Chapter Text
On Berk, the fighting has spread. Under the moon, the great torches are raised and blazing as if to shed light on a dragon attack. The walls of the Great Hall have been opened, and vikings spill in and out, throwing punches at anything that moves. A squadron of Hysterics tries to reach the harbor, only to be blocked by a group of Meatheads, the two meeting with a crash. A team of Bog Burglars are looting the ships of seemingly every tribe, firing arrows at any who make it onto the pier to stop them. The temporary huts, constructed by the Hooligans to house the visiting royal families, all sit in various states of ransacking, vikings breaking in and out, shouting for missing heirs. The Grim-Bod hall is naught but a structure glimpsed between flames, consumed utterly by a fire taller than the roofs, licking up the walls and blowing out the shutters. The Haddock Hall up on the hill is no safer, overrun by Vistithugs, Oiks, and Hooligans trying to defend it.
Stoick winces inwardly. Spitelout snorts.
Yaks still run wild, around and through unlucky vikings of all factions.
Astrid breathes heavily, walking in a slow circle opposite a Hysteric. The viking is tall, dark-bearded and armed with a sword, yet he bears several nicks and even gouges on his arms, bleeding fresh. One cut flows down the side of his face. Astrid’s arms are not unscathed, either, but it is clear who has taken the brunt of landed blows.
With murmurs of interest—and some of concern—Hooligans lean in. The lass had been building a reputation all her life, but that was still a large viking…and why was she facing him anyway?
“Oh, gods.” Ingrid Hofferson sighs, her husband huffing a chuckle beside her.
Further up, Ruffnut sings, “Oooh!”
Tuffnut’s eyes shine. “Fight, fight, fight!”
“Finally, some action!” Snotlout says, rubbing his hands together.
Astrid rolls her eyes.
With a roar, Astrid charges in, breaking the circling. The Hysteric drops into a stance, swinging his sword, but Astrid catches it with the handle of her axe and rolls backward, a chunk of wood flying out of the wound.
Berkians cheer. Stoick watches carefully.
She spins on the earth, legs kicking out, and the Hysteric flails backward to avoid them. Then Astrid is up, swinging relentlessly. The Hysteric meets her blows with his sword, and Astrid flicks her sweaty bangs off her forehead, shouting again as she heaves the axe. This blow bypasses the sword, striking the Hysteric across the breastplate. The man topples backward with an “oof” and Astrid rides his falling body, straddling him before he even hits the earth and jamming her axe under his chin.
That the lass is an excellent warrior is undeniable, but there's something about her movements…an urgency. The rest of Berk had been whipped into a frenzy, but Hofferson, too?
The Hysteric jerks, but Astrid presses the curve of steel into his skin and he pauses. Astrid pants over him.
Astrid: “Where is he?”
A few people are still clapping, but they are not loud enough to drown out the very deliberate, suggestive whistle that comes from somewhere at the teens’ table.
Stoick blinks, leaning to try and see who’d done it. Gobber gives an interested hum that breaks into a laugh, but Stoick ignores him. Did Astrid want her answers that badly? Was the girl so enraged by her foiled plan? That she’d been beaten to it?
The Hysteric leans back, and then spits a thick glob of saliva into her face, splattering on her nose and cheek.
Vikings draw in gasps of outrage, most notably Astrid’s father, whose bristling could be seen from the rafters.
Ruffnut barks a laugh and is promptly shoved.
Astrid screams, wrenching her axe back—and is lifted straight off the Hysteric, a thick arm around her waist.
Fresh gasps of concern—
Astrid’s scream chokes off in surprise, and she twists in the grasp of the man carrying her backward.
“Oh,” Berkians laugh.
Snotlout outright guffaws, and Astrid reaches to hit him, too.
Astrid: “Dad?!”
Ottar Hofferson ignores his daughter, hoisted half onto her shoulder as he hurries through the throngs of battle, bleeding from several places himself, his beard a mess.
Astrid: “Put me down! I had him!”
Someone runs at them, and Ottar collides bodily with the figure, knocking the man to the ground. Astrid turns her head as they pass by—revealing the warrior as one of their own, now dazed.
