Chapter Text
Warm light flooded Jack’s eyelids, and he came into consciousness in bursts of orange and yellow. His lashes were stuck together with sleep, and waves of dry heat lapped against his cheek — a comfort he had not felt in centuries — and he knew something was very wrong.
Without opening his eyes, he tried to gauge where he was. Urgent, hushed voices floated from farther away. He was tucked into a scratchy blanket. He took in the crackling of a fireplace, the heavy smell of pine and peat — and most peculiarly, the natural warmth emanating from Jack himself.
The voices did not appear to be close. He turned away from the fire and cracked one eye open. The wooden cabin he found himself in was cluttered with parchment and antique tools, while the fire cast orange light over a double-bladed axe mounted on the wall.
Hold on .
Jack sat up. Stared at the axe. Definitely not for show, that edge looks wicked .
The murmuring and shuffling above him alerted him that his kidnappers? Friends? Was this another abduction via North’s toy sack situation — were upstairs. There appeared to be two pairs of pacing feet, but Jack couldn’t be sure, as in-between footsteps something hard clunked against the ceiling. Careful, he lifted the blanket, and stood. He bit back a hiss when his feet settled on the cold stone floor – and he immediately was woozy with dread. A coil of something awful in his stomach. What happened? His gaze flicked around for an exit. There — the door, bolted shut from the inside with a massive log. Jack grit his teeth. Too risky, too noisy. He searched the walls for windows, but there didn’t appear to be any. What kind of cabin didn’t have windows?
The chatter resumed upstairs, but the footsteps and clunking noise began traveling towards the staircase, and Jack knew he needed to hide, then maybe he could sneak out when the door was unbolted —
All this flew out the non-existent window when a hot puff of air against the back of Jack’s neck made him shriek.
He whipped around so fast he fell on his rear. At first, all he could see was the darkness of the room unlit by the fire — then the darkness shifted, and opened reptilian, jade-green eyes. A low snarl revealed a row of bared teeth, and Jack scooted himself backwards until his back hit the wooden door. The creature advanced, its steps deliberate, pupils narrow gashes. Even when it crossed the threshold of the hearthlight, its hide remained as deep as a black hole, as oil-slick black as one of Pitch’s Nightmare steeds. Jack’s right hand felt empty and useless without his staff. He reached for the winter, for the wind, for anything, but received no response.
Part of Jack wanted to laugh at himself, at the creature intent on devouring him, and tell it you can’t kill me, I’m already dead — but the racket in Jack’s chest and hot blood rushing to his ears told him with baffling certainty that was not the case any longer.
The Nightmare was close enough for Jack to go cross-eyed when a strangled shout rose from behind it. Most of Jack’s vision was obscured by the creature, but he saw the waving of arms and a tuft of auburn hair. With a noise that almost sounded like a question, the Nightmare retreated. A boy rounded its flank, and, remarkably, unceremoniously, with a gesture so simple yet so impossible — shot Jack an apologetic grimace. Which meant. It meant.
He could see Jack , and he wasn’t an animal or spirit or figment of a memory, or even a young child. He was a boy, a man, close to adulthood if not there already, with stubble growing in. Jack felt himself flatline. Briefly, he forgot about the freaky shadow monster. Only briefly.
The boy scratched the Nightmare’s jaw with a gloved hand, which emitted a pleased hum that resonated throughout the small room. It closed its eyes and sat back on its hindquarters, finally giving Jack space to breathe.
“That’s your pet?” It was all he could think of to say.
Both the boy and the Nightmare regarded him, tilted their heads in the same direction. Jack barked out a laugh, then folded over to lay his forehead on the cool stone.
At least he wasn’t going to be torn to pieces today. He doubted he would satiate the appetite of this beast, anyway. Barely make an appetizer.
Clunk, clunk . The metallic noise and footsteps approached Jack’s head.
He noticed the boy’s boots first. Well, boot, singular. His left leg was cut short, a metal contraption taking the space where a foot should be. It looked unlike any prosthetic Jack had ever seen, all sliding metal parts and chunky bolts. The boy bent to rest on one knee, and Jack squinted through his bangs to regard the stranger’s face, avoiding his eyes. The boy was turned away from the hearth, and the firelight brimmed his auburn hair in gold. Jack could pick up scattered freckles despite the shadow cast over his face. He held his hands held out placatingly, palm up, and his expression was wide-eyed and cautious, but not defensive. He studied Jack’s face for a moment, then shifted his gaze to the floor.
The stranger proceeded to speak, but in a language Jack couldn’t place, despite his hundreds of years of exploration. It had a weight and fullness to it that sounded Scandinavian, but the accent and the vowels were off. He had a nasally voice, and he spoke quickly, hands twitching a little like he wanted to wave them again but didn’t want to startle Jack. The Nightmare behind him watched, interested. Ready to pounce if it felt the tide change.
“I — I can’t—” Jack interrupted him. “I have no clue what you’re saying.” The stranger’s mouth formed a small “o” in surprise, then that thin grimace again. Jack got the impression he was embarrassed.
