Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Dragon didn’t have a name. He might have had one once, but it was long ago. Little by little, his pack had been picked off. One by one he lost his sisters and brothers. He had been fending for himself through many winters, through blizzards so powerful he was grounded, frozen and half dead. Through the long nights and the unsetting sun. Through feast and famine, he’d looked out only for himself. He’d grown to think of himself only as ‘The Dragon’, and as no-one else ever thought of him that was who he was.

It was in The Dragon’s best interests to avoid the builders, a swarm of strange mammals that lived in a large cluster to the north of the island. While small and weak, the builders were fiercely territorial, they marked their territory with the construction of complex nests, adorned with unnatural colours and bizarre totems. Towering recreations of their image, these great stone behemoths were much larger than The Dragon. They were a warning, though small and seemly pathetic, the builders had ways outside of themselves to kill dragons, after all, they brought the mountain to it’s knees. They could pull dragons out of the sky, somehow ensnaring them from the ground well beyond their reach. They purified stone into artificial claws as sharp as a Timberjack’s wings. They were tricky, agile and know how to take dragons out of the hunt. Few dragon’s made it out of their territory alive. They all avoided the builders­—unless they were truly desperate—but the builders lived along side game. Tribute that could mean the difference between life and death.

The Dragon was truly desperate. The cold was approaching faster than any of them could have expected, and the Queen was more demanding. They had to give tribute more and more, and the boundary for what was worthy tribute was becoming narrower. The risk of the builders no longer carried the same weight. The Dragon had a simple plan: under the cover of darkness he was going to maim them slightly, trim the swam a little; take out their defences, one of the large stone pillars they used as higher ground; and then he was going to take a sheep. Prolong dying a little longer, defer his next visit to the builders’ nest.

***
Nightfall came slowly. The Dragon had created a small pocket of warmth in which to doze, but the frigidity of the fading dusk was starting to settle. The Dragon spent much of his time dozing or otherwise idle. He was built for quick bursts of truly violent energy and recuperated that cost with a lifestyle that someone ignorant might have called lazy. When it was sufficiently dark The Dragon roused himself. On a completely moonless night, The Dragon’s midnight black body was nigh invisible against the stars. With a great pounce The Dragon launched himself out of the rocky valley, beyond the great giants of the forest, and into his element.

The builder’s nest was never difficult to find, even at night, especially at night. It was warm and bright, mostly because it was perpetually on fire. Some of that fire was deliberate and contained, which was impressive as the builders did not have the natural affinity for fire that the dragons did. A lot of the fire was wild. The consequence of the tactical, and let’s face it, often not tactical at all, destruction of his brethren. The other dragons seemed to follow a strategy of burn and charge, an in-and-out rampage that is as uncoordinated as it is unplanned. While often they went for the swarm’s defenders, the warriors on the outer edges that fought with gusto and skill, The Dragon could see that it wasn’t a strategy but a matter of pride. Did they not see the world the same way he did? Could they not see the builders’ defences? They were only so strong as their constructions were, their nest was complex but ultimately a way of turning their environment into armour. They had build scales of stone and fire.

He let the tactical part of his mind idle, and he cleared his mind for the hunt. The world became sharper. Mind clear, he controlled every part of his body through instinct alone. Being primed for the hunt was a controlled sensory experience. A feeling like no other, his mind opened, to see more, hear more, smell more, but it was also a feeling of derealization. All emotions that would pull him out of his razor sharp focus were left to the wayside. He was the night, he was the hunt, and he had one purpose. He folded his wings in and dove. The bitter air whistled against his skin as tore through it. At the bottom of his dive he placed a single well-timed shot. His skill honed he managed to catch a weak point in the structure of one of the watch towers. A load bearing boulder already beginning to fracture. It teetered, slightly, then began to fall, soon the cascading structural failure cause the whole thing to collapse. The collapse itself wasn’t that loud, but the builders were screaming, he managed to relegate their agony to the part of his mind where all the distractions lived.. The screaming quickly spread throughout the nest, and soon they were all taking cover.