“Thanks a lot, Hofferson!” Someone shouts good-naturedly.
The Hofferson patriarch laughs, sheepish under the glaring of his wife (and daughter across the Hall).
Astrid's eyes widen, and she looks around from her higher vantage point. Berk is a lawless land, a pandemonium unreached by any dragon raid. Vikings scream and clash at every turn, spilling into the streets and tumbling down the steps of the Great Hall, where arrows and axes can be seen soaring through the air by the light torches within.
Those Hooligans unlucky to be visible in the chaos on the wall clear their throats. The whole thing hadn’t necessarily been anyone’s…finest moments.
The Hofferson hall finally comes into view, guarded by Astrid’s mother, aunt and elder cousins. Ottar spins around, depositing Astrid swiftly, who stumbles. Ingrid latches onto the girl immediately, yanking her backward and through the door of the house. The noise is lesser, but still cacophonous.
Ingrid cups Astrid’s cheek, even as the girl tries to move past her and follow the figure of her father, disappearing back into the fray.
Ingrid: “Are you alright?”
“Aww, is wittle Astrid okay?” Tuffnut coos.
“Did Mommy kiss it better, Astrid?” Snotlout asks.
Ingrid’s voice thunders from tables away. “Excuse me?”
The boys jerk.
“Sorry!”
“Sorry! Nothing! Sorry!”
Astrid crosses her arms, letting the boys shrivel under the glowers of two female Hoffersons.
Astrid: “I’m fine, I need to get back out there—”
Ingrid’s face hardens, and she grips both of Astrid’s arms, finally stopping her.
Ingrid: “No. You’ll stay here. Go up to your room.”
Astrid finally looks at her.
Atsird: “What?! I can’t just—”
Ingrid: “Astrid Hofferson. Go. Now.”
“Ooh.” Someone at the teens table can’t resist—Ruffnut.
Ingrid pushes her towards the stairs. Astrid spins back around, indignant—but the door to the house is already shut, her mother’s battle cry echoing outside it.
Dawn arrives on Outcast Island, the sun struggling above peaks of jagged stone.
Hooligans exclaim and hush one another again. Stoick steels himself.
Beneath the earth, Thuggory pants, swaying dangerously as he grips Camicazi’s boots, perched on his shoulders. The fireglow slowly roves up, revealing Cami’s eyes turned upward, her own hands holding tight to the bars and a singular booted ankle. More height reveals Hiccup, his left leg ending below the knee, prosthetic removed. Hiccup grips the hinge of the bars with one hand, working on turning a bolt with the metal foot of his prosthetic.
“Thor almighty.” Stoick whispers.
Gobber mutters back. “It might work.”
Cami: “Is it coming?”
Hiccup’s face is tight with concentration.
Hiccup: “I’ve almost…got it…”
And sure enough, the old bolt, half-sunken into the hinge with rust, is turning under his ministrations. Hardly, but it is turning, yielding with a horrid screech.
Berkians wince, Stoick among them.
“They’ll draw guards with all that racket!” Spitelout hisses.
Showers of red dust fall down, and Thuggory cringes back as it gets in his eyes.
Cami: “Stand still!”
Thuggory opens his mouth to retort—but is interrupted by footsteps.
Gobber grumbles. Stoick doesn’t have time, caught in urgency despite not being there.
He looks through the bars, and sure enough, the shadows of moving figures appear down the tunnel, cast by a bobbing torch. Alvin’s familiar chuckle drifts their way.
Thuggory hisses.
Thuggory: “Hiccup! Time to come down!”
Oh, praise Mogadon. The only one of them who’d somehow gifted their child with sense. Stoick would need to question him to learn how he’d done it.
Hiccup: "I've almost got it!”
Camicazi: “He’s almost got it!”
“Hiccup Haddock!” Stoick scolds.
“He’s almost got it!” Tuffnut counters, and Stoick glowers at him until the boy squeaks and turns back ‘round.
Thuggory shakes Cami, thus shaking both of the younger heirs on his shoulders.
Thuggory: “It’s not coming loose! Get down!”
Hiccup: “I need more time!”
Thuggory: “There ain’t any! Get down!”