A shift of heavy fabric next to Jack’s side startled him, his nerves on high alert, and he lurched away, springing up to his feet in a frenzied motion. The creature growled lowly, but at the moment Jack was more concerned about the woman in front of him. She was too close for comfort and wielded an axe that looked just as threatening as the one displayed on the wall and biceps the size of Jack’s head. She narrowed her eyes, adjusting her grip on the handle as it rested on her shoulder pauldron, which was a coarse metal, adorned with harsh ridges. Her thick leather skirt was decorated with spikes, resembling canine fangs. The stranger with the prosthetic, for his part, mostly seemed exasperated at this. He also got up, throwing his arms up in a janky arc and exclaimed something that pitched his nasally voice up.
Taking the momentary distraction as a gift from Manny, Jack bolted towards the staircase. His steps felt labored, as if moving through pond-water with silt sticking to his soles, but he clambered up the stairs in moments, the startled yelps of the boy and his beast following him.
The room Jack burst into was small, with a slanted ceiling — there , a window, a sizable one, without glass even — a slab of rock sat in the corner next to a wool-laden bed, blackened and singed. Scattered parchment fluttered from the ground as Jack sprinted towards the opening and leaped onto the windowsill. His hands caught the frame of the window before he careened over the side.
It was almost instinct. It was almost a memory. Toes over the edge. Jack could feel the wind against his hair, but he couldn’t really feel it. It wouldn’t carry him if he asked it to.
Well. It wasn’t that far of a leap to the grass below. He leapt.
Jack braced for the impact, ready to take the momentum and barrel roll if he had to. It never came. He was yanked by his shoulders and propelled into the sky. For a brief, wonderful second, Jack wondered if the wind was actually there for him after all. Then he registered the claws sunk into his biceps, not hard enough to break the skin, but secure. The Nightmare had got him. And they were flying.
From Jack’s vantage point in the creature’s grasp, a vast ocean lay before them, interrupted by spires of stone and scrubby pine trees. He looked up, and against the pinkish hue of the sky, the Nightmare’s form was in full contrast, wings and all. It had softer edges than Jack expected. Jack looked down — he never considered himself afraid of heights before, but usually he was never at risk of falling — at a colorful, rustic village below blurring beneath him.
It was inhabited by, and Jack struggled to find a better word for it — dragons. Winged reptilian beasts, petite to monstrous, decorated with a whole manner of patterns and textures, clustered on the rooftops and squawked at them as they swooped past. Lumbered along the thin roads separating the buildings, sleeping in nooks and crannies. Jack has seen the wonders of North’s workshop, the pastel Warren, Tooth’s menagerie of fairies. He was no stranger to the realms of spirits, but this was new and vibrant and marvelous.
A familiar voice broke through the rushing in Jack’s ears, and he realized the boy from before was riding on the Nightmare’s neck. He had to strain to see him, but he was there, seated atop a leather saddle.
“Are you a spirit?” Jack yelled. He couldn’t quite see the boy’s face. He turned to address the Nightmare. “Are you? Help me out, here.”
The Nightmare — dragon, or something — flicked its green eyes back to acknowledge Jack, and blinked once. In the light, it appeared less threatening, more amused at Jack’s pathetic leap from the window. It emitted a rumbling from within its throat. Rolled its eyes.
Jack felt a little insane.
It was a good thing his athleticism often went overlooked — even before his afterlife, he was a spry kid, deft and sure-footed from climbing trees and traversing rivers (usually on some sort of quest to retrieve berries for Emily or clay for the children’s mud sculptures. There was a secret spot near the lake he harvested it from). He wasn’t the most imposing figure, and most folks, including the Guardians, saw his bobble head and knobby knees and regarded him as a nuisance at most. It was likely for this reason the Nightmare’s claws weren’t gripping Jack too tightly. Or maybe it assumed he’d have to be foolish to twist himself free this high up in the air. Foolish , it turns out, is Jack’s middle name.
For a moment, Jack was suspended — in the other, he crashed elegantly into the knobby hide of a large dragon. He bounced back, because he always bounces back, he’s unstoppable , and this time he skid into the slope of a tiled roof. The world became a tilt-a-whirl as he tumbled downwards, and at the last moment his hand caught a wooden beam, allowing himself to swing upright, shoulder screaming at the sudden jolt, and he fell further — a flock of dragons dispersed beneath him, the wind from their wings buffeting his face — then his feet slapped onto something solid. He ran, arms windmilling for balance. It was another roof, and he was careening down the long ridge, at the end of which rose a carved figurehead that if he had his staff he would have hooked onto as leverage for another leap, but in the present all he could manage was to leapfrog over it and hope for the best.
He landed on a ram, hard, sat as if he were on a saddle. It honked, somehow still keeping its balance, and Jack let out a pained gasp, body crumpling over his groin. The ram shot forward, and now Jack was eye level with the villagers he had seen from above, clambering out of the way of the ram’s charge. They were burly, tall, decked out with furs and beards and leather armor. He craned his neck to look behind him at the crowd forming at the ram’s wake. Each surprised shout and flash of angry eyes meeting his was a reminder that Jack was not invisible anymore. Taking note of the obscene amount of metal weaponry glinting in the sun, Jack wished he was.
The ram began to buck. Taking the hint, Jack rolled off, tucking his head and shoulders before hitting the earth. Clumps of mud clung to him as he stood. They had ground to a halt at a shallow cliff overlooking the ocean.
