ironclad. He stood there, half-turned toward the fading cheers, caught in the tide of his rising name, oblivious to the fact that while you'd poured your grit into the ring, seeking his nod and Gobber's gruff approval, he'd been swept elsewhere.
The realization settled in your palms like a cold, heavy stone, but you tipped your head with a shrug. "Yeah—don't even worry about it. Today was about you Hiccup. Let's go home and celebrate," you said happily but tired, voice steady as you fell into step beside him and Gobber.
The three of you ambled back, the bridge's weathered planks groaning underfoot, your chatter about the day weaving into the lengthening evening. His words and Gobber's gravelly quips filled the air with you behind them, but that thread of distance lingered, faint yet stubborn, trailing behind you as you walked in your own silence swallowed by the dusk.