Chapter Text
Stoick the Vast did not consider himself a particularly superstitious man. He honored the gods as any good viking would, but did not live his life in fear of them. He never dreamed they’d meddle directly in his life...until they day that they did.
It was a particularly brutal winter’s night when Valka’s water broke. It was early – far too early – for their child's arrival, but fate had other plans. After rushing his wife back to the warm safety of their home, Stoick set off through the blizzard to track down the village healer who was to be their midwife.
The next few hours passed in a flurry of excitement and expectation. The couple had been dreaming of welcoming their heir for months, and the time had finally arrived to make that dream a reality. Through it all, Stoick never strayed from Valka’s side – offering encouragement as she clutched his hand like a lifeline.
When the babe was finally born, Gothi hesitated, looking oddly unsettled. The room was silent, save for the exhausted breaths of the new mother.
Aren't babes supposed to cry?
“What’s wrong?” Asked Valka fearfully. It wasn’t unusual for premature births to have unhappy endings in Berk, and she knew the odds were against her. “Does our child live?”
Gothi nodded woodenly, reaching for a towel to clean off the infant. Once satisfied he was presentable, she lifted the tiny child up for the new parents to see. The boy was pale and blotchy, with a surprisingly thick shock of auburn hair.
“We have a son,” whispered Stoick, finding himself struck with awe in meeting his new child. He met his wife’s gaze with wet eyes, reading the same sense of wonder in her expression.
Valka reached out expectantly for the child, but Gothi hesitated.
"What?" Stoick asked, growing impatient.
Carefully, the elder shifted her grip on the boy, spinning him so that his parents could see the impossibility of his back. The sight was enough to suck the warmth out of the room, leaving something darker in its place.
Their child was afflicted by something they could never have imagined was possible. Two tiny copper appendages grew from his back, cropping out from between his shoulder blades. Though folded, it didn’t take much imagination to figure out what they were.
The new heir of Berk had wings.
Stoick’s eyes raked over the sight, horror-struck by the realization. The strange limbs were soft and fragile, much like the rest of the infant. They were also distinctly draconic.
There were a few moments of stunned silence before a startled sob escaped Valka. She tore her eyes from the infant, fixing her attention on the healer. With a shaky voice, she demanded answers. Surely the woman had an explanation for this...this...insanity!
Strange birthmarks were not unheard of, but they tended manifest as oddly colored patches of skin – not extra limbs! It was a strange mutation, and something he couldn't have inherited from either parent. So how could their child have been afflicted with reptilian wings?
Gothi did not offer immediate answers. The new parents did their best to be patient, knowing that rushing her would not offer any greater clarity. They were well aware of how lucky they were to have a woman of her wisdom and skill in the tribe – one with the proven ability to interpret the will of the gods. It wasn't a luxury every tribe possessed, and charlatans were often trying to take advantage of the opportunity to try and pass of their 'skills' to chiefs across the archipelago.
They'd learned that while she wasn't always the fastest to shed light on a situation, the wait usually worth it. Gothi was rarely ever wrong. If anyone could solve the mystery of what had gone wrong with their son, it would be her.
The elder considered the newborn with critical eyes, fingers prodding gently at the bright copper scales. At her touch, the boy burst into tears, wails filling the Haddock home.
Stoick’s heart clenched. He was torn between reaching out to comfort his new son and bolting out the door. This…this wasn’t supposed to happen. This was supposed to be a day of joy.
How could this abomination be the heir of Berk?
At that thought, Stoick felt a sense of guilt settle into his gut. He kicked himself mentally, reminded that this boy was his and Valka’s own. He was not responsible for his strange mutation and it would be unjust to punish the babe for it.
“Could…” He started, clearing his throat when he heard how weak his voice had gotten. “Could they be removed?”
Perhaps no one ever need know, including the boy. If there were scars from the procedure, they could come up with a story to dispel unwanted curiosity.
Gothi patted the infant’s cheek, paying his cries no mind as she tilted his head from side to side. She set him down on a blanket, rolling him onto his side. Her wizened fingers probed at the area between his wings methodically. When her fingers grazed the base of one, in the area where skin and scale intermixed, the wing twitched and extended slightly.
By Thor, they were real.
Stoick felt his dread deepen as it became clear that the limbs were truly a living part of his son. He’d heard stories of vikings born with extra toes or fingers, but this? This was madness.
Gothi hummed to herself, leaving the family for a moment to go retrieve the notebook she often carried with her. The woman had been rendered mute by an accident in her childhood, so she communicated her thoughts to the chief and chieftess through runes.
The boy was born too early, and is dangerously weak. She had written. It would be unwise to attempt an amputation now. If attempted, I fear he would not survive the recovery.