There was one exception to this though. A small one, perhaps one of the pups, was running up a hill out of the nest. It was running straight towards cliff edge. The curious part of his mind would have questioned this complete lack of self preservation, but curiosity was a distraction. This was easy prey. He circled the builder pup from above. Watching him tweak at wooden contraption. Whatever it was, it had to be dangerous, builders only ever built danger. He allowed himself to fall from the sky. He had to get far lower than he wishes. He must separate this builder from his weapon. Swooping down the frosty air was sharp against his skin. The wind his violence created was deafening, a battle cry unique to him. At the very bottom of his arc he dug his claws into the pup, dragging him off the cliff edge, away from the danger he could have caused.

He looked back at the nest trying to reconstruct his plan now that it had gone so awry. The pup was screaming, and fighting. Something was forced between his toes. It hurt, even the hunt couldn’t completely mask out the pain. He has got to get rid of this thing. Then he saw one of the builders. A large fiery looking one. A dangerous looking one, with a large build claw and a battle cry that could only mean vengeance. The feral tiny he had in his vice like claws somehow belonged to this one. As long as he stayed near the nest this thing was going to come after him. He had set off some primal animalistic vengeance he would not survive. So he fled, the pup was poor game but was the only game he would get. It would not have been for nothing.

Then the builder’s pup wasn’t in his claws. It howled, a scream unlike any he’d heard from the builders before. It only carried one truth, complete and utter agony. He hadn’t dropped the pup, he could still feel it. The pressure of it’s thin limbs around his leg, it didn’t hurt, it wasn’t even annoying but it was there. The pup was holding onto him. Builders were weak and fragile things, if it let go then it wouldn’t survive the fall. The Dragon Could feel the pup’s grip weakening. Then it slipped off completely. Tumbling down into the trees below. The Dragon would not loose his game to another. This time he scooped it up gently. It was likely the pup was already dead, but the Queen liked fresh tribute. It had stopped fighting so it seemed more advantageous to preserve it.

Chapter Text

Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III was going to die, and not just in the inevitable everyone dies sort of way. His death was imminent, and if his immediate situation was anything to go off, probably deeply painful. Everyone told him he was pathetic and useless, and it turns out it was true. Maybe if he actually got to shoot the net cannon things would have gone differently. But no, he was, stupidly, standing completely in the open and got picked up off the ground like it was nothing. By a nightfury. You know, the only dragon no Viking has ever seen and lived to tell the tale. It was a little late to pray the nightfury never finds him. Given that the dragon’s talon was fully in his leg. Which was deeply painful. The pain was red hot, but only for a second as it rapidly started fading to a dumb ache. Which was concerning given that his leg was growing increasingly more wet and sticky, in such a way that it could only be explained by a vast quantity of blood. Hiccup would have put more effort into being concerned about his leg if his mind wasn’t already completely occupied by being concerned about his own demise.

His knife started to slip out of it’s sheath. His knife! He tried to latch onto it with his right hand, but it was slick with sweat and the knife slipped. It bounced into his left hand, where he still could not quite grip it. After a rather comical display of unintentional knife juggling he finally got a solid grasp on it. Having a knife in this situation didn’t promise to be helpful, but hiccup was a Viking, and Vikings fight to the bitter end. Despite actively feeling his strength leaking out of him, he managed to pull himself up. Lifting his head and shoulders above his hips through stubbornness alone. His injured leg was load bearing, and all his thrashing had caused something within his leg to move around. The sudden jostling sent sharp agony blazing to the forefront of his mind. He almost slipped back down. Grabbing one of the dragon’s beefy toes hiccup managed to take the pressure off his leg and his strained core. He couldn’t reach the vital parts of the dragon, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt it. He thrust the tiny blade into the soft flesh between the dragon’s toes. It a deep guttural sound from it’s throat, not a roar but far more than a groan. It instinctively tried to pull it’s foot away from the source of the pain. Hiccup was not expecting the dragon to make such a sharp movement, he grip on the dragon was flung off and was forced to put his weight on the knife lest he be violently swung back upside down. This caused the knife to twist and draw down, which intern made the dragon writhe even more. Hiccup tried to grab the dragon again. His hand slipped. His hand kept slipping. The knife kept slicing through. He tried again and again. The knife tore clean through it’s flesh. For a moment, only his burning core kept him upright. He finally got a hold of the beast. He wrapped his arm around the dragon’s meaty leg. A more stable support. He stabbed the dragon in the ankle. It thrashed about. In one all encompassing burst of pain, his leg came free. Well most of it did. A large chunk from the shin down was still impaled on the dragons talon. The only thing keeping Hiccup from falling to his death was his own grip. Forgetting the knife he swung his other arm and one good leg around the dragon’s calf, squeezing with all his strength he prayed.

