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ㅤㅤㅤWhen Hiccup was young, fear came to him easily.
ㅤㅤㅤIt arrived without ceremony, as most things did in childhood. A shepherd’s skin blistered black from a spider’s bite when Hiccup was four, and after that, the woods became a far too big place for his small self. He would not cross their threshold without holding someone’s hand, and even then, he watched the roots as if they might rise to swallow him. At six, the harbour and the stories from drunken sailors gave him new nightmares—sharks with red, unblinking eyes, snakes coiled in the bilge of ships, waiting for warm flesh to sink their teeth into. At seven, during the Loki Days, dread learned to wear a face. He swore he saw something pale slip through doorways at midnight, breath misting the air, a thing that did not belong to the living, moving through the roofs when eyes were too cumbersome to look anywhere else but at blanket furs. For years after, he slept with his head turned toward the door, listening.
ㅤㅤㅤBy ten, it was the dark itself that troubled him. Not what lived in it, just the weight of it: the way night pressed against the chest and asked questions no child could answer. And like any Northman worth the salt in his blood, he was taught early to be wary of the unseen folk: the fae who bargained in half-truths, the monsters who remembered old grudges, the dragons who were horrors given form. Lessons to frighten and keep them alive.
ㅤㅤㅤMost of those fears were dulled or buried by time. Courage, after all, came with age and the expectations of growing years.
ㅤㅤㅤIt was a strange thing, being a chieftain’s son. When his hand would disappear into his father’s, the world felt tiny and safe. He would look up and see a mountain in the shape of a man smiling back at him, as if nothing could truly go wrong while he stood there. He spoke of spiders and beetles by their colours, told Hiccup which would kill and which only stung, where they hid and why. Sharks and snakes he dismissed with a snort, tossing dark beer into the campfire and calling them Týr’s “little challenges,” as if the gods themselves merely liked to test the braves’ faith.
ㅤㅤㅤAs he grew past his eleventh winter and the patience of his father started to wear thin with Hiccup’s spine bent inward, his father needed only to shake his head, and that was enough. Hiccup would straighten, draw in air until his ribs ached, and try to match those long, fearless strides he watched from a distance so many times.
ㅤㅤㅤHe usually tripped soon after. His father always caught him, even when complaining.
ㅤㅤㅤOver time, he learned the shape of it—how to hold his shoulders, how to meet another’s gaze without flinching, how to swallow fear before it reached all the words in his tongue. It was part of growing older: a requirement, in a way. The son of the Vast could be weak and frail, but he had to at least be brave. He had to at least try. And so he became good at courage, or something that looked enough like it. Despite the loneliness, despite the sorrow. Despite everything. Courage.
ㅤㅤㅤWhat a load of bullshit.
ㅤㅤㅤLike his mother, running had always come more naturally.
ㅤㅤㅤHe had honed skills such as running, hiding, and slipping sideways out of the picture far better than he had been bold. Dragons, duties, legacies, titles, expectations… he had avoided them all with the same instinctive recoil. He tried. He tried. Gods, he tried. He was fine at trying, but so excellent at failing. He was so damn scared his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
ㅤㅤㅤHis father was dead.
ㅤㅤㅤThe sound of it still haunted him. That terrible, final weight of a body striking tundra, the way the ground seemed to shake, his face freezing in a last, everlasting agony. There was ash and blood invading his nostrils, clogging his lungs, thick and choking. Death. Hiccup screamed—or perhaps he did not. His throat burned either way. All he knew was that time was both too fast and too slow to follow. He couldn’t breathe.
ㅤㅤㅤThe thought lodged itself deeper than air could reach: it was his fault. His naivety. His arrogance. His mistake. Bones broken where no bone should break. Red everywhere. Too much red. He held his father as if a hug could stitch his body whole again, as if love might undo death if you pleaded enough.
ㅤㅤㅤHis body quivered as he called for help. Gobber. His friends. Anyone. Someone. No one came.
ㅤㅤㅤWhen he darted up, they were already being taken.