“So, we’ll make him strong! If we nurse him to–ouch!” Stoick rubbed the sore spot on his wrist, still stinging from where Gothi’s notebook had collided with it.
I don’t need to tell you that this should be impossible. When such things occur, it’s often the work of the gods, she pointed to her words, underlining them for good measure. Interfering with their will could have serious consequences for all of Berk.
The child cried out again, more desperately than before. Stoick clenched his jaw, trying not to look at the distressed boy.
You need to make a decision: can you accept your son, or do you condemn him? He will not survive the night if you do not nurse him soon.
The thought is sobering, and Stoick has to reel in his racing thoughts. What they do next will define their futures, and the future of Berk itself.
Stoick can only see one way forward.
“Val…” Stoick met his wife’s eyes, seeing the same hopelessness he was feeling reflected in her gaze. Despite the strange circumstances, this was their child. They couldn’t let him die.
“Give him to me,” she rasped, reaching out with shaking hands.
The boy is only a few days old when Gothi pronounces that he will survive. He’s proven himself to be quite the fighter, despite his frailty.
Stoick names him Hiccup, after one of his own ancestors. It’s a fitting name for a tiny face, and he knows it’s the right fit when Valka beams at the suggestion.
As far as Berk is concerned, their small family has requested a bit of privacy after the difficult birth. The tribe has been told that the babe was born too early and far too small – a dangerous fate that needs no further explanation. A bit of fear hangs over the village as they wait for news.
Stoick hadn’t meant to stir up distress, but they’d needed some time alone to wrap their minds around the situation they’d found themselves in. They’d briefly entertained the thought of breaking the news to the village…but there were too many superstitious vikings who would see their son’s oddness as a threat. They would not take the risk.
Instead, they vowed that the wings would remain a closely guarded secret. They’d have to find a way to hide the truth from everyone, which would be no easy feat.
Gothi had been quick to support their plan, nodding her approval. She agreed that it was for the boy’s own good, at least at this stage in his life when he was unable to defend himself from those that wished him harm.
The elder made many visits to the Haddock home in those days. She’d made several offerings to the gods, trying to get clarity on the situation and what it meant for the young heir. She received only one sign in reply: a confirmation that they were behind the wings. From that point on, they fell silent, failing to divulge why they had given such a burden to Berk’s youngest resident.
It was puzzling to her, and infuriating to Stoick. How dare the gods fall silent on this?
Hiccup was a sweet child – remarkably quiet and calmer than most. He was prone to occasional fits of giggles and always generous with his smiles. It didn’t take long for his parents to become completely enamored with him. Were it not for the wings on his back, they would have considered him the perfect child.
The first obstacle they faced was finding a way to make the boy presentable to the village. They could only stall for so long, and putting it off would only create suspicions. Luckily, most babes were swaddled in the early months, so with the right technique, the wings could be tucked out of sight.
The problem they faced was just how sensitive those wings proved to be – if bound even slightly too tightly, the boy would instantly dissolve into tears.
Eventually, the new parents were able to introduce their child to the village. Some voiced their worries about his small stature, but most were simply relieved that their heir would survive.
A tentative peace settled over the Haddock home, broken only by the occasional dragon raid.
Things continued to follow the rhythm of life in Berk for months…until one raid changed everything. In a single night, their small family was fractured forever.
Stoick was left to care for the boy on his own.
Hiccup was three years old when Stoick began to bind his wings.
As he’d grown, he’d become prone to fidgeting–both with his hands and his wings. The tiny appendages could easily hide beneath his tunic, but the constant twitching was impossible to ignore. It was an unsettling experience for Stoick to witness, seeing the unnatural movement beneath the fabric as a constant reminder that his son was something not quite human.
As Hiccup’s curiosity continued to escalate, so did Stoick’s fears. The boy was too inquisitive for his own good and had a knack for getting into things that he shouldn't. From the moment he’d been able to crawl, it was evident that Stoick would need to keep a close eye on him. When the boy began to walk…the man found his first grey hair.
At night, the possibilities kept him awake. If Hiccup wandered out of their home... If he was seen...
Thor above.
Stoick was tortured by the thought.
Much like the rest of his boy’s frame, the wings remained small – a small mercy in an otherwise stressful situation. They were no longer quite as fragile as they’d been in his infancy, nor as sensitive. To his surprise, they shed – a lot more than Stoick would have imagined. He always seemed to be finding another one, scattered throughout their home. Unsure of what to do with the displaced scales, Stoick had taken to collecting them in a basket he kept tucked away in his room. He couldn't risk throwing them out, lest he give the tribe reason to be on the lookout for a copper dragon.