Hiccup growls quietly but relents, ducking down to grasp Cami’s shoulders. The tower sways dangerously, and the first Outcast boots break into Thuggory’s eyeline.
“Aw, hogshit.” Spitelout sighs quietly.
Stoick ignores him, trying to hold out hope that Hiccup will get down fast enough.
Eyes widening, Thuggory reaches up and yanks Cami. Hiccup and Cami gasp, but wisely don’t scream as the tower collapses in a mess of flailing limbs.
Gasps.
Thuggory reaches to try at catching them…but only manages to cushion the fall as all three of them crash in a heap.
“Don’t you just love that guy?” Snotlout remarks up front.
Cami rolls onto her back, winded, and Hiccup winces harshly, gripping his injured head, still painted with flaking blood. Thuggory groans quietly. The footsteps draw nearer, and their eyes all shoot open. The teens scramble towards the back of the cell, throwing themselves onto their bellies and backs into something resembling sleeping positions, not a second before Alvin comes to a stop in front of the bars.
Berk holds her breath.
Alvin peers in for a moment. All three teens are breathing evenly, Cami sprawled on her back, Thuggory—his face sweat drenched—wisely facing the wall, and Hiccup facing the bars with his head cushioned on his arm.
The sight of the kids feigning sleep finally reminds Stoick of Alvin’s promise, what he must be there for. “We begin at dawn.” Was it dawn? Had the kids been working those all night?
What was to begin?hinges
Alvin steps back, satisfied, and motions to an Outcast goon beside him. The man lifts his hammer and goes to town on the bars.
Berkians yelp and curse, covering their ears.
Harsh clanging rings through the air, and the teens startle within.
“Now that ain’t necessary!” Gobber winces.
Alvin: “Rise and shine, Hiccup! We’ve got a big day ahead of us!”
Inside, Hiccup’s startled expression morphs into dread.
Stoick’s heart begins to pick up in tempo.
Cami and Thuggory share looks of puzzlement, but then the bars swing open. Bog and Meathead hurry to their feet. Hiccup stays on the ground, watching warily as two Outcasts enter the cell.
Bud dum, bud dum, bud dum bud dum…
Cami snarls and lunges at one…but the man merely shoves her away with a meaty hand. The Bog looks up in confusion…only to see where the soldiers are headed. Ignoring both she and Thuggory, the soldiers are encroaching on Hiccup, now glaring, his back pressed into the rocky wall. Alvin watches with a smirk.
Stoick could take two men, could take Alvin if only he was there and it’s a horrid torture to just watch .
Intense grumbling starts up around him.
Cami: “No! Hey!”
The Outcasts reach down, and Hiccup can do nothing but lean away as they each grasp one of his elbows and haul him to his feet.
“Do they really need two guys for that?” Snotlout tries.
No one laughs.
Thuggory jerks.
Thuggory: “Woah! Stop!”
Cami leaps onto the back of one, trying to strangle him.
“No, lass.” Stoick whispers, impressed and envious, but rational still.
“Come on, get your thumbs in his eyes!” Tuffnut shouts.
The man chokes. Hiccup pulls at his human shackles.
Hiccup: “Cami, no!”
The Outcast lets go, and delivers a swift punch over his shoulder. He catches the Bog heir in the side of the face, throwing her cleanly from his neck. Cami hits the ground with a grunt.
Any encouragement from up ahead cuts off with gasps.
Thuggory: “What are you doing with him?”
Alvin ignores them all, watching with satisfaction as his soldier retakes his post at Hiccup’s elbow and brings the boy towards him. Hiccup strains to look back at Cami, who shoves to her feet, looking feral. Thuggory pushes forward, but Savage’s axe, appearing in his hands, stops him.
Stoick shakes his head.
Hiccup passes by Alvin, glaring at the man’s grin.
Thuggory: “Hey! Answer me! I said, "What are you doing with him?”
Cami rushes forward, but the bars swing closed in her face.
Cami: “Hiccup!”
Thuggory: “You can’t do this! You’re dead when the Chiefs find you—”
At that Stoick nods. Berkians look across at him, many seeming satisfied with his quiet answer.
Hiccup: “Guys, I’ll be fine—”
But Alvin cuts him off, grabbing Hiccup by the arm and relieving him from the other two Outcasts.