ㅤㅤㅤAstrid fought like a bear, even as they worked on binding her. She reached for him, bruises on her mouth, screaming his name as they dragged her away. He saw the moment her eyes met his, her hope, her command to keep fighting. Then she was gone, pushed into a ship alongside all the others. And somewhere beyond the smoke, his dragon howled, a sound so raw it split the sky. For a heartbeat, Hiccup could swear Toothless was still calling for him, wings straining against the Bewilderbeast’s curse, thunder gathering inside to fight doom.
ㅤㅤㅤHe stood, not feeling his knees. Five seconds. Maybe less.
ㅤㅤㅤHe tried to take a step further, to reach for his sword, to point its blazing inferno, but it fell on the ground. He watched as everything was being taken from him, and his feet wouldn’t move.
ㅤㅤㅤCoward.
ㅤㅤㅤWhen his legs finally listened to his mind, he did not give chase. He turned, holding his father in his arms. As if he would wake up later and tell him what to do.
ㅤㅤㅤSo he ran away.
ㅤㅤㅤCoward. Coward. Coward.
[...]
ㅤㅤㅤViggo had learned, over the years, to read the dark.
ㅤㅤㅤIts habits, more than anything: the way shadows settled like animals when left undisturbed, the way a fine hearth reshaped stone into something almost domestic. His cavern had been chosen for that reason. It did not echo too loudly, did not weep water from its ceiling like a wounded thing, and was sturdy to deny being burnt. The pyre was sunk deep into the rock, its flames slowly cracking like an older woman’s voice, and the hides layered along the walls still smelled faintly of smoke. A place made to endure.
ㅤㅤㅤHiccup did not.
ㅤㅤㅤHe sat with his back to the jagged stone, knees drawn up, as if the world might yet lunge for him if he left any part exposed. Beside him lay the offerings, barely touched: strips of dried stockfish, bread torn into uneven shards, and a cup of broth that had gone cold to the cavern air. Three weeks had passed since the sky had fallen—since Drago’s greed had turned Hiccup’s heritage to ash—and still he ate with the unexisting hunger of a man awaiting the headsman’s axe.
ㅤㅤㅤAdmittedly, Viggo had once weighed Hicucp as one appraises a blade: by balance, by edge, by the likelihood it would cut the hand that wielded it. He had been defiant in a way the former All-Hunter thought profoundly irritating and stimulating: it was a type too bright to be shy, so beautifully unusual, all colour and erratic flight, impossible to catch with the usual trapper’s tools. Now, however, that same defiance had collapsed, leaving behind a shell of wounded flesh and all ragged breath. As all reckonings do, grief made people feral.
ㅤㅤㅤViggo knew the look well: he had seen that thousand-yard stare in the eyes of huscarls fresh from the Shield-Wall, in children dragged from ruins, and he had seen it in himself in the mirror, decades ago, when he realised the world cared nothing for brilliance if one did not possess the claws to defend it. Hiccup’s eyes were fixed on the bonfire, but they were looking past the flames hoofing the branches. He was listening for screams. It did not suit him.
ㅤㅤㅤ“You’ll weaken yourself,” Viggo said at last, his voice unadorned. He did not pretend to soften it, for pity was a language he knew Hiccup would not understand. “Drago will not grow kinder simply because you are weaker, my dear.”
ㅤㅤㅤHiccup did not answer. His jaw tightened, momentarily, a short betrayal. His hands were coiled into his sleeves, fingers white at the knuckles, as if he were afraid they might begin shaking again if released. It was that stubborn spark of the old him: Viggo much preferred the anger to the hollow.
ㅤㅤㅤHe rose and crossed the cavern, minding not the hushed noises that came in the direction of his blind spot. He had long grown used to relying on Ione for the Skrill’s careful watch beyond the grotto. He knelt in front of Hiccup instead of looming over him. That, too, was deliberate.
ㅤㅤㅤ“You don’t have to finish it,” he said, nudging the bowl closer with two fingers. “Just enough to remind your body it is still yours.”