When tougher scales grow in the place of the ones Hiccup lost, Stoick wonders if the situation was similar to teeth – that one had to lose the set from infancy. The fresh scales were still a far cry from the armor-plated limbs of the adult dragons that Berk fought, but they were strong enough to withstand the binding.
It had taken a few tries to find a way to situate the wings that didn’t bother Hiccup. Once perfected, Stoick began to bind Hiccup’s wings for a few hours at a time, determined to train his son to get used to the feeling.
He’s careful to increase the time in small increments, knowing that Hiccup despises the practice. It’s a tedious process and his son complains each time, but Stoick does not back down. There's too much at stake. If his boy is ever to have an sort of life outside the walls of their home, he’ll need to learn to hide in plain sight.
On Hiccup’s fourth birthday, Stoick makes it official. He informs his son that during the day, his wings must always be carefully bound and hidden. It’s a solemn moment, the first time he sets the wings after that declaration. His son is visibly upset, but he doesn’t speak.
When it’s over, Stoick has to extract a promise from his son, swearing him to secrecy.
Hiccup, bless his soul, is thrilled by the prospect of having a secret – enough to temporarily eclipse his hurt. He’s eager to assure his father that he won’t say anything, and that joy twists something in Stoick’s heart.
The boy is simply too kind for this fate.
Hiccup is five years old when he learns that he’s an oddity.
It starts off with an innocent question: he wants to know what color his father’s wings are, and if he’ll unbind them and show Hiccup. The boy wants to know if they match.
It is only then that he learns that the truth.
No other viking has wings.
At first he can't believe it. Surely that can't be true?
When he voices this objection aloud, the stress and fear in his father's eyes are enough to convince him of the harsh reality. Stoick is careful with his words, revealing that Hiccup could face real danger if the secret is ever discovered. It's the reason his father insists his wings are bound–an act of protection.
The truth shocks Hiccup to his core. He'd assumed that all the secrecy was a just game devised by his father, intended to make the unpleasant experience more fun.
Suddenly, keeping the secret isn’t so thrilling anymore. It's more serious. Suddenly, his copper wings weigh heavier upon him.
He doesn’t like the prospect of being different, even if he can’t explain why. It makes him feel itchy, like there’s something wrong with him.
He resolves to never complain about the binding again.
Hiccup is seven years old when he’s chastised for not taking care of himself.
At first, he isn’t sure why he’s in trouble. A quick look to his father reveals that the man is just as baffled by Gothi’s sudden wrath. The two squint at her messy runes, trying to decipher the scratchy writing.
Hiccup’s gotten used to the elder's presence in their home – she’s the only visitor they ever have, and it doesn’t take much thought to figure out why. She routinely checks in on Hiccup’s health – covering off on the typical physical requirements: his height, vision and hearing are all logged neatly in her notes. She tests his strength, an extra assessment deemed necessary by his premature birth.
It’s when she tests his wings that Hiccup begins to fidget.
Her cold fingers poke and prod at his wings, examining every inch of the scaly limbs like she’s looking for some hidden answer in the folds. He’s not used to having anyone touch them like that – he knows by now how to position the wings correctly for the daily binding. It’s rare for his father’s fingers to graze them these days.
After stretching his left wing out fully, she hums low in disapproval. She repeats the motion with the other wing, tapping them to indicate that he should leave them extended.
Almost immediately, he can feel the strain on his back. The limbs are heavy with disuse, and the effort of keeping them stretched wide burns through the length of his wings.
He grunts, leaning forward in an attempt to counterbalance the discomfort.
Gothi smacks him lightly, cold fingers probing the muscles of his back, right between the base of the wings.
“What is it?” Stoick asks, concerned for his son’s wellbeing.
Gothi softly presses on his wings, giving her approval for him to fold them once more. He’s quick to oblige her request, relieved when comfort returns.
It takes a few minutes for Gothi to scratch out her diagnosis, and the room is near silent as the Haddock men wait.
It turns out that neglecting his wings has had consequences. His muscles are weak, and are beginning to waste away in both the limbs themselves and where they connect in his back. If he doesn’t correct it soon, he risks permanent damage. Her solution? He needs to exercise regularly.
Stoick is flabbergasted, and voices his confusion. “Exercise? He’s a child!”
Hiccup feels his eyebrows shoot up at the implication. In Berk, exercise typically equates to weapons training or dragon training. It's not something that the youngest villagers are invited to participate in until the reach the age of ten. Does Gothi expect him to wield a blade this early?
