Chapter Text
Hiccup
The air in the lower pits of Berk didn’t move. It stayed stagnant, smelling of damp earth, rusted iron, and the cold, lingering scent of old fear.
I sat on the dirt floor of the cell, my back pressed against the jagged stone wall. My wrists ached where the iron manacles chafed against the skin, a constant, heavy reminder of my "treason." Every time I moved, the chains clattered, the sound echoing upward into the hollow darkness of the Great Hall above.
I didn't mind the dark. I didn't even mind the cold. What I minded was the silence.
It had been three days since the Cove. Three days since the village had followed me—led by my own father—to find the "unholy offspring of lightning and death" pinned against the rocks, trying to protect me. I could still see the way the torches had reflected in Toothless’s eyes. He hadn't roared. He hadn't fired. He had just looked at me, confused and terrified, as the bolas wrapped around his wings and the Vikings swarmed him.
"You're not a Viking," my father’s voice had boomed, a sound that felt like it was still vibrating in my ribs. "You’re not my son."
The door at the top of the stone stairs groaned open. A sliver of torchlight cut through the gloom, dancing across the straw on the floor. I didn't look up. I knew the heavy, rhythmic thud of those boots.
Stoick the Vast stood outside the bars. He looked older in the flickering light, his beard tangled and his eyes hollowed out by a rage that had turned into a bitter, frozen disappointment.
"The elders have finished their council," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of the booming pride that used to define him. "The beast is being kept in the high cages. It will be executed at dawn to mark the beginning of the Great Hunt."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "No," I whispered, my voice raspy from disuse. "Dad, please. He didn't hurt me. He was protecting me."
"It was using you!" Stoick roared, his fist slamming into the iron bars. The sound rang through the cell like a funeral bell. "It led you into that cove to soften you, to turn you against your own kind. And it worked. Look at you. Cowering in the dirt for a monster."
"He's not the monster," I said, finally looking up. My eyes were stinging, but I kept my gaze steady. "We are. We’re the ones who keep them in cages."
Stoick didn't yell this time. He just looked at me with a pity that hurt worse than his anger. "You will stay here until the beast is dead. Then, you will be exiled. You’ll be given a small boat and three days' water. Where you go is no longer the concern of Berk."
He turned to leave, but I scrambled to the bars, the chains jerking me back. "Where is he? Just tell me where he is!"
Stoick stopped at the base of the stairs, his back to me. "He is where all dragons go, Hiccup. To the end."
The door slammed shut, plunging me back into the blackness.
I sank to my knees, the iron weight of the manacles pulling at my arms. They thought they had won. They thought that by putting me in a cage and him in another, the bond would snap. But they didn't understand.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the faint, thrumming connection at the back of my mind—the one that had formed the moment I touched his snout in the cove. Somewhere, high above me on the cliffs of Berk, a Night Fury was calling.
I'm coming, bud, I thought, my fingers searching the dirt until they found what I had hidden when the guards weren't looking: a jagged piece of a broken whetstone. Just hold on. We aren't dying in this village.
I began to rub the stone against the pin of the manacles. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. The Great Hunt was starting at dawn. We had to be gone before the first light touched the sea.
The rhythmic scritch of the stone against my shackles was the only thing keeping me sane. It was a tiny, defiant sound against the weight of the mountain above me.
Then, the heavy timber door at the top of the stairs creaked again. It wasn't the thunderous, earth-shaking tread of my father this time. These footsteps were light, precise, and carried the faint, metallic jingle of an axe-harness.
I leaned back into the shadows, tucking the whetstone into the crook of my elbow.
Astrid Hofferson stepped into the faint circle of light outside my bars. She didn't have a torch; she didn't need one. She stood there in the dimness, her arms crossed, her blue eyes scanning the cell with a mixture of confusion and a sharp, stinging disappointment.
"You look terrible," she said. Her voice wasn't cruel—it was worse. It was hollow.
"The dungeon decor isn't exactly 'Chief's Son' chic, Astrid," I rasped, trying to find a spark of my usual sarcasm. It felt brittle in my throat. "What are you doing here? I thought the village was busy sharpening harpoons for the 'Big Show' tomorrow."
Astrid winced at the mention of the execution, but she didn't look away. She stepped closer, her fingers gripping the iron bars. "Why, Hiccup?"
"Why what? Why am I in a cage? Ask the guy with the beard and the giant hammer."
"Don't do that," she snapped, her knuckles turning white against the rust. "Don't hide behind the jokes. You were the best in the ring. You were finally one of us. You had everything—the village’s respect, your father’s pride... me." She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And you threw it all away for a Night Fury. I saw it in the cove. You weren't its prisoner. You were... you were protecting it."
I dragged myself forward, the chains clanking loudly in the silence. I stopped just inches from the bars, looking up at her. "I wasn't throwing it away, Astrid. I was finding something better. Everything they told us... everything the Book of Dragons says... it's wrong. They aren't what we think they are."
"It's a killing machine, Hiccup!" She finally let her anger flare, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "It’s the reason half our houses are ash! It's the reason my family—" She cut herself off, her breath hitching. "It would have killed you if you hadn't fed it."
"No," I said softly, my voice firm. "It had every chance. I was down, I was weak, and I was the one with the knife. He looked at me, Astrid, and he was just as scared as I was. I looked at him and I saw myself."
Astrid looked at me like I was speaking a foreign tongue. To a Viking, mercy was a luxury they couldn't afford; to her, it looked like madness. "They’re going to kill it tomorrow. You know that, right? Your father is going to make sure the whole village sees it. He wants to 'wash the shame' off the Haddock name."
The words felt like a physical blow to the stomach. "I know."
She reached into a pouch at her belt and pulled something out, sliding it through the gap in the bars. It was a small, wrapped bundle of dried elk meat and a hunk of bread. "Eat. If you're going to be sent into the ocean in a rowboat, you'll need the strength."
She began to turn away, but she stopped, her hand lingering on the cold stone. "I told myself I came down here to demand answers. To tell you how much you ruined everything."
"And?" I asked.
"And I realized that for the first time in your life, you don't look like you're trying to fit in," she said, her back still to me. "You look like you actually believe in something. I just wish it wasn't a death sentence."
She didn't wait for me to respond. Her footsteps retreated up the stairs, and the door slammed shut, locking me back into the dark.
I looked at the small bundle of food. I didn't eat it. Instead, I unwrapped the cloth and felt the weight of the bread. Tucked inside was something Astrid hadn't mentioned. Something small, sharp, and made of high-grade iron.
A small, thin file.
She hadn't just brought me a final meal. She had brought me a chance.
I guess you still have some Viking in you after all, Astrid, I thought.
I picked up the file and went back to the manacles. The stone whetstone was gone; now, I had steel. The scritch-scritch became a rhythmic, aggressive bite. I didn't have much time. The moon was high, and the Night Fury was waiting.