ㅤㅤㅤAt that, Hiccup’s gaze flitted. Viggo thought he might lash out then and there—words, fists, perhaps even a show of teeth. Viggo waited, unblinking and steady, but the rage didn’t burst. Instead, Hiccup took the bowl with a reluctance that bordered on shame and swallowed only a couple of mouthfuls.
ㅤㅤㅤViggo couldn’t help but sigh. Three or four years ago, this same man had been his enemy. A chieftain’s son, raised in firelight and song, searching for glories only he could understand and bring into the world of dragons and men. Now he was something else: a survivor without a map, standing in the wreckage of his own legend. Viggo knew well of such bittersweetness, well-told and worn-out half-tragedies, but those were his least favourite types of tales as told by more traditional skálds.
ㅤㅤㅤ“When you’re ready,” he rubbed his temple, “we will plan.”
ㅤㅤㅤHiccup let out a breath that trembled despite his efforts. “I am ready.”
ㅤㅤㅤ“No,” Viggo replied. “You are not.”
ㅤㅤㅤThey stared at each other, but Hiccup was the first to break eye contact. He laughed, a short and jerky sound that had no mirth in it. Viggo found himself missing the way it was before, when Hiccup knew the world could fit in his hand.
ㅤㅤㅤ“I don’t think I get to be ready,” the rider’s voice was scraped by nights without sleep. “I think I never did.”
ㅤㅤㅤViggo studied him then, properly. The hollows beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders curved with his knees, guarding something vital and perhaps his last bit of hope. He seemed younger than Viggo remembered, too young to carry this much ruin. Bludvist had done that. Bludvist and his empire of chains.
ㅤㅤㅤ“We will find your dragon,” Viggo tried. “And your friends, if they still draw breath. Drago does not discard useful captives lightly.”
ㅤㅤㅤAt that mention, Hiccup’s head snapped up. “You know where he would have taken them?”
ㅤㅤㅤ“I know the mind of a tyrant, Hiccup, which is often enough. It is a narrow, predictable corridor. I have walked it myself.”
ㅤㅤㅤThe fire popped, a sharp crack of pine, and Viggo sat in front of him, watching as his new companion took a shy bite out of a fish strip. Somewhere in the deep throat of the cave, outside, water dripped against stone like the ticking of a cosmic clock. Rain would be coming soon.
ㅤㅤㅤEventually, Hiccup’s shoulders sagged. The brief light in him guttered, leaving exhaustion in its wake. He pressed his knuckles to his eyes, hard enough that Viggo worried he might bruise himself just to keep his tears at bay. He wasn’t even sure how Hiccup still had water in him to cry, considering how little he saw him drinking, but he decided to say nothing on the matter for the moment. A lecture for another time. At least for now, he was eating… somewhat.
ㅤㅤㅤ“I keep seeing it,” there was a whimper in Hiccup’s throat, the words spilling before he could stop them. “I close my eyes, and it’s there. I open them, and it’s still there… My father—” His voice shattered, and he did not try to mend it. “I-I couldn’t do anything else.” He examined his nails, Viggo noticed. They still had grave-dirt in them. He turned his fingers back to fists, curling around himself. “I should’ve tried… I-I should’ve done something. Anything! I…” He choked with himself, closing his eyes. “I wasn’t brave enough.”
ㅤㅤㅤViggo felt something tighten in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Why and what did his hands itch to hold? Perhaps this was anger, he told himself. Frustration, replied another part. Sadness. He crossed his arms. Hiccup Haddock brought far too many uncomfortable feelings.
ㅤㅤㅤ“And yet,” Viggo gestured to all of Hiccup, “here you sit, preparing to face an empire with nothing but a half-blind ghost of a man and a wild Skrill at your back.”
ㅤㅤㅤHiccup looked at him then, really looked, as if surprised to find him still present.
ㅤㅤㅤ“You ran so you could live,” Viggo continued. “So that you might repent, or perhaps, so you might exact a price. Anyone who calls that cowardice has never had to choose between a pointless death and a difficult life. There is no such thing as brave enough in this matter.”