He hopes not. Secretly, he's been grateful to be excused up until this point. With all his father's talk about the glory of Berk's warriors, he's gotten the distinct impression that the chief will expect a lot from him when he begins his training. Considering his circumstances, he worries he won't be able to measure up to those expectations.
A few scratches later, he has clarification – he has to exercise his wings.
It makes more sense, but poses a new problem. He has no idea what that entails.
“Very well,” agrees Stoick, expression contemplative. “I suppose a muscle is a muscle, Hiccup. We’ll get you into shape in no time.”
“Great…” He says, with no enthusiasm.
Hiccup is nine years old when the binding system starts to cause real discomfort.
His luck has run out. While the wings remained small for his early years, his first real growth spurt ruins it all. The scaled limbs grow disproportionately larger than the rest of him, creating an awkward imbalance in the way he carries himself. Suddenly, they no longer lie flat against his back – he has to fold them tightly atop one another to maintain the illusion.
It hurts.
He doesn’t say a word about it, his own fear keeping him silent. He’s old enough to understand the importance of their ritual and he doesn’t want to consider the possibility that it could fail. The system has worked for so long…what happens when he can no longer hide the truth of what he is? Will he have to leave his father? Leave Berk?
Stoick doesn’t voice concerns either, but it’s clear that he’s noticed. The daily routine has gotten longer, and it takes the man much more time and concentration to mask the larger limbs. It’s a daily puzzle, and some days Hiccup fears it looks like a hump on his back.
The worst of the discomfort comes later, as the day stretches on: his limbs start to go numb after hours of disuse. Many days he has to grit his teeth to hide his pain, but he survives because he must.
Hiccup’s grown to look forward to his return home each night, making a habit of turning in as early as he can without raising suspicion. It doesn’t do much to inspire friendship with his peers, but he buries those thoughts in favor of his sanity. It’s a welcome relief when his father finally frees his wings, and he relishes in the feeling of stretching them out by the warmth of the fireplace.
Unbound, they no longer fit comfortably beneath his tunic. He has to cut long slits in the back of a few tunics, allowing enough space for the wings to slip through the fabric. It takes a while to get used to, having them on clear display like that – even if Stoick and Gothi are the only ones who ever see. When he catches their eyes lingering, he wonders what they must think of him now.
Gothi’s instance on exercise had proven wise – his wings have grown strong and steady with regular use, lean muscle evident to the touch. It’s forced him to improve his dexterity and control, and he can maneuver them as fully and effortlessly as his arms and legs. They finally feel like a real part of him.
Though the inner scales have maintained their copper shade, the outer scales begin to grow in a darker bronze with time. These scales are much tougher, more akin to those he’s found scattered about after dragon raids. Armored.
He’s not sure what to think of that discovery.
Hiccup is ten years old when Stoick attains a new fear.
He’s deep into the horrors of another dragon raid when his hammer strikes true, landing a mighty blow upon a Nightmare’s wing. The results are instantaneous – the dragon howls in agony, collapsing like a puppet cut from its strings.
Stoick observes the injury he’s inflicted on the beast, noting the way the fractured appendage bends in unnatural angles. For a moment, his tired mind substitutes in a different wing – replacing the firey red scales with copper. He feels sick to his stomach. Suddenly in his mind’s eye, it’s his son falling before him, crying out in pain.
He can’t bear to look at the injury any more.
A worrisome thought occurs to him then: he hasn't the faintest idea what he'd do if such a thing were to happen to his son. There’s no healer on Berk – or anywhere in the archipelago, as far as he knows – with knowledge of treating wings, making the possibility of an injury all the more terrifying. If his son felt this pain, he’d be helpless.
Stoick won’t stand for it.
With another, more carefully controlled swing, he knocks the dragon out. It cuts off the creature’s cries, much to his relief. With grim determination, the chief abandons the fight in order to drag the unconscious body up the path towards Gothi’s home.
When the elder opens her door, her eyes go round as saucers. She’s seen her fair share of strange things in Berk, but never before has a dragon been brought to her doorstep. As a healer, she’s never needed to get close to the beasts…able to avoid the raids until the aftermath, when she’s needed to help with injuries.
“It’s alive,” the chief warns her, “you’ll need to keep it sedated with your strongest herbs.”
Gothi blinks at him, nodding slowly. It should be easy enough, though she fears she’ll burn through her stores quickly with a dragon of that size. She squints at the man, silently urging him to explain.
“I shattered its wing,” he says, looking troubled. “I need you to learn what you can – how to set it, how to mend it. I want to be prepared, should anything like this ever happen with–”
He doesn’t finish, unable to voice the fear without choking on his own anxiety. He doesn’t have to – Gothi understands. The elder looks troubled by the task, but she dips her head in a respectful nod.
