Chapter Text
When Hiccup was three years old, he heard whispers. But not human ones.
At his age, he was too young to differentiate human sounds from draconic ones, and so he treated them the same. Sometimes he’d giggle at the strange words being said, or babble along with sounds that sounded unhuman. People who observed him were disturbed by this behaviour, but Hiccup was but a child, children being odd at times was hardly something to bat an eye at.
So they left the mumbling child be, chittering and warbling away in his father’s arms, giggling at words that no one else could hear.
When the boy was four years old, it became apparent that Hiccup wouldn’t give up the strange sounds that came out of his mouth. Whenever Stoick would ask the small child a question, obviously expecting a human reply, Hiccup would reply in the same trills and chirps, and would become increasingly agitated, when Stoick would repeat his question again, hoping for a reply that he could actually understand.
He had even gone out of his way to ask Gobber, as to what was wrong with the boy, but the other man hadn’t a clue. Sure, often children made weird sounds, but with the tone and insistence in which Hiccup spoke, it was as if he were speaking in an actual language rather than simple baby talk. But the pair dismissed that thought, everyone on Berk spoke the same language, so where on earth would the four year old pick up another from?
But the strangest thing of all, was what happened during the boy’s ninth dragon raid, since his fourth birthday. Ever since Valka’s death, the raid’s haven’t loosened up a bit. Time and time again, Stoick found himself battling the beasts of the same race that took his wife, and with this resentment and rage, he fought with a resolved will and a heavy fist.
During these dragon raids, there was no one to watch Hiccup, who would probably run around and get himself hurt somewhere if unsupervised, so Gobber had volunteered (read: ordered by Stoick) to watch over the young lad. At this age, the child was full of energy, and loathed staying put during raids.
One day, Gobber had walked up to the chief’s hut, prepared to look over the young boy he’d be babysitting for the time being. He expected Hiccup to be doodling away with a spare piece of parchment, or running around the house investigating different things like he usually did. But he hadn’t expected the sight in front of him.
The boy was sitting in the centre of the room, unnaturally calm, and seeming to be conversing with a dragon – a Terrible Terror – judging by the rumbles and croons shared amongst the two. But that was insane, dragons weren’t capable of talking; the creatures weren’t intelligent enough for that, not in the way humans were.
Very young vikings were taught to be wary of dragons, to stay away – there was the occasional mishap, but it was general knowledge that these beasts were not to be meddled with, atleast at their age. The way that Hiccup, his best friend and the chief’s son, was sitting, relaxed and giggling, as if he were talking to a kid his age (but no children his age liked talking to him, he was the runt, but for the sake of the situation unfolding in front of Gobber, the blacksmith set the thought aside).
The Terrible Terror, noticing Gobber’s presence, stopped playing with the boy’s nose, resulting in the child to stop giggling, recognising the stunned man at the door.
“Gobber!” Bless the kid, it was one of the words Hiccup could say that was intelligible to the rest of Berk, but anything else was a lost cause. Taking that as its cue to leave, the dragon slipped away into what Gobber presumed to be the back door, before the man could even lift his hook.
Huh.
Around the time he had turned five, the heir had finally begun to pick up some human tongue, to the relief of his father. By the age of six, he was fluent. Boy, the child picked things up quickly, and lots of it, too. He was smart for his age, a shame that his family (or what was remaining of it), and the townsfolk couldn’t see it – only seeing a walking disaster of a five year old, wreaking havoc instead of seeing the intelligence in his actions.
Guess it makes sense, when vikings themselves weren’t really known for their intellect.
At six years old, the boy had barely grown. In the span of two years, he had only grown an inch or two, while other children his age had shot up, at least compared to him.
But no time thinking of that now, Hiccup had a situation at hand.
His small legs struggled to keep up, aching and sending a surge of pain and exhaustion through his tiny body everytime he moved further into the forest, despite it, the boy continued to run. He couldn’t afford to get caught, not now.
Not when only a few days ago, he was beaten by his cousin and his friends again, the bruises were keen to make themselves known, throbbing still, days after. Last time, he had complained, (never cried,) to his father about his troubles, but the burly man told him to toughen up, before he left abruptly, not even helping his son tend to his wounds, to fix some dispute that was occurring on the other side of the island. Something about a missing sheep going rouge.
Always the village, never his son. He thought to himself then, was it so selfish to wish for a bit of refuge from the bullying? Was it selfish to hope that they wouldn’t touch him again the next day? Little Hiccup didn’t know.
The shouts and jeers of Snotlout and the twins, Tuffnut and Ruffnut, brought him back to reality. Their yells sounded out from far away, and luckily for the thin boy, far enough for him to safely rest his tired limbs. He couldn’t hear any noises from the two other members of their ragtag group – Fishlegs and.. Astrid, meaning that they probably didn’t show up this time. Those two were the least interested in teasing him, and Hiccup didn’t know whether or not to prefer their presence when he was getting beaten, or not.
Fishlegs, usually standing by the side, looking apprehensive and wanting to help, though his body stiff as a board and unmoving. Hiccup knew that he wouldn’t help, that the bigger boy couldn’t help him – and although he felt a twinge of anger at Fishlegs – for never speaking, never stopping them, for letting them beat him even when he was bloody and in pain , and in no position to even try standing up for himself, solely because it was fun to them – Hiccup could only feel grateful that he wasn’t in his position, that it was him, the runt , instead of Fishlegs, who had a chance to be the viking that everyone expected him to be. But, he also felt that it was kind of cruel of him, standing at the sidelines and baiting Hiccup with the idea of aid, that his suffering could cease, even for a short while, but never letting him properly indulge in it.