This ocean was not dissimilar from the coast of Massachusetts — not that Jack made a habit of visiting. It was dark, with the jagged edges and crests of North Atlantic waves. Gravel, broken shells, and seaweed-laden rocks swathed the beach in grey and phthalo green. A thick fog covered the water at a distance. Unwilling to lose momentum, Jack hopped from rock to rock, down to the beach, bare feet slipping over the damp stone. Where his weight should be feather-light, the impact stung. Where his footing should be sure, he faltered.
Jack’s back hit the wet gravel, and he groaned, sitting up on his elbows. His nose nearly clipped the point of the axe directed in his face. He scooted backwards, hissing when the heels of his palms hit cold water.
Jack was confronted with a silhouette that was eerily similar to North. Jack squinted against the dawn light, noting the man’s broad stature and thick, braided beard. Horns curled from his helmet, mirroring the dragons from the village. He carried the weight of authority that neither the strangers Jack had met possessed. He could see it in the set of his brows, the assured, purposeful posture. This man was their leader — their chief.
The chief’s eyes were stony. Jack took deep breaths to calm himself and tried to settle his gaze anywhere else. He’d never been regarded like this before. Like something to be feared, cautious of. It hit Jack then that he was as much a stranger to these people as they were to him. That he was an imposter in their realm, who spoke an incomprehensible tongue, with no clue how he came to be there or how to explain himself.
Appearing mollified by whatever meekness he saw in Jack’s posture, the chief withdrew his axe. Jack became aware of the nasally voice of the Nightmare-riding-boy babbling and ranting behind the man, but his figure was too broad to see around. For better or for worse, the boy seemed to be the friendliest out of the villagers Jack had encountered thus far. Given that he’s the only one that hadn’t threatened him with a weapon. A low bar, turns out.
Gaze flitting around himself, Jack noticed a semicircle of curious villagers and dragons gathering around him. They kept their distance, but the only feasible exit Jack had was towards the ocean. Not ideal. In this sort of scenario Jack would shoot up into the air and catch the wind somewhere safe, but he was grounded in the most finite way possible. The chief was speaking to him in a low tone. He barely registered it. His vision felt blurred, the bodies of the crowd smudging together. A phantom chill prickled his neck. He hadn’t had goosebumps in three hundred years. He was breathing hard, and sharply, and when did his clothes get this tight? His hands grasped uselessly at air. Where was his staff?
The scrape of saltwater in his mouth. Jack was falling, buffeted by winds that were not his own. He hit the water like a thunderclap. The ocean current, unlike any force Jack had felt before, was a hungry maw, and it drew him underneath as softly and violently as a swallow. The throat of the ocean crushed him.
He must have lost it then, when did he have it last —
He was flying, he remembers flying. He’s flown over the Atlantic so many times now, the North winds rushed to greet him with fondness. His staff was held loosely in his grip, without thought to its being, like an extra limb, like an old friend.
Sandy told him there was an influx of dreams in the northern wilds. Dreamsand he’d never seen before, silvery and iridescent, leaking out of hollow tree trunks and between the plumage of bird wings. His symbols formed and reformed deftly above his head, so quickly Jack had to ask him to repeat himself several times. That was why — he was searching — he hit something — was hit by something?
A crack ran through Jack like the snap of a tendon. And he bled — well, not bled, but everything inside him cried to escape outwards, expel from his skin, from under his fingernails. He was falling, and the water was a throat and the winds would not could not aid him.
He was breathing? He was breathing. He was breathing.
It was not like before, how could it be like before? The cold, cold lake was merciful. The ice froze his limbs and his life in a moment.
The Atlantic wrung him out.
A croon, long and warbling, resonated in his left ear, snapping Jack out of his reverie. He turned his head sharply, coming face to face with a pair of bug-like, crossed eyes. A very small dragon was sniffing at him. Its head was almost too large for its dark green body. Twisted horns spiraled from its skull, one of them broken shorter than the other, and a tiny horn sprouted from its snout, nestled between two flared nostrils. It blinked at him. Jack, at a loss, blinked back. Another trill at his hip warned him it had a friend, and before Jack could protest the first dragon was halfway up his chest and the second had curled itself under his arm. A third, this one a yellowy tone, attempted to land on his head and nest there, but could not find a steady enough perch. Jack swatted at them, but they persisted, a couple more deciding Jack’s lap was the best place to rest their eyes. They were hot like little candles, and a chill Jack did not realize he contracted from the ocean breeze and damp stone began to dissipate. They reminded him of kittens. He laid his hand on the imp on his chest, still supporting himself with one arm so he didn’t fall in the surf, and scratched the scales of its cheek. It trilled at him, happy with Jack’s attention, and Jack half-gaped, half-smiled at the creature. There was a time when he had surprised Emily with a garter snake — god, she cried so much, he felt awful for it — a laugh escaped him. His body rumbled with the chatter and warbles of the dragons in response. Its scales were pleasantly velvety under his hand. His heart rate slowed with the unified breaths of the entourage. The dark green imp licked his chin and he let his head fall back. He was exhausted, and confused, and now surprise best friends with a bunch of therapy lizards. The immediate fear response he felt had at least gone — left him with a clinging unease.