Alvin: “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
Dawn sees a Berk divided. The masses of fighting have disappeared, those of the same tribes have now banded together, creeping throughout Berk.
Stoick groans, torn back to Berk again. Others gawk at their home from above in its current…unusual state.
Groups of Bashems, Hysterics, Vistithugs and Grim-Bods set up around the harbor, scouts darting this way and that, getting into skirmishes with the posted guards made up of Hooligans, Bog Burglars and Meatheads blocking their path to the ships. Elsewhere, foreign tribes try their hands at looting, breaking into the homes of Hooligans for fresh provisions, or even directly into the pens of livestock.
Others groan, now.
Nearly Silent-Sven’s field alone remains mostly untouched, his shrill shrieking driving away any would-be cattle thieves.
Sven blushes, ducking his bald head as a few nearby vikings clap him on the shoulders.
Stoick, Bertha and Mogadon have set up camp in the arena, surrounded by their warriors, advisors, crude tables devised from planks, a huge store of weapons and maps of the island. Their warriors hold the bridge, and thus a good chunk of the fields behind the arena, effectively cutting off the other tribes from any of those sheep or yaks.
Stoick nods as he catalogues it anew. They’d had a solid camp for awhile.
The warriors shift aside to allow Gobber, flanked by several other Hooligans, looking worse for wear but alive. He hurries across the planks, leaving the others behind in his haste.
Something niggles at the back of Stoick’s brain. Oh, had this been…?
Because he remembers that quite clearly.
Gobber breaks into the arena, prompting many eyes to raise to him. With obvious care, he slows down and heads towards Stoick.
“Oh, Thor.” The smith mutters. “He had us thoroughly, I’ll give him that.”
Spitelout frowns, lost. Stoick almost doesn’t even want to watch, but he doesn’t want to catch any eyes, either.
Stoick is deep in conversation with Spitelout, who spots Gobber first and inclines his head. Stoick turns around. His shoulders slump slightly at the sight of Gobber alone.
Stoick: “Gobber. Nothing?”
Gobber doesn’t answer, which raises Stoick’s eyebrows as the man draws nearer. At another crude table, Mogadon watches them. Gobber only halts when he and Stoick’s bellies are nearly touching. Only then does he draw something from within his vest.
His people gasp in horror.
“Oh, no.” Fishlegs laments.
Stoick’s face turns to stone, and he reaches out to take it, fingers closing over Hiccup’s vest.
Stoick: “ Where ?”
Gobber whispers something.
Stoick presses his fist to his lower face, attempting the unfamiliar action of hunching.
Big-Boobied Bertha holds her own court around one of the only surviving real tables. Huge, muscled women surround her as she makes markings on a map denouncing the positions of the other tribes, and all of them jump when the table is wrenched away from under their hands. The Bog Burglars stumble back as Stoick hurls the table across the arena, his face alight with rage.
Hooligans exclaim in surprise.
“Oh, no.” Fishlegs repeats.
The women reach for their weapons, but not before Stoick draws his axe and points it at Bertha.
Stoick: “Where is he.”
Vikings swivel in their chairs to raise eyebrows at Stoick.
Gobber sucks his remaining teeth, nodding. “Yep, this’ll be ugly.”
Something dangerous crossed the big-bosomed woman’s face.
Bertha: “Stoick…”
Stoick: “Just tell me now, Bertha, and perhaps someday my grandchildren can forgive yours this.”
Bertha’s face twists, her women's eyes darting between their chieftess and the chief of Berk. Bertha booms.
Bertha: “How dare you?”
Stoick: “I will not ask again.”
Bertha: “No, you will not.”
With a roar, Bertha draws free her own axe and lunges at Stoick. Chaos erupts in the arena.
Snotlout smirks. “Yikes.”
Stoick glares at him.
The Hoffersons are still keeping a close guard on their home, warding off any looters but not initiating any battle. Astrid watches from her bedroom window, poised to look out over the whole street. In her arms, she’s gathered seemingly every pot, pan and knife in the house, and just then takes aim, hurling an iron pot out her window and hitting a Bashem woman on the helmet as she runs by. The woman drops immediately, sprawled in the street.