The world was beginning to swim. Hiccup was loosing track of his thoughts. His mind was growing foggy. Black dots swarmed at his vision until all he could see was black. And then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

Stoick the Vast chief of Berk heard the tell tale whistle of a nightfury. That was the only warning they had, as soon one of the watch towers was collapsing. The blast had even been strong enough to melt some of the stones it directly hit. The resultant lava was so viscus that it wouldn’t spread, it wouldn’t be a problem. Stoick had gotten good at that, telling when something was about to be a problem. There were a lot more problems these days, but now was not the time to think of those. He was good at putting things away.

“Nightfury! Get down,” Gobber yelled. The immediate problem. The usual strategy for a raid was to set up a defensive perimeter around the village and pick off dragons before they got close enough to damage anything, with a small rear guard to pick off any stragglers, but with a nightfury raiding that left them too exposed. They had to retreat back to the housing line, more buildings would burn tonight, but it would save lives.

“Get everyone into the village, less exposed. I’ll search the rubble.” Stoick commanded. Gobber didn’t need to say anything, just nodded slightly and went screaming into the night. Waving the hammer attachment on his prosthetic arm and ushering people into the village. Stoick would have been concerned about Gobber making himself such an obvious target, but he had proved time and time again that he could take care of himself.

Stoick sprinted towards the watch tower. The tower had crumbled southwards, thus if anyone managed to leap off they’d be to the north, where there isn’t red-hot lava and debris. This was, however, on the obscured side, any survivors would be hidden from him until he was almost there. Haste wasn’t optional, he hadn’t seen anyone from the watch tower retreat to the village. It was looking pretty dire, but dire wasn’t hopeless, he just needed to get there.

A living wall of fire suddenly stopped his path. A fully inflamed monstrous nightmare leered over him. Stoick dug his feet in and lifted his shield. Just in time, as within the instant it was blasting him. The force of the blast alone caused his feet to slide backwards on the slick mud. The sudden sharp heat caused him to sweat. The shield was now noticeably hot held against his arm. So that’s one. As the beast was already aflame this was going to be a fight of footwork. He used the slick mud to slip inwards. Launched a quick hack with his axe at one of his legs. He rolled over his shield back through the mud landing prone. Shot number two hit him still on the ground. The shield took most of the damage, but he could smell singed hair. He twisted to his knees. Traction would be difficult to find. The beast went on the offensive, mouth agape going for the bite. Stoick leaped up swinging his axe into the nightmare’s neck. The cut was shallow, non-fatal. The axe was stuck. The dragon pulled its head back. Stoick, still holding the axe, was pulled into the air. The heat radiating off it’s flaming body made it feel like Stoick’s eyes were baking out of his skull. It tried to spin it’s head around, Stoick dropped to the ground, just as shot number three turned the handle of his axe to an ember.

The monstrous nightmare still had seven shots left and Stoick was an armed. Well mostly unarmed, Stoick would be a poor Viking and Warrior if he didn’t have a back up. Thought then slim hunting knife he slid into his hand was not doing much against a monstrous nightmare. It’s body flames were dimming from a vicious yellow to a more tame red. It was burning out. He didn’t have to hold on much longer. Blast number four came sweeping through. His left arm, mostly unprotected stung. He tried to bury the pain but his body was now fighting him. He balance thrown off, starting to sway slightly nausea growing. No, one problem at a time. He unstrapped the shield, left arm no longer able to support it. He really only had one chance left. Pray that the beast was cool enough to grapple. He launched up in one explosive jump. Aiming for its head, he landed almost square on. Focusing all of his energy on binding its jaws with his arms. It thrashed trying to shake him off, but it couldn’t burn or bite. Stoick wasn’t burning but the heat was almost unbearable. They were in a stalemate. In order to feel the beast, Stoick was going to have to end the grapple. Still holding the knife, holding as much pressure on it’s mouth as possible, he slowly started sliding his arm upwards. The dragon’s scales digging into his skin. He was cutting dozens of shallow cuts into his arm. This was going in his favour as the blood proved to be a good lubricant. He was almost there. Then he let go. Slammed the knife through the dragon’s eye in one violent movement. It flung him off. Stoick landed hard into the ground. Then the monstrous nightmare fell too, in a sudden earth shaking thud.