There was a tap on his arm, and he opened his eyes to view a short, almost Sandy-sized elderly woman with a tall staff. Another one of those bobble-head dragons perched on her shoulder. The rest of the crowd remained where they were, giving the woman a respectable amount of space. She had wide eyes, not unlike her creatures — for they were hers, this Jack did not doubt — a tiny pointed nose, and a grim mouth, which remained pressed closed and silent. She took her staff, and using the end of it as a stylus, began to make marks in the gravel. A lumbering giant loomed above her — similar in size to the chief, but with a braided mustache and one hand replaced with what looked like a spatula — examining the dashes and lines she was quickly etching. Jack watched them also. It was less like writing, more like drawings or hieroglyphics. Wait, was the stick figure with the spiky hair supposed to be him?
When the woman was done, the man behind her began speaking, translating her chicken scratch to the audience. Jack was still. Involuntarily, he held tightly to the little dragons in his arms. The bearded man reached out the spatula to Jack, then realized his mistake and switched to his flesh and blood hand for Jack to lift himself up. Most of the dragons tumbled off of him, apart from the dark green imp. He was led by the small woman through the crowd, past the boy and his Nightmare, past the girl with the hefty axe. The larger man kept a beefy hand on his shoulder, shielding him from seeing much else. The chief fell into lock step with them. The little dragon settled into his chest. He struggled to feel anything else except the warmth from its scales and the weight of the hand on his bicep. The deep tones of the people’s foreign tongue blurred together in his head as if it were porridge. Or alphabet soup.
Jack kept walking.
The great hall Jack joined the chief and advisors in was lit with torches, and adorned in tapestry. When the massive doors opened and wind was let in, the tapestries shifted, and the woven dragons on them appeared to flap their wings or release an unfurled tongue of fire. At the center was a massive wooden table wrapped around a fireplace, marked up by what Jack assumed were blades. Of the chief’s advisors included the spatula-handed man, the Sandy-sized old woman, another tall man with a severe face and black beard, and the nightmare boy — without his nightmarish dragon. They were arguing some, whispering some. Blackbeard often cast Jack suspicious glares. Spatula chimes in very little, leaning back in his chair and settling his wooden peg leg on the table. Although Spatula was often musing, often quiet, he placed himself at Jack’s left, between him and Blackbeard. Whenever Blackbeard turned to shout something at Jack, Spatula leaned forward to pick at his fraying boot leather, blocking his tirade. The nightmare boy hovered close to the chief’s side, speaking with him familiarly, waving his hands and pacing, waving, pacing. He reminded Jack of a buzzing horsefly. The chief occasionally lifted a beefy hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Jack was invisible again, no longer the center of attention, but also far too visible. So he retreated into himself, scratching the little dragon’s chin.
It was almost like one of the Guardians meetings. At least during those, Jack could choose not to speak. Just let the oversized rabbit and North rattle on, and maybe sneak a jibe in to lighten the mood. For spirits dedicated to enriching the lives of children, they were a bunch of bummers.
The last time he saw Sandy, his wide face was creased with worry and uncertainty.
Jack told him, I’ll be back in a jiffy .
The hall fell quiet. The chief placed both hands on the table, leaning into it. Jack gnawed on his lower lip, and shifted in his seat, disturbing the dragon. It chirped at him, shooting him a bug-eyed look. The horn on its snout was chipped at the point. The Nightmare boy seemed tired. And annoyed. His scrunched up brow and hard frown was comically misplaced on his gangly frame, in contrast with the threatening statures of the other men. The boy leaned toward the chief, then, and muttered something. His voice was softer, with a thin, pleading edge to the end of his words.
The chief sighed, turned his head to regard him. His gaze was hard, unyielding, and the boy matched it.
Jack held his breath.
The chief gave a brusk nod. His fists clenched and unclenched. His eyes were dangerous as he faced Jack. He knew what they meant. He saw them enough from North, albeit not to this intensity, when the old man considered just how far down he should write Jack’s name on the Naughty List.
Don’t cause any trouble .
Jack was fucked.
He had white hair. The stranger. Hiccup had only ever seen hair that white on old folks, on Gothi, and not many warriors got old enough to have a full beard of grey hairs in the Barbaric Archipelago. It was the first thing about the stranger he noticed, which was lucky, as it might as well have saved the boy’s life.
Toothless knew something was wrong before he did, alert and concerned in a moment — how he could detect the stranger’s scent through the briny ocean air, Hiccup couldn’t fathom. Maybe he heard the boy somehow, his earfins twitching and attuned to the blood pulsing weakly through his veins. Then Hiccup spotted the white speck in the waves.
When they plucked the stranger out of the water his dark clothes were soaked through, so waterlogged and heavy Toothless almost miscalculated his grip and dropped him. They managed to heft him on the front of the saddle, and his skin was terribly cold even after the hooded coat was discarded, and Hiccup’s head felt stuffed and empty all at once, echoing with the possibility that they were bringing home a corpse. If he hadn’t spent so much time goofing off, reluctant to return to Berk so soon, maybe he might have — would he have been too early —
The stranger spasmed, kicking Toothless in the jaw, and Hiccup’s never been strong but he needed to be then and so he was. He turned the stranger onto his stomach over Toothless’s neck, lifting him a bit to relieve the pressure on his lungs as he hacked and vomited saltwater over Toothless’s side. He passed out again but at least he was alive and not kicking anymore so Toothless could resume his breakneck pace home. Hiccup held on and held on and pressed his ear close to the boy’s cold mouth so he could hear him breathe.