The teens choke out laughs or gasp, gaping at the blonde, half of Berk with them. Knowing now that the Oiks—and every other assembled tribe—had nothing to do with the kidnappings, it’s difficult to cheer their assaults under his people. But even Stoick chuckles at the, as his nephew puts it:
“Nice shot!” Snotlout barks.
“That’s much better than what we were doing.” Ruffnut says, contemplative.
Astrid snorts, but sits a little straighter.
Astrid leans out the sill, shouting to her family below.
Astrid: “Grab her! We can question her!”
Astrid’s father shakes his head. Her aunt turns and barks,
Aunt Hofferson: “Stop helping, Astrid!”
And just as quickly, the other kids turn to laughing at her. The same aunt snorts across the Hall.
No one makes a move from the house, and eventually another Bashem darts out of the shadows like a mouse and grabs his comrade, dragging her to safety. Astrid growls in frustration, hurling another pan at them, but the two are out of range and it bounces on the dirt.
Ottar scowls, but doesn’t move to retrieve it.
Ottar: “Stop throwing the cookware!”
Astrid leans back out the window with a scowl, opening her mouth to retort, but pauses. A team of Hooligans are passing by, clutching the ropes tethered to two hounds. The hounds’ noses are pressed to the dirt, and both of them stop their motion to inspect the pot. Astrid watches them. Their handlers nod sharply at the Hoffersons, who nod back. In the fist of one Berkian is Hiccup’s vest. Astrid gasps quietly.
“Uh oh.” Tuffnut sing-songs, though Stoick can’t imagine why and doesn’t care to.
The hounds give up on the pot and start down the street again.
Astrid steps slowly back into her room, reaching up to grip her hair. She turns around—and freezes, spotting something. The fireglow swaps places with her to reveal the object: Hiccup’s stolen book, poking out from under her mattress.
Berkians tilt their heads, trying to see what’s so special.
Slowly, Astrid’s hands drop from her hair.
The fireglow cuts, rising up from the Hofferson’s guarding the house…to Astrid, using the dragon effigy jutting out from the roof to flip off her window sill and twist back onto the shingles, silent.
“Oh, isn’t that impressive?” Ingrid comments icily. Her husband just crosses his arms.
Astrid scoots up on the bench until she’s safely blocked by Fishlegs.
Astrid reaches down and grabs Hiccup’s book and the cloak she'd long ago stolen, which she must have tossed up before. She leans over the roof, looking down at her family, and then turns to stare at the forest at the edge of Berk. Astrid takes a deep breath, and heads toward it, axe on her back.
“I don’ get it.”
“What’re ye doin, lass?”
“Oi, Hofferson!”
“Astrid, what’s the plan?”
Astrid ignores all the questions, so Stoick doesn’t even bother, pushing away any thoughts of demanding to know as Hiccup reappears.
Hiccup is pushed through the shadows of a tunnel, light filtering through bars up ahead, which—with a sudden clanking of metal—begin to raise up for their arrival. Hiccup winces at the sudden light of day, and then blinks as a crude recreation of Berk’s dragon-killing arena raises up around him, Outcasts at his either side escorting him in.
Stoick leans in. “What in the…”
“That sly bastard.” Gobber whispers in awe.
Bucket blinks. “They stole our arena?”
“Alvin musta had it rebuilt from memory when he took over as Chief.” Mulch remarks.
Stoick supposed even Outcasts had to raise their youth to fend off dragons. He could only guess at how they’d trained before Alvin commissioned this piss-poor imitation.
The stone floor is black and uneven, filthy. The chain roof is not a chain at all, but made from haphazard iron bars like those of the cages underground, rising to a point unlike Berk’s even dome. Tall rocks stand like sentries outside the barred roof, and inside, the dragon pens are locked with bars, not the complicated wood and metal doors of Berk.
Hiccup: “Wow…this is really somethin’.”
“ Hiccup .”
An Outcast shoves him in the shoulder, making him grunt as they force him a few more steps forward and then turn to leave him.
Alvin: “You’ll make do.”
Hiccup turns to find Alvin’s voice, the Chief standing outside the barred roof with a grin.