ㅤㅤㅤSilence followed, stretching, yet for once Viggo did not think of honeying it with more words. He took a deep breath. And finally, Hiccup lowered his hands. His eyes were wet but steady now, fixed on Viggo with something he did not know how to name.
ㅤㅤㅤ“You really think we can end him?” Hiccup asked. “Just us?”
ㅤㅤㅤViggo allowed a thin grin to touch his lips. “And my beloved Ione, of course. She would be quite cross if you left her out.”
ㅤㅤㅤThere it was, that chuckle, followed by a dimple on the right side of his face, close to his scar. “Of course.”
ㅤㅤㅤ“Besides,” Viggo added, “It is quite unlike you to fail twice, my dear. And as I have been repeatedly telling you, you are far more ruthless than you realise.”
ㅤㅤㅤHiccup rolled his eyes playfully, and the blaze that had helped prepare their stew burned its last embers, settling into a pile of rubies. The lamps and torches across the cave still beamed in calmer tones, drawing moths and smaller insects. For the first time since his world had ended, Viggo could hear Hiccup breathing unhurriedly. Perhaps he could find slumber that night.
ㅤㅤㅤSo Viggo rose at last, testing the weight of his leg before committing to it. Night had drawn its blue-black cloak across the island; he could hear the sea working at the cliffs. It would be wise to hunt, to circle the shoreline, to make certain no sail cut the horizon unannounced. He no longer had men to command such duties.
ㅤㅤㅤ“I should go,” he said, not unkindly. “There are snares to check, and I suspect we both prefer knowing what approaches us in the dark.”
ㅤㅤㅤHiccup nodded, too fast: “Y-Yes. That sounds—yes.”
ㅤㅤㅤViggo took two steps toward the mouth of the cavern before he heard it—the shift of breath behind him, the quiet sound of resolve being dragged from a bruised chest.
ㅤㅤㅤ“Viggo.”
ㅤㅤㅤHe paused, looking back over his shoulder.
ㅤㅤㅤHiccup did not look up at once. His fingers worried the edge of a fur, tracing scars in the leather as if they might answer him. When he finally raised his head, there was no command in his gaze, no pride: only something bare, offered with much expectation and care.
ㅤㅤㅤ“Would you… would you, p-please, stay?” his mouth was twitching. “Just a while longer. The night’s—” He faltered, then forced the rest out. “It’s loud.”
ㅤㅤㅤThe sea crashed again, right on cue, and Viggo felt the question land between them heavy and pulling. He turned back slowly, the strategist in him weighing the risks and weaknesses in such a decision. Then the man—wiser and long starved of gentler choices—set them aside.
ㅤㅤㅤ“I can patrol at dawn,” Viggo said, and sat.
ㅤㅤㅤThe relief that washed over Hiccup was almost tangible. He shifted to make space beside him, though their shoulders didn’t quite touch. Not quite. The heat of the embers bridged the tiny space between them, gilding the edges of stone and skin alike. From the corner of his eye, Viggo caught a moth that found its way to one of his lamps, nestling its wings there.
ㅤㅤㅤ“It’s not that I can’t sleep alone,” Hiccup said after a while, as if compelled to correct any misinterpretation.
ㅤㅤㅤViggo huffed softly. “Of course not.”
ㅤㅤㅤA corner of Hiccup’s mouth perked. If he were any less tired, perhaps it would have held more: “You don’t believe me.”
ㅤㅤㅤ“I believe that you are very tired.”
ㅤㅤㅤThat earned him an offended and familiar enough stare to make something warm stir inside Viggo. He missed that pout.
ㅤㅤㅤ“Don’t you ever get tired of talking like that?” Hiccup asked. “As if you can see through people? I thought I had proven you wrong enough times.”
ㅤㅤㅤ“That can certainly be disputed, my dear.” Viggo leaned back, finding a comfortable spot on the wall to rest his head on. “Besides, I spent much of my life among liars and traitors. It teaches you things.”