The stranger looked better, less dead, sat across from Hiccup in the mead hall. The blood had returned to his face. His hair was dry, dandelion puffy, and shorter in the back. A cowlick stuck out from behind his right ear. The hollows of his cheeks were gaunt and his eye sockets were tucked deep enough under his eyebrows to cast shadows but maybe that wasn’t the near death experience, maybe that’s just how he looked. He hovered close to Gobber’s side — Hiccup was grateful for Gobber’s steadfast presence in all this. Spitelout fumed on his other side, glaring holes in Gobber’s helmet in the direction the stranger was sitting, but the stubborn blacksmith wouldn’t give an inch.
“I don’t like it.” His father’s voice was low, considerate. “Hiccup. The fact that he’s here, alone, with no search parties returning with evidence of a ship…”
“We’ll never get anywhere if we scare him too bad,” Hiccup insisted. “Please, dad. I know he means no harm.”
The edge of Stoick’s mustache twitched. “You know, hm?”
“Call it a gut feeling.”
Stoick fell silent. The hall held its breath.
He nodded, curt, decisive, pinning the stranger with his gaze. Wisely, the stranger looked like he would jump out of his skin if a sheep bleated at him too loudly.
Stoick turned to leave, clapping a hand on Hiccup’s shoulder. He held it for a moment, firm. “Get him to talk,” he said. Hiccup resisted sighing with relief just yet. “Don’t let him wander.”
“Thank you, dad,” Hiccup breathed, because it was always worth saying, because he meant it.
Stoick hummed, and strode out of the hall, yanking a protesting Spitelout with him. Gobber watched them go, stretched, scratched at his back with his spatula. “Could’ve been worse.” He gave Hiccup the eyebrow. “You got him, now, boy?”
“I got him.”
Before departing with Gobber, Gothi reached out with a small gnarled hand and patted the stranger’s cheek. Wide eyed, the stranger jerked back, dislodging the terrible terror on his lap. It chittered and readjusted itself, unwilling to give up its new favorite napping spot. Instead of being offended, Gothi’s eyes softened. She dipped her head to both of them before hobbling off.
Then they were alone. The mead hall had never felt so cavernous.
Hiccup cleared his throat. Made his way over to the stranger’s side of the table. The stranger watched him without watching him, eyeing him approach from his periphery.
“Um,” he pointed weakly to the terrible terror in the stranger’s lap. “She uh. Seems fond of you.”
The stranger stood, gripping the terror under her armpits, her tiny legs scrabbling for purchase. She squawked, indignant. He turned to face Hiccup entirely, chin lifted. Held the terror like he might chuck her at Hiccup if he made any wrong moves. Smart. Well, stupid , to anger even the smallest of dragons, but smart. The stranger was shorter than Hiccup, not by much, and he was struck by the force of the boy’s eye contact, now that he had it.
His eyes were brown. Hiccup knew that. He just hadn’t seen them so clearly before.
Cautious, Hiccup pressed two of his fingers to his own chest. Keep it small. Keep it true. “Hiccup.” He drew his name out. Tapped his chest again. “Hiccup.” He offered a smile.
The stranger didn’t budge. Flicked his eyes from Hiccup’s face to his hand and back again. Squinted at him. Hiccup shifted under the scrutiny, uncomfortable, but never let his smile drop. He didn’t dare. “Hiccup,” he tried again, just in case. “My name is Hiccup.” His voice, as quiet as it was, echoed in the empty mead hall.
The stranger’s mouth opened, closed, opened again, then — “Hiccup.” His voice was raspy, resonant. More baritone than Hiccup expected. He stumbled over the consonants, unsure of how they fit in his mouth.
Hiccup’s hesitant smile transformed into a full-on toothy grin. “Yes! Yes, that’s it, that’s me!” The stranger took a step back, and Hiccup reigned in his twitching arms. No sudden moves, right, right right . “Hiccup,” he repeated, then nodded toward the stranger. “You?”
The stranger’s head turned to the side, and Hiccup ducked his own to follow it, afraid to lose eye contact, afraid to sever whatever understanding they had in that moment. Something like amusement glinted in the stranger’s eye as he renewed his inquisitive squint.
“ Jack .” The stranger shrugged, and the terror grunted at the movement.
Hiccup felt like he won something big. Like he and Toothless beat an obstacle course at record time. He exhaled a laugh, his cheeks smarting from how hard he grinned. “ Jack ,” he attempted, the syllable harsh just behind his teeth. “ Jack .” Again. “Did I do it right?”
The stranger — Jack — regarded Hiccup, and his expression was definitely creased with amusement now, his hold on the terror relaxing, lips twitching like he might match Hiccup’s smile. Hiccup felt giddy. He knew he did it right, he knew it.
He knew he judged Jack right. He was gonna do this right .