He just lay there a moment, and allowed himself to breathe.

Then he got up. Collected the blood soaked hunting knife, and the singed axe from the corpse of the dragon. This time he walked to the watch tower. He didn’t know if he could even run at the moment. He steeled himself for what he might see. If there were survivors, they would have left by now. Stumbling around the corner, there were two mangled corpses. He kept seeing Hiccup’s face on the bodies, but he was safe. He was inside. The selfish, self-preserving part of his brain put their deaths into the box in his mind where he put the problems to big and distracting to think about. “Your sacrifice was not in vain,” he said near silently. Their spirits would still have heard him in Valhalla.

Then a garbled noise came from the rubble. For a moment Stoick thought his mind was playing tricks on him, then he heard it again. He caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. Fingers from a hand he didn’t even notice started wiggling. Twitching. Whoever it belonged to was pinned under a large boulder. He rushed over, shoving the blade of the axe under the boulder and using the handle as an impromptu lever. Lifting the boulder just enough that whoever was underneath it could slide out. It was Spitelout, and he was not in a good way. He was bruised all over, and even standing he seemed crumpled and leaning. His signature blasé gusto could not hide the fact he was in complete and utter agony.

“You’re out of the fight, we have to get you back to the village.”

“You ain’t lookin’ that good yaself, chief.”

Stoick didn’t have a response to that, but suddenly the pain hit him like a rock. The two of them stumbled back to the village in a rather precarious huddle both supporting each-other.

***
Gothi did not let him leave until they had bandaged him up. His burns were already blistering and there was so much blood on his arm it was impossible to distinguish what colour the skin was underneath. Now he was out of the fight, he started to worry. All the things he had put away. The people who had died. The food over winter. Hiccup. He sure hoped the kid was inside. Especially tonight with the nightfury out, but he had this sinking feeling that Hiccup had snuck out again.

When he was finally allowed to leave, it was against Gothi’s better judgement, but that was her lot in life as all Vikings were desperate to get on with things. Stoick was going to find Hiccup. He was going to be in the black smith where he was meant to be and everything was going to be fine. Only he wasn’t. And as the crowd of sensible Vikings were coming in away from the nighfury, one was running the other way. A small hiccup shaped one.

Unlike Gobber, Hiccup could not take care of himself. So shaky, injured and in no way fit for this fight, Stoick ran after him. He was a good hundred paces behind, but Hiccup had stopped. He was just standing there. Messing with some nonsense contraption. Stoick was gaining ground. Then he heard the stomach cudgelling whistle, as a shape from the darkness swooped in and yanked Hiccup into the sky. Stoick bellowed. He ran forward, but the nightfury was already in the air dragging his son after him.

Not again. Not again. Not again. His thoughts were churning, screaming. Why couldn’t he have just stayed inside? Why couldn’t he have just listened? Why couldn’t I save him. I was too slow. I didn’t teach him. I didn’t train him. I didn’t save him. Its my fault. Its my fault.

Then his son was falling. Somehow dropped. He was going to be helpless as he watched his son die. The beast swooped down and caught him and disappeared in the distance. There was a chance his son was still alive. But the nightfury, the nightfury was already dead.