Stoick’s eyes flick over the sight. So he’d brought Hiccup to train dragons in the dragon-killing arena, and stood watching outside, a spectator. He wouldn’t be down there with Hiccup, then, learning how to do what Hiccup did. He’ll just make Hiccup do it for him.
Still, small mercies.
Hiccup: “Yeah, not—not likely. You know this isn’t going to work, right? Your whole make-the-tribes-turn-on-eachother plan? They’ve probably already figured it out and are on their way here, right now.”
Stoick winces, but Spitelout actually laughs.
“Is that funny?” Stoick demands.
Spitelout doesn’t stop smirking. “Ah, he has so much confidence in you, brother.”
It’s meant as a joke, but Stoick’s heart grows heavy, leadening in his chest.
Alvin leans on the bars.
Alvin: “You think so?”
Hiccup looks back as the tunnel he came from is re-sealed with a clang.
Alvin: “Even when Stoick finds yer little vest in the Bog hall?”
Hiccup spins back around, raising an eyebrow.
Hiccup: “What? Bertha? My dad would never believe that. She sends me birthday presents!”
The fireglow cuts to Berk, where Stoick is mid battle-cry as he rushes to clash with Bertha, both of them looking wrecked from battle.
This draws a surprised laugh from all of Berk, sans one chieftain, though without Hiccup’s comment it probably wouldn’t have been very funny.
Alvin shrugs.
Alvin: “I suspect e’ll believe it long enough for me to squeeze some manageable dragons out o’ you. Then, well, he’ll have them to deal with.”
The laughter dies down, smothered with uncertainty. No one misses the raids, the dragon-fighting of the past. Could Alvin bring it back? Could he make Hiccup, sometime in the future?
Alvin: “Don’t ye worry, Hiccup! Nothin is goin’ to get in our way.”
Unease so strong it borders on nausea undulates in Stoick. It was a good plan. Half of it had worked. He’d gotten Hiccup away, Stoick had looked in the wrong direction. If he’d had more time, Alvin might have gotten those defending dragons out of his son, and how would he have rescued him then? After seeing Hiccup and Toothless in action, Stoick was no fool. Organized dragons would be no feeble foe. Especially not under Hiccup.
So why hadn’t the plan worked?
Alvin makes a motion, and an Outcast across the way hits a lever. Creaking fills the arena, and Hiccup turns to find the iron door of a dragon pen slowly flowing outwards.
“Oh, shit, he’s really doing it!” Snotlout blurts.
“Snotlout!” The boy’s mother scolds.
Stoick’s heart quickens again.
Hiccup steps back, muttering to himself.
Hiccup: “This is just great.”
The door swings a little wider—and a dragon collides with it sideways, the teal-and-pink Deadly Nadder from the tunnels. The Nadder squaks, biting the bars, but hops back as they continue to move away from her. Tilting her head, she takes in her new surroundings, and with a few more hops puts herself outside the cage.
“A Nadder.” Fishlegs cleverly deduces. “That’s no problem.”
Astrid glares at him, but can’t be drawn from the fireglow for long.
Hiccup steps back, slowly. Alvin grins, rubbing his hands together.
Alvin: “Blow us away, Hiccup!”
And suddenly, tons of other Outcasts cheer, and Hiccup looks up to realize tens of them have crowded around the bars to watch. The Nadder squawks at them.
Hiccup: “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Stoick seconds his indignation. “What is this, a sporting event?”
The Nadder jerks her head to the side, one of her eyes focusing on Hiccup. Her pupils split. Hiccup winces.
Hiccup: “Uh…hi?”
Gobber shakes his head. “Just couldn’t shut up, couldya?”
The Nadder tenses, lowering herself, and Hiccup’s eyes widen.
Stoick starts to shout an order, but Hiccup is already doing it.
The boy throws himself sideways just before her tail flings up, spines flying. They strike the wall behind where he’d stood. Hiccup scrambles back to his feet, looking around, but there is no rack of shields in this arena.
Hiccup: “Oh, gods.”
“This seems like a bad plan.” Bucket comments.
The Nadder charges him. Hiccup stumbles back, hitting the wall and then fleeing to his right.