Hiccup should have guessed the moment they left the mead hall there would be an ambush. Jack was behind him, thank Odin, the terror toddling along beside, so Hiccup could shield the newcomer with his body as Ruffnut crowded their space, making grabby hands over his shoulder.
“ Gerroff .”
“Quit hoarding the new guy,” Ruffnut huffed, standing on her tippy toes. “We’ve been waiting forever .”
She was yanked back by Astrid, who had her other first curled in Tuffnut’s tunic, keeping him at arm’s length. He could see Snotlout and Fishlegs just over Astrid’s pauldrons, their dragons play fighting on the grass behind them. The whole gang was here. Fantastic. Not threatening in the slightest .
Hiccup braced himself in front of Jack, keeping his stance wide, and began shuffling to the side. He felt Jack hover behind him — good. At least he wasn’t running this time. The first mad dash caused a stampede. “Listen, I need everyone to be cool about this, alright?” Fat chance, but he might as well say it anyway. “You need to give him space. He’s gonna run if you don’t.”
“Not like he can go far,” Snotlout added, crossing his arms. Helpful . “We have our dragons.”
“Not the point, Snotlout.” Hiccup just needed to get to his house. Get Jack bundled up in fur again so he could rest. Maybe the hollowness in Jack’s face was just Jack, but maybe it was exhaustion, and Hiccup didn’t want to risk assuming the difference. The guy nearly drowned .
“ Nooooo wait wait wait, Hiccup, hold on,” Tuffnut whined, twisting free and hopping on one foot until he stumbled to a stop in front of Hiccup. Hiccup halted, and Jack bounced off his back with a grunt. “We have.” Tuffnut waved his sister over. Narrowing her eyes, Astrid let Ruffnut go. “A Welcome to Berk dance.” Ruffnut nodded like her head was gonna pop off and whistled for Barf and Belch, watching interested from the sidelines, to back them up. “For our guests. Because we’re good hosts.”
“The best hosts,” Ruffnut insisted.
“Guys, not the time,” Hiccup said, shaking his head. “Jack is tired, he needs to—”
“ Jack ?” Fishlegs this time. “Is that his name? It’s unlike any name I’ve read of, I doubt it derives from any nearby tribes—”
“Hiccup,” Astrid’s voice pierced through the din. “What did Stoick say?”
“Yeah, dad looked pissed, he told me Stoick was gonna let you handle it which can’t be true — ”
“ A-one, a-two, a-one two three four ,” Tuffnut hummed under his breath, checking behind him to ensure Barf and Belch were swaying to the right rhythm. Ruffnut opened her mouth wide and lifted her hand over her heart. Oh gods .
Hiccup couldn’t be more relieved for Toothless’s timing. He pounced neatly between Hiccup and the rest of the crew, crouching low to allow Hiccup to mount his saddle. Hiccup scratched his earfins as thanks, “ you’re a lifesaver, bud ,” and raised his head. Jack had his gaze locked on Toothless. He wasn’t blinking. Hiccup held out his hand, aware the distraction wouldn’t last for long. “Jack?”
Astrid shouted something. Toothless flapped his wings once so the others couldn’t get close. Jack regarded Hiccup’s hand.
A smile, a real one this time, not a tilt of the lips, lit up the boy’s face. All the shadows lifted from him entirely.
He bypassed Hiccup’s hand, clumsily situating himself behind Hiccup in the saddle. Flying together like last time, but so, so different from last time — Hiccup felt an arm curl around his waist. And thank the gods, it was warm. Dry. Alive.
“Let’s go, bud!”
The boy whooped as they took to the air — and it was from excitement, not fear. Hiccup knew the difference.
They didn’t fly to his house. Not yet. An itchy feeling in Hiccup figured that’s where the others would be expecting him to go, and he loved their earnestness, he really did — but he recognized something in Jack he saw in himself. Jack would run, would fight, would grit his teeth and go until he burned out.
The boy seemed to have no sense of self-preservation, arms spread wide to feel the wind under them, stretching out his fingers as far as they’d reach. His knees bracketed Hiccup’s hips, but only lightly, and Hiccup knew Toothless would catch him if he fell, but it still made him nervous. Maybe he was accustomed to riding dragon-back? Was his hesitation earlier to mount the saddle about Hiccup ?
Toothless crooned, obviously getting an ego about their guest’s excitement. Without warning, he tucked his wings for a moment, Jack latching firmly onto Hiccup with both arms as the both of them floated above the seat as they dived. Toothless transitioned seamlessly into a barrel roll. Jack laughed as the world spun.
“Show off,” Hiccup muttered.
As Toothless righted himself, Jack leaned past Hiccup to pat Toothless’s head, next to his ridge scales, babbling something in his peculiar language. Hiccup could feel the thrum of his voice through his back.
Hiccup couldn’t figure him out. If he had flown dragons before, why did he appear so baffled at Berk’s cohabitation with them? His wariness and fear slipped almost immediately when a Terrible Terror landed herself in his arms, and Hiccup couldn’t imagine the guy being a dragon hunter. He lacked the viciousness, the grim resolve. Was he like Hiccup, the only boy who wouldn’t kill a dragon in his homeland, and was lost in awe at the revelation that change was possible? He certainly was built for the part, if Hiccup was any measure to go by. Was he friends with a dragon of his own? Was he —
Hiccup turned his head to look back at Jack. He was beaming, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His hair was a windswept mess — somehow it looked more natural that way.