Chapter Text

The clamour and violence of the village raid ebbed out of The Dragon’s perception. Gliding gently over the trees towards his valley, his den. Receding into a comforting post-hunt fugue state. He carefully placed the builder pup inside a small cave, out of the view of scavengers. A part of the pup was still stuck on one of the Dragon’s talons, and separating the leg from the rest of it’s body strung out a trail of clumpy coagulated blood. There was blood everywhere, it was on his paws, half dried and sticky. Soaked through his talons, gluing them together. There was a trail of blood across the valley as it had dripped while he flew over. There was even a small pool surrounding the pup’s stump, though it looked as though it had mostly clotted. Which was a good sign… Maybe. Honestly, the poor thing looked pretty dead, it would probably make poor tribute. The Dragon, not fond of the taste of builder tried not to think about how pointless the raid was.

Then it peeled open it’s eyes, at first in a groggy stupor, but the awareness was coming back. It locked gaze with him, pupils sharply contracting leaving it’s eyes awash with green. It started breathing faster, completely motionless. Fear. Then it started squirming using its arms to shuffle backwards. Injured leg dragging along the ground pulling the blood behind it. Not dead then. It would probably make good tribute. He has to keep it contained, until the next time he is summoned.

The dragon leaves the quivering pup in the cave. In it’s state it can’t get far and the Dragon was only going to be gone for a few moments. He finds the trunk of a dead tree, uprooted laying flat on the ground. Mostly dried out, he dragged it back to the mouth of the cave, and dumped it length ways across the entrance. Then he set it on fire, builders were deeply vulnerable to fire and that tree would burn long enough to think of another solution, and to have a nap. The raid drained his reserves of energy and he was feeling lazy. He scorched a great rock in the middle of the valley and curled up, slowly drifting to sleep.

***

The Dragon was woken by a scream. An earth shattering blood curdling scream. From the cave. Th builder pup better not be dead. The Dragon skulked over to the cave, the fire he set a beacon in the predawn light. Between the flames and the haze The Dragon watched as it forced it’s injured leg into the hottest embers at the core of the fire. It had shoved something between it’s teeth, to brace against the scolding heat. It’s eyes and head rolled backwards in an uncontrolled pain induced spasm. It pulled it’s leg out of the fire and settled arrow head gaze straight into The Dragon’s eyes. There were flames behind it’s eyes not just from the reflection. This was deliberate. Dragon’s often sealed their wounds with flames, but he’d never seen a human do it, this seemed more­—permanent. The little runt wanted to live. He was always aware that the builders were smart. How else could they have made the things they do, but they weren’t driven. What ever they build it was a survival tool like any other. Because they were small and scared, scared of pain, scared of dying. They lived fuelled by fear. This was different. Something in bared teeth grimace showed it­—he­—made the decision. He decided for whatever reason living was more important than pain. That even crippled and alone he was not going to resign himself to death...

...A death The Dragon would have been a harbinger of…

Fuck… the little pup deserved to live, didn’t he.

The Dragon grabbed the blazing branch in his teeth. The soft vulnerable skin along the inside of his mouth burning from the flames, the pup’s entire body was this soft and vulnerable. A huge plume of steam rose as he smothered the branch in the lake. The Dragon slowly pattered back to the cave. The pup wasn’t moving, It was alive but sprawled against the cave wall breathing heavily. Maybe he just needs a moment to recover. You’re free, return to your hive, your people. The pup just stared at him, eyes slightly glassy. Then for a second he swung onto his one good leg, wobbled slightly then fell back against the cave wall. Water started dripping down his face, and he rolled his shoulders back slightly, almost in defeat, like he can’t leave. He can’t leave. Builders don’t fly. They can’t fly. They walk everywhere and this one—This one can’t walk. And it was his fault. The pup is stuck here and it is The Dragon’s fault.

He scurried off into the sky, it was easier to think while flying. He couldn’t return the pup to the hive. That would be suicide. He couldn’t just leave him there either. He has to do something. He has to help but how? Maybe if he could help him walk some how. The pup could make his own way back to the hive. He’s wobbly, like a hatchling learning to fly, maybe he just needs something to balance. Hold him steady while he shuffles along. Like a big stick. Yeah, the pup just needs a big stick. The Dragon lands on a large pine tree and tears off one of it’s branches. Returning to the cave and dumping it in front of the pup, who hadn’t moved much since he left. The branch was easily twice as long as the pup was tall, and at it’s thickest as wide as his waist. Okay so, the stick was too big but that didn’t devalue the idea, he just had to find a better stick. He started scouring the valley for an appropriately sized stick. The pup had made it to the very edge of the cave, leaning against the wall inching forward. The pup was watching him. He tried to ignore him though, not wanting to spook him, then he found an ideal stick. Much thinner, but also smooth with no scraggly bits or leaves like the last one. It was probably also a good length, the pup would be just slightly taller than it with it’s base on the ground. He scooped it up in his mouth and bounded over to the pup. The pup reared backwards, causing hi, to fall over arms held up blocking his head. He thought The Dragon was going to hurt him. He was still scared. Hanging around is not going to be a good idea. The Dragon placed the good stick in front of the pup and left to a higher perch. He gave the pup space, it was for the best.