Stoick wonders if he’s done the right thing. He’s numb as he throws himself back into the ongoing fight, troubled by the implications that the healer must use a dragon to better understand his son. It’s not a connection he likes to dwell on for long.
A week later, Gothi drops by his home. She assures him that she has learned how to properly set the wing, and is confident that the complex splint she’s developed will allow the bones to mend properly. She wants to observe the Nightmare throughout his recovery to be certain, and requests the dragon be added to the arena to throw off suspicion.
Stoick agrees in an instant, happy to give her whatever she needs to best help Hiccup.
Stoick’s relief buoys him the rest of the day.
Hiccup is eleven years old when Stoick comes to a hard decision.
He’s never quite given up hope that one day, his son could have a normal life. Amputation had been out of the question when the boy was young and frail, but now? Hiccup had grown older and stronger – Stoick was certain he could survive the ordeal.
It wouldn’t be easy, but it would ensure his son had a safer place amongst the tribe for the rest of his days. There would be no more secrecy weighing their family down, nor any fear of the slightest slip-up. Most importantly, it would mean his boy was protected…even after Stoick passed from this world.
Everything changes when he pops in on Gobber one day, unannounced.
His oldest friend is curled in on himself, weeping silently in the deepest confines of the forge. His remaining hand shakes, clutching at the exposed stump of his other arm.
Phantom pain. The chief is familiar with the concept in theory, but he’s never seen the reality of it up close. It looks excruciating.
Gobber’s attention is so focused on the pain, he does not notice the chief’s presence. His dearest friend thrashes wildly, fumbling to remove his peg leg. Stoick feels like he’s intruding on something he wasn’t meant to see, but he’s unwilling to leave his friend in this state.
He greets the man quietly, kneeling to help remove the prosthetic. He hopes his presence is of some comfort, but it takes a long time before the tension starts to bleed out of Gobber.
The whole thing grates on something deep within Stoick, haunting his thoughts for weeks after the episode. Eventually it eats away at him enough that he has to bring it up, waiting for an opportunity to catch the blacksmith in private.
With some careful prodding, he’s able to coax Gobber into talking about what he saw that day. He’s taken aback to learn that such an experience is not unusual for the blacksmith – that it happens often enough that Gobber expects it. It seems his friend has mastered the art of hiding his pain from the public, but it’s all a carefully maintained facade.
There’s no cure–no remedy. It’s become a fixture of Gobber’s life, expected to reoccur periodically for the end of his days.
Stoick’s stomach feels like lava when the conversation ends. He thinks deeply on Gobber’s words, feeling like a fool for the assumptions he’s made over the years.
He does not want that life for his son. The wings, peculiar as they may be, are a part of his son, just like any other limb. He does not want their loss to saddle his son with lasting pain.
It’s hard to smother that flicker of hope that he’s held onto for years. Doing so feels too absolute, as if he’s now failing his son by abandoning the chance at a normal life. It bothers him enough that he nearly talks himself out of the decision.
His resolve hardens when he notes how tense Gobber’s jaw gets the next time it rains.
The wings will stay.
Hiccup is thirteen when he reaches a new level of self consciousness.
He’s had another growth spurt, though he remains as reedy and lanky as ever. His wings continue to develop at a disproportionate rate, making him feel both awkward and out of sync.
His sleep schedule takes an unfortunate hit as he finds that he now has to exercise them twice as hard to maintain his back strength. WIth the current size of his wingspan...it's no longer feasible within the walls of their home. He's forced to trek out into the woods behind their home each night, under the safe cover of darkness. He's never much liked the dark, but he eventually adapts.
Still, it’s a cold and unpleasant experience. If not for his fear of risking Gothi's wrath again, he's not sure he would be able to stick to it. Yet, the elder has proven herself more intimidating than the fiercest warriors of Berk. More so, she seems to have an uncanny way of reading him that sets his teeth on edge. He's not sure how, but he suspects if he skips even one night – she'd know.
Everything changes the night his wings lift him a few feet off the ground.
He hadn’t been doing anything out of the ordinary, just absentmindedly pumping them up and down to shake off the day’s stiffness. It was something he’d done a thousand times before…yet this time, the action took him off the ground. In an instant, it changed everything.
Hiccup was struck by the knowledge that he could fly.
He’d nearly fainted at the realization, knees feeling weak and shaky. He lowered himself to the ground, nearly collapsing in the grass as he tried to steady himself.
It had always been a possibility – he knew that, of course he did– but until that very moment there’d never been any sign it would actually happen.
Having wings was one thing, but flying? Gods, what would his father say if he knew?