“Run!”
“Train it!”
“Come on, Haddock, go get it!”
“Why’s he running?” Snotlout demands.
The Nadder keeps on, but then catches sight of him in her left eye and veers. She squawks, maw parting for fire.
Stoick’s beating heart leaps into his mouth.
Hiccup hears the hissing and hits the deck, the hottest flame of any dragon spraying over him. Beside Alvin, Savage raises his eyebrows worriedly. The Nadder runs at him again, and this time Hiccup runs toward her.
“Woah—”
“Stop!”
“No—”
“Hey!”
“What—”
The audience gasps, and when the Nadder is a few feet away Hiccup drops, sliding clean under her.
Stoick’s breath leaves in a whoosh. “Odin.”
People whoop and clap.
The Nadder pauses when she reaches the space where Hiccup should have been, turning this way and that but not seeing him. The fireglow veers around, revealing Hiccup hunched under her lifted tail, just inches from the spikes.
Snotlout cackles. “What is he doing?”
“What is he doing?” Gobber asks.
Stoick shakes his head.
But his prosthetic is clicking, and the Nadder looks back—only not to find him. Now Hiccup is in front of her, hiding in the blind spot as she looks around.
Gobber grins. “I taught him that!”
Spitelout rolls his eyes. “It’s definitely yer fault he’s so good at dodging.”
Alvin looks bored, resting a hand on his face.
Stoick scowls.
The Nadder leans closer, sniffing what she can’t see. Hiccup leans back. The audience begins to “boo” loudly and she startles, teeth snapping forward. Hiccup scrambles back with a yelp, running again.
“He’s not doing anything.” Stoick stares with dawning horror.
“He’s doing a lot of running.” Gobber corrects, equally engrossed.
The Nadder’s tail flicks up again, spines popping out, head cocked to follow Hiccup. Hiccup stares back at her as he runs, looking for a place to go, a fish in a barrel.
“Why’s he not makin’ it like him?” Someone asks.
Savage: “Uh, Alvin?”
Alvin: “E’s fine!”
Hiccup darts right. The Nadder’s tail whips and spines go flying. Hiccup throws himself into a roll, but a yellow spine still manages to swipe his side, shearing through green fabric and skin.
Stoick’s breath stutters. People gasp and hiss.
Hiccup pops back up and stares down, blood quickly spreading from the laceration. The audience gasps.
Outrage erupts, bemusement and amusement at the chase vanishing swiftly. A Nadder spine, coated with poison. But that’s not what horrifies Stoick the most.
“He won’t do it.” Stoick whispers.
Hiccup had been close multiple times. He never should have gotten hurt and now….
He wouldn’t train it, and he wouldn’t fight it even if there was anything in there to fight it with.
But the dragon would fight him .
The Nadder’s nostrils flare, and scenting blood, she screeches. Hiccup clamps a hand over his side and dodges again as she charges him.
“Oh my gods.” Spitelout mutters, coming to Stoick’s same conclusion.
“ Idiot .” Gobber spits.
And Stoick knows in an instant, has seen the whole time what Hiccup is doing. He won’t train the beast for Alvin, and the only possible reason can be for Berk. Alvin had made his goals clear, and Hiccup was denying them the only way he could.
Gobber was right. He was an idiot . A noble idiot, making the choice any chief should, but he wasn’t a chief. He was sixteen.
It clearly hadn’t gotten him killed, but it was undeniably going to get him hurt as long as he could keep it up. Hurt more .
Alvin groans. He reaches over, ripping a shield from one of his men and tossing it down through the bars. The shield hits the ground and rolls a few feet, and both Hiccup and the Nadder turn to look at it. The Nadder launches herself at it, and Hiccup takes the time to put more distance between them, breathing heavily and darting to the other end of the small arena.
“Give him another!” Someone demands.
Alvin doesn’t.
Alvin snaps at someone up above.
Alvin: “You! Go find some antidote before ‘e keels over.”
Down in the arena, Hiccup is gripping the wound hard, blood smeared on his fingers, probably already feeling the heightened pain of Nadder venom.
“Oh, gods.” Stoick mutters, the ending muffled by his hand.