Chapter Text

The world came back to Hiccup in a haze, then only thing that was apparent was the pain. It came back first and it came back hard. Of course Valhalla would hurt, why wouldn’t it? He should probably look the Valkyrie that came to carry him off in the eyes. Basic respect for his death or whatever. It took considerable effort to open his eye. Right in his face, crossing most of his field of vision was a dark shadow. A dark shadow with large green eyes and warm breath. The Dragon. Not a Valkyrie. He should have known death wouldn’t be this painful. The Dragon. Shit. Like a switch was flipped he was instantly filled with panic. A great weight was placed on his chest, he was struggling to breathe, it was tight. He placed a hand behind him, then the other and pulled himself backwards. Some how his nerves still contained enough bandwidth to scream as the shards of rock his leg was dragged through embedded themselves in his leg. The tiny stones were digging into his palms as he put his weight straight through them. On his mind only a swarm of curses and desperate prayers. Why wasn’t the dragon coming after him? Why hasn’t he been eaten yet? Though he was moving fast enough to tear up his palms, he was moving slowly. Wounded prey. He would be an easy target, so why wasn’t he? The beast just watched—then it left. And the weight was pulled off. He could breathe again.

Hiccup hadn’t even caught his breath again when the dragon returned with a massive tree trunk. It placed straight in-front of the cave mouth. Before Hiccup had a moment to process what was going on the Dragon lit the tree trunk on fire. He was trapped. He couldn’t have just been eaten, no, he was going to end up as some depraved dragon’s pet. He slammed a fist into the ground. At least that didn’t hurt. If the dragon wasn’t going to kill him, this leg surely would. Unless they dragon was Gothi in disguise, this was a problem he would have to deal with himself. He didn’t want to look though.

It wasn’t clean cut, it was rugged tear. Different muscles were torn at different lengths. A chunk of his calf was loose torn clean from it’s ligaments attached only by a piece of skin it was slowly peeling away from under it’s own weight. The bones had both snapped further up and were mostly covered by the mangle. That was good? Exposed bones was definitely bad so covered bones is good, right? Honestly it was a huge mess, and a lot of it looked unsalvageable. Vikings lost legs all the time. It was fine. It was fine. It was fine gods damn it.

Before trying to fix anything, Hiccup had to cut off the blood supply. He was dangerously close to dying of blood loss and couldn’t afford much more. He ripped a strip off the bottom of his shirt, and tied it as tightly as he could above the knee in a make shift tourniquet. Then he started picking stones out of the wound. Wincing at each one. Most came with clots globbed onto them. A bloody mound growing slowly behind him. He didn’t have any water to wash the wound, he just prayed that there wasn’t too much dust in it. Unfortunately he had to settle for good enough when it came to his own body. Now to fix the flabby bits. Gods he wished he had his knife, he must have dropped it when he blacked out. The cave was filled with flint, and there were a few appropriate sized pieces within reach, which might have been the only thing that went slightly his way today. He started striking at the edge of the flint, along the grain to sharpen it. Sharpening a flint was quite similar to blacksmithing, apart from striking it on the complete opposite axis. The controlled hammering motion was similar, it was a transferable skill.