ㅤㅤㅤ“And bad, wrong habits.”
ㅤㅤㅤ“Oh yes, exceedingly bad ones.”
ㅤㅤㅤHiccup considered this for a while, resting his face on his arm as he glanced at Viggo, surprising him by smiling properly with a raised eyebrow, painfully hopeful. He noticed that Hiccup no longer looked at him with fear of hidden blades or plans, and lingered on some of his scars, as if the shadows on Viggo’s face were far from being unsightly.
ㅤㅤㅤ“But you still changed.”
ㅤㅤㅤViggo turned his attention to the dying tinder to hide the sudden, treacherous flutter in his pulse. He cleared his throat, though he found it odd how nothing was truly stuck there.
ㅤㅤㅤ“Some people do,” he shrugged. “You may thank a certain Monstrous Nightmare for that. It deserves at least half the credit.”
ㅤㅤㅤ“Or a third of the credit, considering Ione, too. She’d be upset if you didn’t count her, right?”
ㅤㅤㅤViggo blinked, nodding solemnly. “That is true. She does like recognition and a bit too much of revenge.”
ㅤㅤㅤ“Ah, believe me, I know.”
ㅤㅤㅤHiccup laughed—quietly, but real. The sound lingered between them, delicate as a butterfly’s wing. Viggo had a very intrusive, intimate thought of wanting to swallow it. He pushed it to the back of his mind.
ㅤㅤㅤThey sat in a companionable silence as the stars turned overhead. Hiccup’s breathing evened, though it never quite deepened. When a shiver raced through Hiccup, Viggo noticed. When it passed again, he reached out, adjusting the heavy wool cloak around his shoulders so it draped closer over Hiccup, their new shared proximity making their shoulders brush comfortably. On the floor, Viggo let his hand linger close to Hiccup’s longer than most seconds would allow, their thumbs overlapping. Neither of them pulled away.
ㅤㅤㅤ“Tell me something,” Hiccup whispered, his voice suddenly thick with the coming of sleep. “Something… something that isn’t about war.”
ㅤㅤㅤ“Such as?”
ㅤㅤㅤ“Something nice,” Hiccup said, letting himself go lax. “Things that last.”
ㅤㅤㅤViggo thought of the ancient stones of the archipelago, of the way the sun looked when it hit the glaciers of the north. He thought, briefly and dangerously, of the man beside him.
ㅤㅤㅤAs he opened his mouth without noticing a confession to be spilt, Hiccup shifted in his position, sighing in a half-formed yawn:
ㅤㅤㅤ“Tell me about oleanders…” Hiccup mumbled. “I haven’t seen many flowers.”
ㅤㅤㅤ“Very well,” Viggo said, his voice dropping to a rhythmic, soothing cadence. “Let me tell you of a field of white oleanders that blooms in a southern land. Have you ever heard of a kingdom with more butterflies than people? An old legend, mind.”
ㅤㅤㅤHiccup shook his head, lashes dark and heavy against freckled cheeks, but murmured for him to go on.
ㅤㅤㅤAnd so, Viggo did: “It is said, in ancient tales told in palaces bigger than most halls, that if you sleep among this one field, you wake with the memories of kings. Now, they say that among the butterflies, there is a moth…”
ㅤㅤㅤSomewhere between one sentence and the next, Hiccup’s head tipped—just barely—until it found Viggo’s shoulder, though he did not excuse himself, nestling himself there. Viggo sat perfectly still, his breath held, as if any sudden movement might shatter that moment. He peeked over at Hiccup and cleaned the tiniest speck of dust from his cheek, letting his caress linger as if his flame drew him in. He wondered when butterflies had made their way to his stomach for a man who kept chasing the light despite broken wings.
ㅤㅤㅤOutside, the island kept its watch. Comfort held tight within. And Hiccup, wrapped in borrowed warmth and a voice that did not demand, drifted at last into something like rest—while Viggo stayed, long past the hour he had sworn to leave.