Astrid, somewhat similar to Fishlegs, never intervened or snitched, never joined them, not out of a place of worry for herself, but rather out of a place of disinterest. Ever since they were little, when Hiccup was given the title of ‘The Runt’ and ‘Useless’, she took no interest in him, standing on the side – far away from him, like his uselessness was contagious, – only looking at him with a sense of contempt in her eyes, and that hurt more than any hits or smacks could ever do. Hiccup could only wonder, if she thought that his pain was uninteresting, something to scoff at, or roll her eyes at. He wondered if his pain was a waste of time to her, that him getting struck, punched, kicked, thrown, hit, repeatedly like a ragdoll was boring to her.
Crawling under a tree with the remaining energy he had, he curled up with the bushes around him, and prayed that this time, they wouldn’t find him. But the shouts only got louder, and that meant they were closer. He tried to make himself smaller, well, any smaller than he already was. Bringing his knees closer to him, he gripped the tough fabric, and focused on not making a sound, but he wasn’t so lucky.
His heart thumped faster in his chest, giving the sensation that it was rocking against his ribcage, which was impossible, because the heart wasn’t capable of that, but Hiccup surely felt like it was, and he was scared and he was sick of constantly getting targeted because it wasn’t his fault he was the runt , the useless one that wasn’t capable of anything – but he was, and he was now hiding because of it.. And oh Gods he was scared—
“Found him!” Someone yelled out, but Hiccup, panicked, didn’t care to discern who it was this time. Scrambling to his feet, he tried to flee, only to be held in place, easily, by the scruff of his collar like he was a baby animal. It was humiliating, and Hiccup kicked his feet from side to side, trying to escape, or subdue whoever was holding him, – Snotlout – or do anything , but it was no use. His legs just barely reached his cousin, but not enough to kick him, giving an effective reminder to him of just how incompetent he was, a feeling of shame settling in his chest. The beating of his heart only got louder, more frantic now, as he was circled by the trio like prey would be surrounded by its predators.
Hiccup certainly saw the hungry look in their eyes, something he was, unfortunately, very familiar with.
The only thing that Hiccup could hope for at this moment, before they began laying blows on him, was that it wouldn’t hurt as much as last time.
It hurt more than he could imagine.
Limping to the forge by himself, after the other kids had left him, injured and wounded on the dirty forest floor. His shoes were torn, and his clothes were in no better state; a large gust of wind blew past him, and he shivered violently. Face caked with mud and grime, his hair was disheveled, messed up with Gods knows how many times the twins threw him around by his hair, ‘Catch’ they called it.
Snotlout tugging at it roughly, when he wasn’t satisfied with the lack of reaction Hiccup gave him, successfully causing the smaller boy to howl in pain when he did. Wrapping himself with his arms, trying to warm himself with meagre meat on his bones, Hiccup sniffled. His entire body ached, and it hurt. However he didn’t let the tears forming at his eyes spill over, reciting the stern words his father always told him previously to himself, like a mantra.
‘Vikings don’t cry.’
But Hiccup, as skinny and weak as he was, was never really viking-like, was he? His cousin, the other kids, the villagers, Hel, even his father said so. So would it really be okay to cry?
He looked around nervously, Hiccup was at the foot of the forge now, and there was barely anyone around. It was dark, and everyone was probably out eating in the Great Hall. Everyone but Hiccup, that was. No one would see him, then.
Kneeling at the door, he let the tears stream freely from his eyes, falling down and soaking his sleeves, when Hiccup would go to rub them. He tried not to make any noise, just in case there was anyone there, holding his injured knee to himself, scraped and bloody, after he ran and fell over before the bullying, resulting in the other kids kicking him repeatedly in that area, when they found out that specific region caused him to scream and plead the most.
He cried, and cried, and cried, never making a sound louder than a quiet whimper, until his tears dried and his throat felt hoarse from all the abuse it’s gone through that day. Yawning, he felt sleepy, and too exhausted to properly go into the forge. Now curled up at the foot of the door in a fetus position, his throbbing head and body resting on the stones of the path underneath him. Hiccup would have a lot of explaining to do when Gobber arrived, but for now, the six year old wanted to sleep the pain away.
The slender child slept, his chest raising and dipping slightly with every breath he took, looking more at peace sleeping on the floor than any other time the man had seen him.
That’s how Gobber found him, taking note of the blemishes and grime on his face, as well as the reddish, newly formed, bruises creeping from underneath the sleeves of his now torn up tunic, far too big for his bony body. Too bony, and too small, for a child his age.
Picking the boy up with a tenderness cultivated over years of caring for him, Gobber had a good idea who did this to his young (far too young to be picking up blacksmithing, might he add) apprentice. He had been hesitant to accept the boy – he could barely hold up a hammer, and there was no way Gobber would let him hold an axe – but Stoick had insisted, seemingly already accepting the idea that Hiccup would never be fit for dragon killing. Hiccup was just that, a hiccup. So thin and tiny and small, a complete contrast to his father, Stoick the Vast, who, as his title would suggest, is Vast .
Heaving out a sigh, and moving the boy onto his other arm, careful not to jostle him too much, he used his hook to open the door, and to flick the lights on.
Speaking of Stoick, Gobber wasn’t going to let this, the injured boy in his arms, go without him knowing.
The blacksmith could only hope that this time, some action would be put into place. The constant sight of wee little Hiccup in his arms, most likely passed out from exhaustion and bruised , was not a sight Gobber wanted to see again.