He tested the edge on his thumb, with just a bit of pressure it started bleeding. It has a cutting edge. That was probably as good as it was going to get, not wanting to go much thinner and thus more fragile. He started ‘tidying’ beginning with the useless hanging bit. He only needed enough flesh to cushion the bones it wasn’t like he was getting his foot back any time soon. He needed a permanent fix though, he couldn’t keep the tourniquet on forever, and his lower leg was still a mess. For an exasperated second staring into the flames, he got a stupid, probably deadly idea, but he was long past the point of rationality. He had heard of Vikings using flame to seal wounds and stop blood flow in desperate situations. Essentially melting flesh back together. If this wasn’t a desperate situation he doesn’t know what would be. He hadn’t even full resigned himself to his fate when he awkwardly started shuffling over, putting conscious effort on keeping his wound off of the ground. He could feel the heat around him growing as he slowly drew closer to the flames. At first it was pleasant, then it was uncomfortable. At some point it tilted over being uncomfortable, but knowing new levels of pain, he wouldn’t even call it that anymore. He thrust his leg into the fire, then instinctively pulled it back out as a scream forced it’s way out of his throat. For some reason he didn’t think it would hurt that much. Almost instantly, as if he had summoned it the dragon bounded over. Staring at him through the flames. He was difficult to see due to the haze and tears welling up in his eyes but Hiccup glared at the dragon. A part of him was trying to telepathically communicate with the beast, something along the lines of ‘fuck you, you glorified lizard’. He shoved his leg back into the heat this time prepared for the pain to come. He couldn’t stop himself from crying, but his face was locked in an expression of pure seething rage. He let himself pull away from the flames when he thought he done a good enough job. It was mostly a guess, but from a cursory glance it looked like he had done enough. Then the dragon grabbed the flaming branch and dragged it off out of view. Hopefully that would be the last time he saw it. He let himself lie back against the floor and stop fighting for a moment.

***

The dragon came back. This time it brought an entire tree branch leaves still included and just dropped it in front of Hiccup. At some point it stopped being scary and was just bewildering. Okay, the dragon was still stomach droppingly scary. But this, this was bewildering. The flaming branch still made sense, it had a purpose. This didn’t. Of course Hiccup had to have been kidnapped by the world’s weirdest dragon. It left again, but Hiccup didn’t hold much hope that it wouldn’t return again. At least he probably wasn’t going to be eaten. Probably. He was however, going to die in this cave if he couldn’t leave. Walking was, obviously, out of the question, but the cave wall looked stable enough, if he could lean against it, he could probably hop forwards. He shuffled towards the wall, a form of movement that he was starting to get quite good at. What an achievement. Berk’s best Viking at butt-shuffling. He got to the wall and slowly pulled himself up against it. He waited for a moment as his vision went dark, what little blood he had left leaving his head for a moment. He took a deep breath in and hopped. He almost tumbled over but managed to catch himself at the last minute. Then he hopped again, this time more stable, and slowly he was moving forwards. He stopped at the mouth of the cave, and watched the dragon. It was going to be difficult to sneak away. The dragon was was running around, chaotically bouncing from place to place with no rhyme or reason. Hiccup grew increasingly convinced that this dragon was an agent of Loki sent to him as a punishment. It spun around and came running towards him occasionally jumping to gather speed and cover distance. It skidded to a stop right in-front of him and dropped a long smooth stick in front of him, then turned tail and left to a large rock. If the stick didn’t have a slight but noticeable wiggle to it, Hiccup would have though it had been cut from a much greater trunk. It had no bark, no knots not even little twigs sticking off of it. It was almost perfectly cylindrical. He picked it up, it had some heft to it. He placed it in the ground and let it hold some of his weight. Did the dragon just intentionally give him a walking stick?

Chapter Text

It is difficult to understand the crushing weight and grief Stoick felt on that cliff edge. Toes ever so slightly over the edge, knowing his son has gone somewhere he could not follow. So vast and deep was the ocean that suspended he was in emotional sensory deprivation. Numb. Cold. Frozen. A single ember burned in the arctic of is desperation. Fury. Rage. Vengeance. Time marched ever on and the raid blistered around him. Stoick just stood still. The world thrummed around him and yet he remained unmoving. Come hell or high water Stoick could keep moving, nothing in this world had ever made him stop so completely. The unstoppable force had hit the immovable object, and it fizzed out. He slumped to the ground. Perched on the precipice Stoick did something he hasn’t in a long time, he began to cry.