Toothless landed on the tip of a thin pine tree, bending its trunk to support his weight. Not too far away was their pond.
“Good flight, Toothless,” Hiccup told him. “Let’s take a rest, shall we?”
They glided down to the pond, and Toothless bounded to his favorite spot, where a ring of earth was singed the most. Hiccup dismounted first. He held a hand out to Jack once more, who didn’t budge. The boy’s brown eyes were fixated on the sky, and he was breathing heavily, the tail end of a chuckle escaping. As he came back to himself, noticing Hiccup’s hand, a resigned veil slipped over his features, the corners of his mouth dropping slightly. Hiccup’s chest cramped up.
His eyes were glazed with the same sadness Toothless had when his tail-fin prototype failed the first few times. Hiccup almost suggested they take off again.
Jack ignored Hiccup’s hand ( try not to think too hard about it ), but slid off Toothless’s saddle ( he did hesitate because of Hiccup, didn’t he? ) and landed gracefully, just as he had done bounding over the roofs of Berk. The kind of reckless gracefulness that one only acquired from confidence. Even when the landing was hard, he never paused to wince, just rallied and kept his pace. The more Hiccup observed his manner, the less he made sense of it.
As soon as the boy’s feet settled on the ground, Toothless was up, curiously circling Jack. His earfins perked up and his pupils expanded to wide ovals. Jack chuckled as Toothless inspected him from a distance, warbling a inquisitive tune. Any wariness the pair harbored for each other seemed to have dissipated in the flight. Something tight in Hiccup’s chest began to unwind.
“How rude of me.” Hiccup rested a hand on Toothless’s neck, and gestured between the two of them. “You haven’t been introduced. Toothless, Jack. Jack—” Toothless huffed, preened. “Toothless.”
Jack smiled. He raised a hand, searching — and Toothless knew the song and dance at this point. He bumped his nose into it, and Jack let out a laugh, rubbing his fingers on Toothless’s snout. He spoke in his own language, voice low, then — “ Toothless ,” he said, eyes flicking to the dragon for confirmation instead of Hiccup. Toothless snorted in recognition.
Yeah. Yeah . Anyone who respects dragons this much was alright as far as Hiccup was concerned.
“So uh,” he began, watching as Jack observed his surroundings. The pool was placid and still, reflecting the clouds crowding the sky. The boy did not move any closer, but stared at the water, idly petting at Toothless’s nose. “This is our spot. Me and Toothless, anyway. Not many people come by here, not even when we started training dragons. I mean, Astrid’s visited a few times, but this is our spot, y’know?” He trailed off, cringing at himself. “But you have no idea what I’m saying. So I don’t know why I’m talking.”
His sarcasm must have been obvious, because Jack turned his head away from the pool to raise an eyebrow at Hiccup. A smirk tugged at one side of his mouth. Hiccup felt a little embarrassed for being caught snarking.
“I mean — I know I don’t make any sense. I wish I could just — ugh .” After taking a moment to gather himself, Hiccup walked with purpose to the satchel attached to Toothless’s saddle, digging out his map. He spread it open on the ground, careful not to snag it on any twigs or stones. The charcoal from their last exploration two days ago was saturated the darkest, the rest already fading from use. Hiccup needed to go back over it all soon. Fix the smudged bits and render the islands he’s confident in the shape of permanently. Jack rested on his knees so peer over Hiccup’s shoulder.
“Right. Um,” he waved his hand over the map. “Any of this…familiar? Maybe?”
Jack stared at him blankly.
“Okay, well…”
On a scrap piece of parchment, Hiccup sketched a house. Slightly triangular, domed roof, simple lines. He motioned to the drawing, then to the map again. “ Þín heim ?”
Jack took a beat. He snatched the parchment with the house from Hiccup with two fingers, then assessed the map, scooching closer to get a better look. Hiccup’s heart rate picked up, they were getting somewhere .
Slowly, Jack stood. Maintaining eye contact with Hiccup, he stepped back. And back. And back. Hiccup shuffled to one knee, wondering if he should follow, but Jack waved a hand to keep him where he was. He settled. Jack took another step backwards. Then, bending at the waist, placed the drawing on the ground.
Hiccup blinked at it, about three Toothless-tail-lengths away from where he was sitting. Jack shrugged, the arms of his ill-fitting tunic falling past his hands. He didn’t smirk, he didn’t squint. His face was open and sincere.
“Oh,” was all Hiccup could think to say. “You’re.” He cleared his throat. Thousands of tiny wings fluttered in his head. They whispered something like possibility . “You’re a long way from home.”
Beyond the map. Farther than Hiccup’s ever flown. Jack was from there . This means – it meant –
He realized he was pacing, unsure of when he got to his feet. “This…this changes everything!” Jack watched him with one eyebrow lifted and a hip cocked to the side. Not teasing, only — observing. Hiccup ran a hair through his hair just to do something with it. His hands kept grasping and flexing, and he wanted to hold something , like maybe his charcoal or Inferno, to expel all this energy somehow. “We have proof – you are proof – that there’s more out there! Outside the Archipelago! There’s so much we don’t know, so much we still need to discover. Jack! ” He stopped in front of the boy. “Jack, you’re the key to all of that!” He gripped Jack’s shoulders, grinning in a way he hoped told Jack things were going to be alright, that Hiccup would help him get home.