This...this felt like a line drawn in the sand. One that he shouldn’t cross.
Vikings do not fly.
For what felt like hours, Hiccup sat out in the chilled grass. He wrapped his arms around his knees, squeezing them tightly against his chest. His breathing is erratic, and it takes a long while to get it back under control. His thoughts continue to spiral and he wrestles with the new knowledge.
It's a terrifying ordeal, and in the quiet stillness of that night he makes a promise to himself: he will not allow himself to fly. If he ensures that it never happens again, maybe he can even convince himself that it was a fluke.
Maybe.
Probably not.
Still...Stoick doesn’t ever need to know.
Hiccup is fourteen when he starts playing a dangerous game.
He’s been planning it for weeks before he gets up the courage to follow through on his plan. He’s relieved his voice doesn’t shake when he suggests to his father that he take over the responsibility of binding and unbinding his wings each day. He argues that he’s old enough to manage the task himself, and when Stoick presses…he claims it’s more comfortable when he does it himself.
It’s a low blow, making his father self conscious of his efforts to help – but it’s effective.
Stoick relents.
That next morning, Hiccup binds his wings far tighter than Stoick ever did, and gods – it’s horrible. He’s crushed them together tightly enough that he can actually feel his heartbeat thudding away in his wings.
It’s a relief when they finally go numb that afternoon. He’s able to relax a little, allowing him to focus on his training. He’s not any good with sparring, but the more he sees Gobber handle weapons, the more fascinated he becomes with the prospect of smithing. He makes a mental note to ask his father about setting up an apprenticeship.
That night, he does not free his wings. As soon as he crosses the threshold into his house, he excuses himself to his room for the night. The faint tingling against his back is unpleasant, but he distracts himself by sketching until he’s too tired to keep his eyes open.
He treats it like a test of will, not giving in no matter how much his body aches. The ropes chafe roughly against his scales, but the recurrent burn reminds him why he’s doing it. He is a viking and vikings don’t have wings.
Stoick notices something is wrong about a week into the new routine. He hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that something is amiss, especially with the stiff way that his son has been carrying himself. He puzzled over it a few nights, but Hiccup never gave him a chance to ask – disappearing into his room without any conversation.
He tells himself that it's normal. The boy's a teenager – of course he wouldn’t want to spend all his time with his father. It stings, but he tries to respect the boy's wishes.
Still…he can’t help but notice how slim Hiccup remains. He’d never filled out the way the rest of his peers had, and Stoick worries that he doesn’t eat enough. From what he’s heard, Hiccup has not been grabbing dinner in the town hall, so he feels it’s fair to intrude in Hiccup’s space for a moment…just to deliver a plate of food.
He’s shocked by what he discovers.
Hiccup’s tunic has been thrown haphazardly over a chair, and his back faces the door. The fabric bindings holding his wings in place are filthy, like they haven’t been washed in days. A few burgundy stains are scattered throughout – Stoick has seen enough bandages to recognize what the color means.
“Son, what is the meaning of this?”
Hiccup sputters, fumbling with excuses as turns to face his father. He hunches in on himself under Stoick’s searching gaze, looking guiltier and guiltier by the second.
Stoick wastes no time with the flimsy excuses, seeing straight through them. His son has never been a great liar, and it’s obvious when he’s hiding something. Instead, he reaches out and grasps Hiccup’s shoulder, spinning him back around.
Wordlessly, he gets to work at removing the bindings. They’re knotted and coiled in a disastrous mess, and it takes long enough that he eventually opts to retrieve the knife from his belt to cut them away. What he finds underneath breaks his heart.
Deep rope burns cut across Hiccup’s wings, shearing off patches of scales. Blood has dried in those ridges and cakes into the wounds, painting a gruesome picture.
Stoick’s finger grazes a rope burn, and Hiccup flinches like he’s been kicked. Stoick tries to be gentle as he stretches out the wings, surveying the extent of the damage. It’s not good, and his son spasms under the pain.
“How could you do this to yourself?” Questions Stoick, anger rising in his tone. He’d trusted his son with this responsibility, only for the boy to do this? He doesn’t give Hiccup time to respond. “This will never happen again, is that clear? I will take over again, until I know I can trust you to be responsible.”
“Dad–”
“You’re not to leave this house until those wounds have healed.” Stoick orders, fire in his eyes. “I’ll tell the tribe you’ve taken ill. You will pause your training until every last scale grows back.”
“You can’t–”
“The only exception will be to complete your exercises for Gothi, but I will accompany you and supervise.”
Hiccup scowls, “Are you even listening–”
“No,” replied Stoick with finality. “You’ve shown me that I cannot trust you. Until you can prove otherwise, you do not get a say.”