***

Stoick was vaguely aware that the screaming stopped. The cacophony and violence that consumed to world meandered it’s way to a quiet desolation. The purples and yellows of predawn filtered across the horizon as the sun rose over a new day.

Maybe at some point Stoick would have willed himself forward on his own, but that was far from guaranteed. Wordlessly Gobber walked behind Stoick, and rested his one good hand on the chief’s shoulder. Slowly he turned his head to meet his friend’s soft gaze. No words were spoken, but the understanding was there, clear as the air between them. Slowly Stoick pulled himself up. He put one foot in front of the other and he moved forward, because that is what he does. That is who he is.

***

Berk was silent. Homes scorched to the ground. Though the damage had yet to be surveyed it would have been clear to a blind man that this was the worst raid in years. Perhaps the worst raid this generation had ever seen. The Vikings were pragmatic folk, and though many were grieving the loss of their homes they were already sorting through the embers for anything that could be salvaged. What aid could he have brought if he turned away from that cliff edge? Who else could he have saved if he had let his son go? But what father would he be if he did? What man would he be?

But he wasn’t a father now. He wasn’t a man. He was a chief. Revenge and grief are luxuries of a man who doesn’t have the weight of hundreds of lives on his shoulders. The frost was fast approaching, and at this rate they wouldn’t survive the winter. There was a lot to do and everyone needed their full undivided attention if they wanted a hope of making it to spring. He needed to give his undivided attention if his people were to make it to spring.

“Everyone, to great hall,” Stoick bellowed in his authoritative voice, a carefully balanced blend of firm and calm. As an avalanche gathers snow, the crowd grew around him, up the stairs and beyond the watchful eyes of their ancestors.

***

Even though the entire village was within the walls of the mountain hall, the quite was oppressive. The usual riff-raff and energy of such meetings, where everyone brings forth their opinions and demands, was smothered by an air of hopelessness. A hopelessness Stoick was far from exempt, and had little fire to fight. He wondered briefly if he could just let the silence sit, but it was his duty to fight it. Still uncertain what to say, he rose to address the hall.

“Vikings, last night we lost much. Our houses, our friends, our children. But we haven’t lost everything. For all of us in this hall we still have our lives. The snows have yet to fall, the ice has not yet set in we still have time. Time to rebuild. Time to recover. Time to fight back. We are from Berk, and Berk is never defeated. Seven generations we have stood against the Dragons. We stand, and we fight because that is who we are. We’re Vikings!”

Such a call like that would have usually summoned a rowdy response, but there was only silence. Though the energy of the crowd had graduated from despair to a determined grit. Stoick figured there was nothing that he could say to raise their spirits, hell there was nothing to say that could raise his own spirits. Most of what he said felt like fancy, a deliberately construct mirage that maybe things would return to normal. Whatever that means. With a centring breath Stoick began the meeting.

“The first thing we must address: Who among us took their rightful place in Valhalla last night?” The room was silent at first. Then slowly people began to speak of their loved ones. Their parents, siblings and friends who had fallen. Not just their names and their relationships, but stories of their character and lives. It wasn’t anyone’s funeral, and all the fallen would get a proper funeral, but it was one of the last opportunities to say what needed to be said and be heard. To remember not just their names, but their impact and their lives. Eight people lost their lives last night. Eight people and Hiccup.

After a soft pause Stoick began speaking. Far from his chief leading voice, he dropped the volume as if he was speaking only to a person right in-front of him. “My son too fell last night. He was taken by a nightfury. My son was not the greatest Viking, a Hiccup in name and nature, but he was brave. He wanted to fight. He fought until the last moment. Driven, relentless, the gods dealt him a bad hand but he didn’t just take it. Last night he proved the man he could be. He deserved more.”

Though no-one had called for it. There was a moment of silence in the great hall, and then slowly, the meeting moved on. They discussed rebuilding, stocking of food, and training of the new generation. Normally such meetings would discuss searching for the dragon’s nest, though this time it wasn’t even mentioned. There was too much to do on the home front. As much as he tried to put all his effort unto the village and the people the back of his mind was turning over plans on how to kill the nightfury. He was itching for an opportunity to take his leave, but his people came first.