Jack flinched. Like he did when Gothi pat his cheek.
He didn’t take Hiccup’s hand, before.
Hiccup snatched his hands back, quick as striking flint. “Sorry.”
Jack shrugged again, his smile a thin line, and slipped past him to the map. Toothless was lying on his ashy bed, head lifted and watching with curiosity. He mrrped at Hiccup when he turned around.
“It’s okay, bud. My bad,” Hiccup assured him.
Jack crouched over the map again. Traced the lines of Hiccup’s drawings lightly with his fingers. Hiccup was still buzzing. He looked down, noticed the drawing of the house under his prosthetic. He picked it up, folded it, stuck it in his gauntlet. Took a deep breath.
Focus . Keep it simple. Keep it true.
He kneeled across from Jack, who lifted his head as he drew near. Grimacing apologetically, Jack raised his hand palm-up to Hiccup, showing off the charcoal staining the pads of his fingers. Hiccup chuckled.
“Who are you,” he asked, only partly to the boy in front of him.
“ Heim ?” Jack answered. Home ?
What. “What?” Hiccup responded, a bit late.
“Hiccup home?” Jack said again, and nodded to the map, and Hiccup understood.
“Yes! Yes, this –” he jabbed an enthusiastic finger at the blob on the map signifying Berk, “ m í n heim . Berk.”
“Berk,” Jack replied, then craned his neck to look around – “Berk?”
“Yes! Yes, that’s right!”
Jack leaned back, gave Toothless a pat on his bicep. “Toothless.” Then, he lifted his arms, flapped him like he was imitating a bird.
“Toothless er m í n dreka ,” Hiccup pronounced his words slowly. “ Dreki .”
“ Dreki .” Dragon .
“Yeah!”
Jack scrambled to his feet, a kind of bubbly lightness to his step, and he was squinting again. His head whipped around, taking in the alcove. He bounded over to the rock ledge, slapping it hard. He was grinning huge, almost like he did while Toothless was flying, and that felt like a win. Proof Hiccup was doing something right. He exclaimed something in his foreign tongue, balancing on one leg. What is this?
“ Steinn ,” Hiccup shouted back.
“Stonn?”
“ Steinn. ”
“ Steinn! ” Satisfied with his pronunciation a second time, Jack pointed to the pond. He made no move toward it. What is that?
“Lǫgr!”
“Lǫgr,” Jack said, thoughtful, like he was learning a secret.
Jack hopped from object to object, dug around in Hiccup’s satchel to pull out his sketchbook and extra prosthetics, scavenged for pine needles and bundles of heather and even a bug or two. Hiccup assisted his search, prompting him to go over each word a couple times until his trilled R’s matched Hiccup’s. This went on until the alcove was awash with orange and pink, fine rays of sunlight peeking from under the dense clouds as it set over the pines. They were standing by the shield Hiccup had accidentally lodged between two boulders and never bothered to remove, even after years, weathered by rain and moss and ivy coiling up the metal rivets.
“ Skjǫldr ,” Hiccup said, tapping the rim.
Jack made a face. “Sk-skold —” he paused to mutter something incomprehensible, and rubbed at the back of his head and yawned. Then he blanched. Like he was surprised such a sound could come out of him.
Hiccup laughed softly into his fist. “You’ve had a long day. We should pack it up, yeah?” He gestured with his head towards Toothless, who at this point was napping flat on his back, mouth open, one hind leg sticking in the air. Jack nodded, sheepish.
Except – he needed to explain – Hiccup chewed at his lip. Shifted his hands to his hips.
“Wait.” Jack regarded him. He didn’t always meet Hiccup’s eyes, he noticed. Either his gaze was directed over his shoulder, or too low, on his chin. “I’m gonna help you. No matter what. Okay? I’m going to help you get home.” He wanted to push the thought into Jack’s head by sheer willpower. “ Heimr ,” he repeated. It was the most important word.
In the sunset, Jack’s stark white hair could almost be a light blond. His brown eyes left Hiccup’s chin, skittered across his face. Hiccup wasn’t sure what expression he was making. He hoped it was enough.
Jack turned to descend the boulders down to Toothless, then tilted his face towards Hiccup. “ Heimr ,” he said. Deeper than usual.
Maybe Jack did understand him. Maybe Hiccup’s conviction alone was enough. Maybe it was only an agreement, it is getting dark and we must go . Hiccup followed Jack down, rubbed at Toothless’s stomach to wake him up. The not knowing ate at him, made his chest constrict. Jack leapt onto the saddle behind him, and despite the bags under his eyes, there was a hunger in the way he looked at the darkening sky. Hiccup wanted to ask him what he was feeling. What he saw.
One day he’ll find the words.
Hiksti . Jack reminded himself. He titled his forehead into the boy’s shoulder so his auburn hair wouldn’t lash at his face. Tǫnnlaus was flying at a leisurely pace, but the wind nonetheless howled. The torchlight of the village sparkled in the distance.
No longer the stranger, the nightmare boy.
Hiksti .