The words do the trick. Hiccup deflates, fight draining from him.
“I’d better get Gothi to come attend to these wounds. You’ll be lucky if nothing is infected.”
It’s only later, when Hiccup’s wounds are freshly dressed and the Haddocks are alone once more, that Hiccup breaks down and cries. He confesses the secret that inspired his actions, fearful as he recounts his brief time in the air.
Stoick’s brain flatlines.
He schools his face into something neutral, but unease sinks deep into his bones. He reaches out to comfort his son, holding him and murmuring assurances and comforts.
All the while, he worries for Hiccup’s future. Once again, he wonders why the gods would be so cruel to give his son this fate.
Hiccup is fifteen when Stoick rethinks their trusty routine.
To his credit, Hiccup hasn’t relapsed – instead he’s learned to live with his father’s rules. It’s taken time and a lot of uncomfortable discussions, but he’s grown to accept his scaled limbs once more. He’s even pushed past his aversion to flight, working it into his nightly exercise. He even likes it – but he keeps that part to himself, embarrassed to admit to the joy the open sky provides.
Stoick’s nights are often full of settling petty disputes. It’s a draining process, but one that’s expected of every chief. He tries to take it in stride, but every now and then his patience is tested. After one such night, he is looking forward to kicking his feet up and getting some well-deserved rest.
What he finds inside his home dispels such fantasies.
Hiccup crouches on his knees near the fire, eyes bright and shining with unshed tears. His wings are spread as wide as they can be in the limited space, and the right one is trembling.
Muscle spasms.
It’s an increasingly familiar sight – a side effect of keeping the limbs bound for such long stretches – but one he’ll never get used to seeing. They’ve been growing steadily worse and worse as Hiccup’s wingspan continues to grow, which in turn has forced the Haddocks to use tighter compression to keep them hidden.
Wings, they’ve learned the hard way, are not meant for such treatment. No matter how strong the muscles become or how tough the scales grow in…they remain incredibly sensitive.
Hiccup cannot live like this forever. Stoick won’t let him live like this forever.
They need a new solution – fast.
After some trial and error and a lot of brainstorming, Hiccup comes up with a promising idea. It’s not perfect, but it’s the first suggestion that ticks all the necessary boxes: comfort for Hiccup, full coverage of his wings, and adaptability for future growth.
Stoick silently wishes they would stop growing, but he supposes that won’t happen until the rest of Hiccup is done growing.
They fashion a long fur cloak for Hiccup with a hidden, hollow compartment in the middle. He’s able to slip his wings inside and secure the fabric with a discrete series of buttons which then clip into the back of his tunic. The top of the cloak rests upon a set of raised pauldrons, built high enough to accommodate the rounded tips of Hiccup’s wings.
It’s more formal than most Berkians dress, but Hiccup is the heir of Berk. Incorporating more traditional wear into his look can be passed off as embracing his place amongst the tribe. Stoick encourages these rumors whenever he can, even going so far as to joke that he wanted his son to match his own ensemble.
Within a week, Stoick can see a difference in his son and he is able to breathe easier.
Hiccup is sixteen years old when he catches the eye of Astrid Hofferson.
She’s always captivated his attention, but he never dared to hope she’d feel the same way. They were civil towards each other, but they merely coexisted. He wasn’t foolish enough to think they were friends.
A broken axe and a trip to the forge are the catalyst that moves them past small talk. Hiccup is manning the shop while Gobber takes a day off, expecting a tediously slow day of minor repairs. He’s proven himself a capable apprentice, but most Berkians would rather have the master oversee their projects until he’s fully trained.
He’s stunned when Astrid barges in, insisting that her axe needs to be repaired that day.
Hiccup’s eager to help, practically jumping to take the broken weapon off her hands. It takes a moment of surveying the damage before his mind starts racing, calculating the best solution.
He expects Astrid to leave while he works, but she surprises him by taking a seat instead. More unnervingly, she watches him. He finds himself flushing under her gaze, but tries to push it to the back of his mind as he concentrates on the task at hand.
It works, and he nearly forgets she’s there until she speaks. At first, her questions are all about the work he’s doing. She wants to know what he has planned for her prized weapon, what each of the different tools do, and how many axes he’s repaired.
He’s grateful that Gobber has entrusted him with so much work over the years, able to answer honestly with his experiences. He tells a few stories about those repairs, though they aren’t the most interesting to recount. Still, he feels a sense of pride in those accomplishments – and she had asked, after all.