“Get him out of there!” Astrid snaps.
Fishlegs begs. “Train it, Hiccup!”
“Train it, you mutthonhead!” Snotlout orders.
The Nadder finally tires with the shield and turns back to Hiccup, who takes a deep breath and tries to stand straighter.
Alvin: “Get in there, boy!”
Hiccup ignores him, standing still as the Nadder considers him across the way. She stalks closer, tilting her head to see him, and Hiccup doesn’t move an inch, watching her approach.
“Can he run?” Stoick demands. “How deep was it?”
“He could run.” Gobber says, but he sounds confused. “He still could, but e’s not.”
Outcasts lean over the bars to see. The Nadder’s nostrils continue to flare as she scents the air. She growls at the muttering Outcasts up above, but continues stalking Hiccup, taking small steps and sticking to the wall of the Arena. Hiccup stays silent and still. Savage tilts his head.
Savage: “Is this a part of it?”
Alvin: “Shh!”
Hiccup swallows, his face growing shiny with sweat as he continues to grip the tear in his side.
“‘E’s playin’ dead!” A Hooligan shouts, to the hushing of others.
But Stoick thinks he might be right. Not dead, but wounded, prey that isn’t a threat. And if so many dragons prefer fish, the Nadder should leave him be. Clever.
Oh, Odin please.
The Nadder continues her slow approach. Ever so slowly, Hiccup slides down the wall until he’s sitting. The Nadder freezes as he does so, but then after a minute continues her stalking.
Outcast: “Is he dying?”
Finally, the Nadder is upon him. Alvin leans in closer, a hand raised. The fireglow reveals a team of Outcast soldiers in the tunnel Hiccup came from, waiting for the signal to charge in, but Alvin doesn’t give it yet.
Stoick’s fists clench.
The Nadder leans down. Her breath is hot and wet, plumes of smoke creeping out of her large nostrils. Hiccup doesn’t lean away, even when her breath ruffles his hair.
“He’s such an idiot,” Snotlout says to anyone who will listen, “He’s so stupid .”
The Nadder leaps away from him, squawking in fear.
Vikings jump. “What—”
Hiccup’s eyes widen, and he flinches away just as her tail lashes out. The audience gasps again and Alvin shouts something, lost in the squawking as the Nadder shallowly scrapes Hiccup’s arm, barely raised in time to cover his face.
“What the Hel?” Stoick roars, barely audible since the adrenaline of such a slice, so near to the face, has everyone else’s volume high, too.
Then, she turns and hop-runs to the other side of the arena. Everyone watches her go, bemused. Hiccup looks down at his arm, the slice thin but adorned with small, translucent beads of poison.
People wince for him, those who have calmed down enough. He’d live—obviously—but it would hurt like Hel for a while. The limb would go numb along with his side, and despite being so shallow it would probably scar. His side definitely would.
The Nadder settles down across the arena to watch him, but leaps up again as the bars of a tunnel swing open, Outcasts rushing in. Two of them head towards Hiccup, who watches them come, then turns to glare at Alvin. Alvin leans back from the bars, a scowl twisting his mouth.
Tuffnut whistles. “Damn. Don’t mess with my man Hiccup!”
His cheer draws a few others as well, and oh, Stoick is proud, Odin is he proud, but dread keeps him too afraid to be awed as the rest of them.
How many times will Hiccup get away with embarrassing Alvin? This is far from the first time, and now Hiccup can’t escape afterward.
Savage hums.
Savage: “E’s not going to do it.”
Alvin growls and Savage cringes back.
Alvin: “I can see that!”
Down in the arena, the two Outcasts seize Hiccup and haul him towards the tunnel. Hiccup struggles to keep a hand on his side as the other Outcasts corner the Nadder, who meets them with fire.
Stoick wants to roar, but finds his throat constricted. He can imagine too well the pain.
Alvin: “E’ thinks he’s so clever. Go get them.”
Savage gives Alvin a shaky nod, and leaves.
People mutter nervously.
“Ah, the other shoe.” Gobber notes with false levity. “Right on schedule.”
Alvin scowls as Hiccup is dragged into the safety of the tunnel, a healer waiting with an antidote for Nadder poison.