Before long, their chatter dissolves into a more casual conversation. Hiccup is surprised by how easy it comes, connecting with Astrid. Time passes in the blink of an eye, and he’s almost disappointed when he hands over the completed project. Impressive, considering he’d taken twice as long to shine it as was necessary.
Astrid hesitates on the doorway, looking back at him strangely. She hovers for a moment like she’s about to speak, then disappears out the door.
Hiccup doesn’t dwell on it long, nearly forgetting about it by the time dinner rolls around. At his father’s insistence, he’s making an effort to eat in the hall a few times a week, so he cleans up the shop for the night.
He sits alone, tucked in the comfort of his favorite shadowy corner. It’s peaceful – he’s grown to appreciate the solitude. When he’s alone, he doesn’t have to be as on guard. He doesn’t have to concentrate on keeping his wings perfectly still.
Astrid nearly breaks him when she drops down beside him, greeting him like it’s an everyday occurance. His heart stutters, but he doesn’t dare ask what prompted her to join him.
He doesn’t want to risk driving her away.
Hiccup is seventeen when his father starts to train him for the impending chiefdom.
Though there are many years before he’ll be expected to take up the mantle, it is a lot to learn and Stoick is insistent they begin to chip away at it. At first, it’s fun – Hiccup likes learning about the history of his tribe and the Haddock line’s place within that story.
But then they get into the laws and regulations of Berk. Hiccup has never found anything more dull than the documents he’s forced to study. He’ll be expected to keep the peace within the tribe, so he knows it’s important to have a solid grasp on these things, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.
Sometimes he wishes he didn’t have the responsibility on his shoulders. If he’d been born to any other family, he could’ve simply taken over the forge one day…but he doesn’t have that luxury. He has a duty to fulfill.
Hiccup learns the expectations for a chief in performing a slew of ceremonies – weddings, funerals and the like. He learns the ins and outs of the rituals, until his father is confident he could perform them without prompting.
It’s…a lot to wrap his head around.
Astrid remains his rock throughout it – offering a sympathetic ear when he needs it. She always seems to know the right things to say and sometimes, he feels like she might know him better than he knows himself.
Their friendship has slowly blossomed into something more. He's not fully sure what it means, but he feels a strange new sense of jitteriness whenever he meets her eyes.
Hiccup is eighteen years old when Astrid tells him she loves him.
The confession rocks his world on its very axis, throwing off his entire sense of gravity. Looking into her earnest blue eyes, he realizes that she means it. There’s an undeniable depth to the emotion, and he can’t believe she feels that way about him.
He’s loved her for years, but he never thought it would be returned.
It warms him from the inside out, leaving him nearly giddy. He knows he has a big, goofy smile on his face when he regards her, but she matches it with one of her own.
“I love you too,” he chokes out, still struck by the revelation.
It’s not until she’s kissing him, fingers tangled deep in his hair, that guilt begins to set in. How can she love him, if she doesn’t know everything about him? How can they hope to have a future together, if he’s hiding such a massive secret from her?
It eats away at him, but he’s careful to keep his warring emotions in check until they part for the night. He doesn’t want to hide from her…but isn’t that what he’s been doing, all his life? He’s been lying to her since they met.
Hiccup treks home, boots feeling like lead.
It’s not fair to Astrid, he knows. She’s fallen in love with the version of himself that he allows the tribe to see…but it’s not the whole picture. He’s deceived her – and he hates himself for it.
Stoick has been Hiccup’s greatest confidant over the years, and he instantly recognizes the look of distress on his son’s face. He herds the boy over to the fire, all but maneuvering him into a seat. He tries not to push, but he knows Hiccup can feel his growing curiosity.
Before long, the words spill from Hiccup’s lips, almost too fast to decipher. There’s a desperateness to the explanation that strikes Stoick – though unsaid, his son is rattled by the confession because he loves her, too. The chief remembers what it felt like, to be so deeply in love.
He’d give his own soul to have Valka back.
“Tell her the truth,” urges Stoick, much to his son’s surprise. “Swear her to secrecy, but tell her the truth. If she really loves you as she says, she won’t tell a soul. Even if she’s angry or chooses not to pursue anything more with you, it’s worth it. This way, at least you have a chance.”
Hiccup sucks in a sharp breath, pondering the words. It’s the first time he’s had his father’s permission to spill the truth, and he’s not sure how to feel about it. Part of him had hoped his father would forbid him from telling her, to take away the internal struggle he was facing…but he knows Stoick’s reasons come from the heart.
His insides swirl with a tidal wave of emotion, but he knows it’s the right thing to do. Revealing the truth of what he is could cost him everything…but he trusts Astrid to keep the secret, even if she decides to break his heart.
“I’ll tell her.”